The clock over Tierney’s fireplace chimed once, and he looked over at it. Seven thirty. He wondered if they were at the restaurant yet. With that eat-shit look she’d given him on her way out the door? She knew what she was doing. She wouldn’t be back for hours. He bet she’d even draw out the evening to make it harder for him. Fuck, she saw the way he looked at her, like he wanted to taste every inch of her skin and kill any man who wanted the same. If she’d been uncertain about his hunger for her, she wasn’t anymore. The way he’d looked at her left no room for ambiguity. He wanted her. Bad. And she knew it.

  “I need a fucking drink,” he muttered.

  He stood up, beelining into the kitchen. He knew that she didn’t serve alcohol on Wednesday out of respect for Ian, but maybe she had a little nip of something hidden away, and damnú, but he could use a dram tonight.

  It didn’t take long to uncover a mostly full bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey in the back of a cabinet over her refrigerator. I’ll buy you another bottle, he thought, grabbing a crystal lowball glass from the adjacent cupboard and pouring himself a sip.

  He knew about a hundred Irish toasts, but bearing in mind the changes he hoped were coming, pending Shanahan’s indictment, he chose a short one, because it somehow seemed fitting: “Go maire sibh bhur saol nua.” May you enjoy your new life.

  He downed the contents of the glass, then poured himself another before screwing the cap back on the bottle.

  New life. New life.

  That’s what he wanted most of all—a new life.

  He couldn’t be the Burr O’Leary he was before going undercover with the New Killeens—he’d seen too much that he couldn’t unsee; he was no newb cop anymore—but he was desperate to leave the last three years behind and move forward to something better.

  Burr’s official job with Sean’s gang had been collecting money owed to the New Killeens, with Brody Halloran along as Burr’s extra muscle. Burr asked for the money; Brody broke their fingers and toes if they didn’t have it. If Burr and Brody had to return a second time, their faces were bashed in. If a third round of collection was required, Brody would bring a baseball bat. Brody relished his job, and Burr didn’t “have a stomach for it.” So Burr stood by and watched as Brody inflicted mass destruction on these poor fucks, every cell in his body wanting to arrest Brody for assault, his conscience protesting the gruesomeness of his fucking life.

  Though he’d never been sent out on a hit, Burr had heard Sean order them. And he’d been there when big holes were dug in the woods outside of the city; fuck, he’d been holding the shovel once or twice when another one of Sean’s associates arrived with something—someone?—ready to be buried in a big black plastic tarp.

  Every Sunday morning, just as the church bells rang out for mass, Burr would write up his report for Ray: who owed Sean, who’d been hurt for owing Sean, how much money he’d collected, what deals were going down, who’d been murdered and who was next.

  He swallowed back the Jameson, uncapped the bottle, and poured another glass. But this time he opened the cupboard, put the bottle away, and walked back into the living room. Another drink or two and he’d get drunk, something he didn’t especially like.

  It had been three years of hell, but at least—while he was working—he’d taken some comfort in the knowledge that the information he sent back to the GTU would result in Sean’s arrest and the dissolution of the New Killeens. Now? Fuck. Now those reports were all compromised because fucking Ray was a fucking informant. And the only way to take the New Killeens down was to wire Ray and use himself as bait.

  Fine, thought Burr. If that was the price to have a new life, then that’s what would happen. He’d wait it out in New Hampshire until Donnelley called him back to testify, and then, hopefully, they’d put Sean and his crew away for life.

  He put his glass on the coffee table and lay down on the couch, which smelled like Tierney, and closed his eyes.

  Tierney.

  Beautiful fucking Tierney, who he wanted like he’d never wanted anyone. Besides the fact that he hadn’t had a woman in three years, he just fucking liked her. A lot. She was strong and spirited, and because she was Irish, she had felt instantly familiar. She knew who she was—she wasn’t one of these eejit kids on their phones all the time, posting selfies and more concerned about their Facebook statuses than their actual lives. She knew how to swear in Irish and put her brothers in their places with a spatula, and damn it, but when her green eyes flashed with protest or pleasure or anger or want, he could feel it all the way to his heart. All the way to the tip of his cock.

  After the things he’d seen and done, he had no right to someone as clean and fine as Tierney Haven, but more and more, his mind replaced the ugliness of his life with the Shanahans with fantasies of a life with her.

  One day. One day.

  Someday.

  It was the front door closing that woke him up. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Tierney, standing over him, what was left of his whiskey in her hands.

  “Hi,” she said, pausing with the glass at her lips, her green eyes holding his blue as he slowly sat up.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Late,” she answered.

  Her lipstick wasn’t as bright as was when she left, and all he could think was that he desperately hoped the reason for that was food and drink, not John’s fucking weasel lips on hers.

  “Sláinte,” he said softly, watching as she tilted the crystal glass back and took a long sip of the amber liquid before handing the glass back to him and joining him on the couch.

  Positioning his lips over the exact place where hers had been, he took a sip too. Then he sat back beside her, shoulder to shoulder, both of them staring straight ahead. She toed off her shoes and put her feet up on the coffee table, and he did the same, staring at her little white feet next to his, which were so much bigger and darker.

  “Don’t you want to hear about my date?” she asked without looking at him.

  “Nope.”

  “Isn’t that what friends do? Sit around and talk about their dates?”

  “I don’t know,” said Burr. “I haven’t had a real friend in years.”

  “Me neither,” said Tierney after a moment, her voice soft and thoughtful.

  “Besides,” said Burr, his voice rough with longing, “I’m not your friend. It’s a little more complicated than that. Don’t you think?”

  “Huh. Are you sure? Because last night I’m pretty sure you were going to give me the ‘Let’s Be Friends’ speech.”

  “Last night I almost made a big mistake,” he said gruffly. “It’s not that I don’t want your friendship. I do. But I want other things too. By itself, it wouldn’t be enough.”

  “Oh,” she murmured. She took a deep breath, crossing one ankle over the other before exhaling slowly. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Right now? Nothing.” He hated the answer, but it was the only fair one to give.

  “Okay. Rephrasing. What do you want to do about it?”

  “So many things,” he half-whispered, half-growled, his tone managing to be dirty and reverent at the same time. But his admission came with a caveat and she deserved to know what it was. “But my hands will stay tied until Sean Shanahan is behind bars. I can’t be distracted. I won’t risk your safety, Tierney. I can’t.”

  For the first time since sitting down, Tierney turned her head to look at him. He felt her gaze, the way her eyes studied his face, and it took all of his strength to stay still and not to turn to her too. If he did, his lips would be millimeters from hers and it would be im-fucking-possible not to kiss her.

  Finally, she faced front again, her breasts rising softly in her sexy fucking dress as she took another deep breath. “I can wait.”

  His neck jerked to face her, and while she didn’t turn back to look at him, she lifted her chin, her bloodline showing—all the strength of one little green island jammed into that one simple gesture.

  “Wait?”

  “For you,” she said.

  “Wait for me?” he murmured.

  She nodded once, crossing her arms under her breasts, which made them swell against the V of her dress. “We’ll wait until Sean Shanahan is in jail and then we can…” She cleared her throat. “Well, we can see what happens. Between us.”

  “It could take some time,” he said, but his heart was already racing, thumping with hope and excitement behind his ribs.

  “I have plenty of time,” she said. “There’s only one of you.”

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  She set her jaw and scoffed softly. “Been a long time since I did anything I didn’t want to do.”

  “Tierney—”

  “Burr.” She stopped him with a single word, a single sound, his name on her tongue the key to trading his will for hers. She turned to look at him, cocking her head to the side. “Don’t dangle a steak in front of me, then tell me to eat dog food. Don’t tell me you want me, then tell me to move on, because I can’t. I won’t. My mind’s fixed on you. If things don’t play out between us, I’ll always wonder.”

  My mind’s fixed on you. She took his fucking breath away. Zero artifice. Zero games. Her frankness and honesty were everything he craved after years of lying and treachery.

  “Me too,” he said, his breathing shallow and jagged as he lifted his eyes to hers. “I’d always wonder. I’d always wish that we’d…I don’t know…given each other a try.”

  “Regret is the worst hell there is,” she said.

  “Is fhearr fheuchainn na bhith san dui,” he whispered. I’d rather try than only hope.

  She nodded at him. “So let’s not wonder. Let’s just…wait. Together.”

  “And in the meantime…?” he asked, not even certain what he was hoping for.

  “We’re not friends,” she said, her inflection on the word friends making it clear how she felt about it.

  “Agreed,” he said, dropping his eyes to the swell of her breasts before lifting them again. “What else?”

  “No more dates with Dr. John,” she promised.

  He smiled at her. “Thank Christ.”

  She grinned back at him, her smile so much easier now than it was when he first arrived, and fuck, in that moment, he wanted it to be the thing that started and ended every last one of his days.

  “And I’ll put this dress in the back of my closet for now.”

  “Small mercies,” he muttered, then added, “But keep it safe for me?”

  “I will.”

  “So what do we call this?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” She shrugged. “Us, I guess.” Leaning forward, she took another tiny sip of whiskey before standing up. “Now that that’s sorted, time for bed.”

  “Bed,” he growled, watching the way her body moved as she stood up. And suddenly he couldn’t bear it that she was leaving his sight. On impulse, he grabbed her hand, holding it, staring at where his flesh touched hers. He rubbed her soft palm with his thumb in slow circles, the pad lingering on the band at the back of her Claddagh ring, dragging out the moment, the contact; wishing that he could swoop her into his arms and carry her to her bed.

  When his cock was thick and long, straining against the denim of his jeans, he half-whispered, half-grunted, “Oiche mhaith, aisling.” Good night, sweetheart.

  Her voice was low and breathless when she gulped before answering, “Oiche mhaith, m’Burr.”

  Good night, my Burr.

  Then she slipped her hand from his, leaned down to pick up her sexy shoes, and walked slowly up the stairs.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tierney sat huddled in the bleachers next to Brittany, both women in winter coats with empty cups of hot cocoa on the bench beside them.

  “Whoo! Go Brian!” yelled Brittany, hoisting one fist in the air as Burr gained possession of the puck and raced across the ice, the blades of his skates whooshing as he chased it toward Ian’s goal.

  “Ian’s coming! Go faster!” screamed Tierney, jumping to her feet, unable to look away as Burr paused just beyond the center line, stilled the puck, drew back his stick, and whack!

  The puck sailed across the ice, straight into the netting of Ian’s open goal.

  “Five to four! Game shot!” yelled Rory from the center of the ice.

  “Yes!” cried Brittany, jumping up and down next to Tierney. “He won!”

  Tierney waved at Ian, who gave her a good-natured grin from the ice, shrugging his massive shoulders as his skates kish-kished over to Burr to shake hands.

  While Ian and Burr had been playing for the last hour, Burr hadn’t spared many glances up at the stands—he’d been totally focused on the game, and Tierney, who’d attended plenty of boring hockey games in her life, had been totally riveted. Watching his raw talent was exciting, but his intensity made something inside of her tighten and quiver. Did he commit that sort of dedicated concentration to everything in his life? And if so, and if they made it to the day that Sean Shanahan was imprisoned, would he focus all of it on her? The very thought made her shiver as Brittany looped her arm through Tierney’s and pulled her down the bleacher stairs to the ice.

  Burr and Ian high-fived, then Burr skated over to the boards while Ian went to retrieve the puck. As Burr approached, he finally looked up at Tierney. His face glistened with sweat, but his eyes sparkled when he unclipped the helmet from under his chin and took it off. He grinned at her, then closed one eye in a sexy wink. And Tierney? Lord, Tierney felt that wink all the way to her toes and everywhere in between.

  M’Burr. M’Burr. Mine.

  “What’d you think?” he asked, his body slamming into the boards as his skates whooshed to a stop.

  “I never enjoyed hockey so much,” she confessed.

  He swiped the sleeve of Ian’s borrowed Bruins sweater over his sweaty brow. “Been a little while since I played.”

  “Couldn’t tell,” she said, feeling a swell of pride at the way he’d held his own against her brother.

  “Son, that slap shot was insane!” said Ian, thumping Burr on the back. “Never saw a shot that good ’cept by a guy in college…shit, what was that guy’s name? Oh, fuck! I think he went to UMass too. You probably knew him!”

  “Lots of good guys on the team,” said Burr, his smile fading a touch.

  “Nah,” said Ian. “This guy was epic. Um…Fuck! What was his name?”

  Rory skated up. “Do we need to put away the goals or anything?”

  Ian shook his head. “Lou does it.” He looked up, over Tierney’s shoulder, and when she followed his eyes, she found the rink manager approaching. “Done here, Lou. Thanks for the ice time.”

  “Tough break, Ian. I saw that slap shot,” said Lou. He shifted his eyes to Burr. “You local?”

  “Nah. Just here for a little bit. From Boston.”

  “Huh. Well, if you’re ever local, we could use you.”

  “League play?”

  Lou nodded. “Local league…yeah. But it’s serious. Ian knows.”

  Ian nodded eagerly. “Oh, yeah. It’s no joke.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to use the showers,” said Lou, gesturing to the locker room door with his chin. “I gotta get the ice cleaned up for disco night.”

  Burr locked eyes with Tierney, lowering his voice to a hum. “Wait for me, aisling?”

  She nodded, feeling warm all over. “Definitely.”

  “Burr O’Leary!” bellowed Ian. “Burr O-fucking Leary! That was the guy’s name. Fast Irish fucker. Wicked slap shot. From UMass. Fuck! I knew it would come to me!”

  Burr was stepping through the gate, but he froze as Ian yelled his real name, whipping his eyes to Tierney.

  She licked her lips, turning to Ian. “Burr O’—what? What kind of, um, name is that? Burr. Like ‘Brrr, I’m cold’? Or, um, burr, like—like Mom’s accent? Or—”

  Burr stepped forward, purposely knocking into her. His arm shot out around her waist to steady her, his bulky glove digging into her hip and telling her to stop blathering. She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his.

  Stop, he mouthed.

  “No,” said Ian from behind them. “Just Burr. It was his name.”

  Burr’s eyes slipped to her lips for a second before he released her gently, looking over his shoulder at Ian. “Yeah, I remember him. Sort of a cocky bastard.”

  Tierney chortled, then disguised it as a cough.

  “Maybe so,” said Ian, “but he had a hell of a slap shot.”

  “Yeah,” said Burr, winking at Tierney a second time before walking passed her, headed for the locker room. “I guess he was okay.”

  Burr followed after Ian, and Rory after Burr, stopping for a moment to press a quick kiss to Brittany’s lips. “What’s next?”

  “Dinner?” she suggested. “At the Mug? Burgers?”

  “Sure,” said Rory, looking vaguely disappointed, like he wouldn’t mind if “next” was one-on-one time in Brittany’s bed.

  “Ew,” said Tierney, turning away from the happy couple to watch as the Zamboni started its rounds. “Get a room, you two.”

  “Go hang out with the boys for a few minutes, huh?” Brittany asked her boyfriend. “Give me and Tierney some girl time. We’ll meet you guys in the lobby.”

  “Yeah,” said Rory, kissing her again. “Okay.”

  As Rory headed off to the locker room, Brittany grabbed Tierney’s arm. “So? I need an update!”

  Suddenly Tierney remembered what she’d said to Burr last night about not making a new friend in a long time, and she wondered if she’d been wrong. Brittany Manion, for all her intimidating beauty and wealth, was gaga for Rory and kind to Tierney and Ian. Maybe Brittany could be the new friend Tierney so craved. In fact, maybe she already was.

  “We had a talk last night.”

  “A talk? Ooo. Okay. Good or bad?” asked Britt, steering them toward the lobby of the arena.

  “Good,” said Tierney. “I think.”

  “But…you’re not sure?”

  She was pretty sure, based on the giddy grins she and Burr had been trading all day. Starting this morning, they’d shared coffee and breakfast together, then taken his first perimeter walk together. And later, when it had been too busy for her to return home for lunch, he’d walked up the hill with a sandwich for her.