“I know, and they will. I promise.”

  “How? How are things going to change?”

  I groan with frustration. “You just have to trust me, Brigid. Trust me that things will change.”

  Brigid shakes her head. “You’ve had a lifetime of my trust, Conor, and two years to change things. Goodbye.”

  Brigid

  Walking away from Conor is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Sitting in the back of a cab, I brush my fingers lightly across my lips. I can still feel his kiss. A single tear slips down my cheek as a question pops into my head: was that our last kiss?

  I keep it together long enough to make it to my parents’ home in Dun Laoghaire. Long streams of tears pour down my cheeks as I step inside the warm, cozy house and into my mother’s waiting arms.

  She rubs my back gently and whispers soothing words into my hair until my tears dry up and I can finally face her. “Tell me a stór,” she cooed softly. I love the Gaelic term she’s always used for me. A stór, my treasure.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” I tell her. “I can’t be with Conor only in private. I love him too much to hide it.”

  My mother places a comforting arm around my shoulder and pulls me toward the kitchen. “I’ll put on the kettle,” she says in her soft voice.

  “You’d better pull out dad’s secret bottle of whiskey.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  I nod. “Mum, if he truly wanted things between us to change, he’d do more. He’d fight, and all I see is him giving in over and over.”

  I slip into one of the oak chairs at the kitchen table and watch my mother bustle around the kitchen. It’s late, and my father is most likely asleep, so she moves around with great care, careful not to make any loud noises. When the kettle is simmering away on the stove, my mum starts rummaging around the cabinets until I hear her exclaim, “Aha!” She pulls out an old biscuit tin from many Christmases ago and lifts the lid. Triumphantly, she pulls out a bottle of whiskey and holds it above her head.

  Steam begins to rise from the kettle, so I jump up, careful to lift it from the burner before it starts to squeal. My mum sets out two plain white china cups on the kitchen table and pours a shot into each. “Just a little tipple,” she sings.

  The act of preparing tea calms me even more. Each movement is deliberate—grabbing the teapot from the top shelf, shaking out the loose tea into the stainless-steel strainer, and then pouring the hot water over it.

  My mother slips in silently beside me and grabs the teapot before shuffling over to the kitchen table.

  “Now, sit down and tell me everything,” she says happily.

  The tea and whiskey relax me, and being home is exactly what I needed. I miss my mum, and there are days when I’m on tour with Conor that I wished she was there. My eyes begin to feel heavy as we talk, and before long, my mum pats my hand, and says, “Go on up to bed, a stór. Everything will look better in the morning.”

  Except, in the morning, things looked exactly the same. My phone is strangely silent, and I start to worry that Conor isn’t going to fight. All day, I keep checking my phone’s volume and connection, ensuring that it’s working properly. My mum tuts around me, making sure that tissues and ice cream and biscuits are readily available while my father lumbers about the house cluelessly.

  “Where are ya staying?” he asks in his usual gravelly tone.

  “The Fitzwilliam,” I tell him between bites of mint chip ice cream.

  “What are ya staying there for? Don’t they know that you’re from Dun Laoghaire? You should be staying here with your parents!” The fact that I spent the night at their house is totally lost on my father. “When is that fancy concert?”

  I roll my eyes because how on Earth could anyone forget that tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day? “Tomorrow, Dad.”

  He shakes his head as if he totally understands, and then asks, “Well, are ya stayin’ for dinner?”

  “Of course, Dad,” I tell him with a kiss on his cheek.

  “Good, because I invited Conor.”

  “Dad!” I roll my eyes and stomp up the stairs to my bedroom while my mother tries to explain to him in hushed tones why he made such a massive mistake.

  When dinnertime rolls around, I hear the unmistakable sounds of Conor’s voice as he arrives. My parents fucking love him, and I can hear their laughter as he charms them. I refuse to come down, even if the comforting smells of my mother’s stew fill the house.

  I refuse to come down even when there’s a knock on my door, and Conor says, “Birdie, can you let me in, please?”

  I refuse to come down even after Conor knocks again, and says, “Please open the door, Birdie. I love you so much, and I can’t stand not to look at those pretty green eyes.”

  I hear him shuffle away and down the stairs. I can hear my mother’s murmuring, no doubt comforting him.

  Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. My stomach rumbles as if to confirm what my head and heart are telling me.

  I open the door quietly and tiptoe down the stairs, hopeful that I can catch a bit of their conversation.

  “I should never have let this continue so long,” Conor says.

  I stop and stiffen. He couldn’t possibly mean … my hand covers my mouth as tears unexpectedly start to fall down my cheeks. Dumbfounded, I sit down on one of the stairs. How can he just give up so easily? How can he just throw away a lifetime of love?

  The sound of heavy boots on the hardwood floors does nothing; I’m stuck on the stairs crying like a baby.

  “Brigid?” Conor’s voice is soft but full of surprise.

  I wipe the tears away and look up at him, the boy I’ve loved my whole life. “How?” I wail. “How can you just give up?”

  Conor shakes his head. “I’m not giving up, Birdie. Not at all.”

  “But I heard what you said! You said you should have ended this a long time ago.”

  He squints his eyes and steps forward. He kneels a few steps below where I’m sitting and places his hands on my knees. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that I should have never kept our relationship private for so long.”

  Conor reaches forward and grabs my hands. He kisses the back of each one before lifting his eyes. “Is ceol mo chroí thú.” You’re the music of my heart. He releases one hand and uses the other to reach into the front pocket of his jeans and pull out something small that catches the fading sunlight streaming through the windows of the entryway.

  “I want to marry you, Brigid Anne.” Conor holds the ring tightly between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a traditional Irish Claddagh ring with a great glittering heart-shaped diamond in the center. The ring symbolizes love, loyalty, and friendship; the very foundation of our relationship. “I want to marry you, and I want the whole world to know.”

  “You do?” They are the stupidest words that I have ever spoken, but they’re only words I seem capable of forming.

  Conor grins. “Yes, I do. If you’ll let me show you.” He slips the band over the knuckle of my ring finger. It’s a perfect fit.

  “But I haven’t said yes!”

  “Oh yes, ya have!” my father bellows from the entryway to the dining room. I look up, finally aware that my parents have been watching us this entire time. “You said yes to him when you were both six years old, and he proposed in that little play pool we used to have in the yard.”

  I giggle. “How could I have forgotten?” Before more stupid words fall from my lips, Conor leans forward and kisses me. Hard. I know exactly what he’s saying with this kiss. He’s telling me that he won’t break his promise, and I believe him.

  Conor

  This feels like the biggest concert of my life. When I was with ’NTune, we played arenas and stadiums all around the world, but this show means so much more. I pace nervously in my dressing room, shaking my hands out and working my way through my vocal warm-ups.

  “You need to relax,” Brigid tells me. She’s seated on a black leather sofa looking like a rock goddess in a leather jacket with miles of fringe. Her red hair is glossy and wavy, and her eyes are smoky.

  “You could help me with that,” I say, waggling my eyebrows suggestively.

  “Nope. It took me a good hour to do my makeup, and I’m not going to let you ruin it.”

  We can hear the crowd as they start to fill the arena. I have no idea how many people are in attendance, just that it’s a sold-out show. And in front of that crowd, I’m going to declare my love for Brigid to the entire world. I’m going to show her my heart.

  “These trousers are too tight, Birdie,” I complain.

  “You shouldn’t have had seconds of my mum’s stew last night and a full Irish breakfast this morning,” she admonishes me.

  And then it happens. My leather trousers rip. I turn to Brigid, who is laughing hysterically, and demand she help. It took fucking forever to get me in them, and I don’t have time to peel them off. “Just get the scissors,” I tell her as she’s trying to pry the fabric down my legs.

  “I am not cutting these! They cost a fortune!”

  “Brigid!” I bellow. “Just get the fucking scissors and cut them off!”

  She rolls her eyes and reaches into her Mary Poppins bag for a pair of shiny chrome scissors. She carefully cuts the fabric until she’s able to tug the pants off. She looks at them sadly, and I think she might cry for a moment.

  I turn toward the clothing rack, and normally, there are tons of options for me to pick from. But the only thing that’s hanging there now is a kilt. A fucking kilt. Behind me, Brigid’s laughter only increases because not only am I standing in the middle of my dressing room wearing nothing but a T-shirt, but because she knows I have to wear the kilt now.

  “It’s the right tartan,” she offers as she walks over to the rack and picks up the hanger. “I wasn’t going to make you wear some random kilt.”

  Brigid unclips the heavy wool material and then starts to drape it around my waist. I watch as she buckles one side and then the other. She stands back and inspects me.

  “You look perfect.” She sighs. Who knew my girl had a thing for kilts?

  “I’m going to sweat my balls off,” I groan.

  There is no time for further protests, though, because there’s a knock on the door and one of Janie Locke’s assistants pokes his head in. “Time to take the stage, Mr. Byrne,” he says eagerly.

  My heart starts beating rapidly like it does before every concert. I’ll never get over the feeling of performing in front of an audience; the rush of adrenaline and the thunderous roar of the crowd.

  I spin and look for Brigid. I can’t go on stage without kissing her. It’s a ritual. She’s in front of me with a wide, comforting smile, and my heart slows down a bit. She stands on her tiptoes, her hands on my arms, and kisses me. I wrap her up and hold her tight, returning her kiss, stealing her breath. I want her to know that tonight is a new beginning for us.

  She pulls away, gasping. Her cheeks are flushed, and she seems a little wobbly, but she’s grinning. “That’s one hell of a pre-show kiss,” she says with a laugh.

  “Wait until you see the after party,” I tell her before grabbing her hand. We leave the dressing room and follow the assistant down the hall to the darkened area backstage. I kiss her again, and she waves her hand, shooing me out onto the stage.

  Just before I take my seat at the massive black piano, I blow her a kiss. And then I begin my set with “Danny Boy,” a tribute to my granddad and my home before moving onto what Brigid calls my “drinking songs.” The energy from the crowd is electric, and I can’t stop smiling throughout my entire set. They sing along to every song, and when I’m nearing the end, I have all the confidence that I need to sing the song I wrote for Brigid.

  “I’d like to perform a new song for you tonight,” I tell the crowd, and they erupt in a massive roar. “It’s still a work in progress, but tonight is very special. Not only am I playing in front of my hometown, but the woman of my dreams, my childhood sweetheart, agreed to marry me last night!”

  Grabbing the pint of Guinness from the stool next to me, I raise it in a toast and take a sip. “So this song is for my beautiful Brigid Anne.”

  The lyrics sit on a black music stand in front of me, and I start the song, strumming the opening chords of the melody that’s been swirling in my head for days. And then I open my mouth to sing the words Brigid has been begging me to say for two years.

  Oh, I know it’s not fair

  To keep you out of sight

  But I don’t want to share

  Want you only for my delight

  But without you

  I’m simply a mess

  Out of sorts

  So I have to confess

  To the world that

  I’m nothing but a liar

  Because without you

  There’s no fire

  Because without you

  There’s no song

  And it’s taken this long

  To show you

  That I’m forever true

  When the song is finished, I set my guitar down and look to the side of the stage. The. The grin that fills Brigid’s face and the tears that fall down her cheeks speak louder than any crowd. I wave my arm, encouraging her to join me on stage and at first, she shakes her head, but I wave my arm over and over until she relents.

  Having her in my arms, on stage, in front of tens of thousands of screaming fans is heaven. “Don’t get shy on me now, Birdie,” I whisper into her ear as she buries her face in my sweat-soaked t-shirt.

  She peeks up, her bright green eyes glassy and rimmed red. I use the pad of my thumbs to wipe away the tears and mascara that streak her beautiful cheeks. Then she turns toward the crowd and the sound is deafening. The smile on her face makes me weak in the knees; it tells me that I took the right path, made the right choice.

  “Come and meet my fans, sweetheart,” I tell her, grabbing her hand and leading her to the microphone.

  The lights are blindingly bright and she squints out at the sea of people in front of us before covering her mouth. “Oh my god,” she mouths.

  I give her my cockiest smile and step forward. “My set is over but I wanted to introduce you all to the prettiest girl in Dublin tonight.” Brigid’s normally pale, creamy skin is bright red with embarrassment. I reach out, grab her hand and pull her toward me. “Listen up lads, honesty is the best policy. Remember that.”

  And then I give the crowd a real show, one that I’ll bet will be replayed and rebroadcasted for weeks on end. My lips crash down onto hers, claiming her until I feel her soften and then I wrap her up tighter. Her arms link around my neck and she stands up on tiptoe to reciprocate, kissing me with such fierceness that my knees begin to buckle.

  When the kiss ends, I feel like I’m floating on air, like there’s no one else in this castle except for the two of us. From the corner of my eye, I see Blackthorn’s crew waiting to get on stage with sour expression. We’re holding up the show.

  “I love you,” I tell her, kissing the upturned tip of her nose. And then, with one glance toward the crowd, I wave and give them my thanks.

  The moment we exit the stage, Brigid turns to me and opens her mouth but I place a silencing finger over her lips. “I’m sorry that it took me two years, Birdie, but I’ll spend a lifetime telling the world that you’re my girl.”

  She shakes her head, red waves moving slowly and places her hands on her cheeks. “I can’t believe you did that!”

  “Too much,” I ask with a wink.

  “It was perfect,” she replies.

  She’s right; it was a perfect moment and the perfect way for me to prove that when it comes to Brigid, I’ll be forever true.

  The End

  Baby Spice Forever by Frankie Love

  Forever At Last by Rebecca Norrine

  Forever Dublin by Olivia Hawthorne

  Forever His Baby by Kim Loraine

  Forever His Girl by Alexx Andria

  Forever Kissed by Dori Lavelle

  Forever Mine by Laney Powell

  Forever My Love by Fiona Starr

  Forever Ruined by Tracy Lorraine

  Forever Tied by Derek Masters

  Forever Together by Angel Devlin

  Are you a member of Flirt Club? Join us in the Flirt Club for a monthly chance at winning “Flirt Club Booty”, giveaways and goodies…and the perfect place to recover from a long night with your latest book boyfriend!

  Acknowledgments

  I know you were probably an epilogue or even a prologue and I apologize. Honestly, when I finished this story, I didn’t think it needed an epilogue. But then I decided maybe a prologue…Conor and Brigid have known each other for a long time; they’re childhood sweethearts so how did they finally hook-up? That’s what I wanted to write! And I was going to… but then I had surgery to remove a 5mm kidney stone and all of my energy was gone; momentum lost. So, I’m still going to write that prologue and if you subscribe to the Flirt Club Newsletter (or my newsletter), then you’ll get that prologue!

  As always, these books couldn’t have been written without the creative energy of the amazing Flirt Club Authors! I’m so inspired by everyone on a daily basis to not only challenge myself but to also become a better author.

  I also couldn’t get anything done without the support of an amazing husband. Thank you for taking care of the kid and the house while I chase my dreams. Thank you for continuing to encourage me to write more books!

  Special thanks to my two beta readers: Amelia and Tracy! Your feedback made this book better and I wouldn’t have been able to tell it without you.

  Special thanks to my editor Jenny Sims. Thank you for just fitting me into your schedule whenever these shorts are finished and for getting them back so quickly because the people are hungry for these stories!

  Finally… Thank you to all of the amazing readers who continue to one-click story after story. I’m so humbled and honored that you’re reading my words!

 

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