Moving On Read online

  Moving On

  McLoughlin Brothers Book One

  Emma Tharp

  Moving On (Book One in the McLoughlin Brothers Series)

  By Emma Tharp

  Copyright © 2018 by Emma Tharp

  For more about this author, please visit www.emmatharp.com

  All characters and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator” at the address below.

  www.emmatharp.com

  Ordering Information: Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above.

  1.Main category—Fiction

  2.Other category—Romance

  First Edition

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Bonus Chapter from All In (McLoughlin Brothers Book 2)

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Emma Tharp

  1

  “Yer don’t ‘av your I.D. witcha?” the green-eyed, red-haired woman asks. Her tone is friendly, and the accent is lovely, but her face betrays her. She’s looking at me like I’m a complete moron.

  “I know it sounds crazy. I’m pretty sure I had it with me in the taxi, but I don’t seem to have my purse with me now.” I don’t mention that I’m still not quite awake or coherent yet after taking the Xanax before I got on the plane. I must look like the American Hot Mess Express that just pulled up to her hotel lobby. My cheeks flame. If I could dig a hole, I’d crawl in it.

  She purses her lips together so tightly, they’re nearly nonexistent. “Dead on, dear. Waaat wus your name again?”

  I give her my name and all the pertinent details and remind her that the room was prepaid for by my grandmother. She seems satisfied, or takes pity on me, because she hands me a keycard with my room number on it.

  “Thank you so much.” If it wouldn’t be inappropriate for me to kiss her, I would. She’s saving me. It appears bad luck is my new M.O. Her looking past me not having identification is the first stroke of luck I’ve had in six months.

  “‘Ill yer nade ‘elp wi your luggage?”

  “No. I don’t have any. Well, I do, but it seems that the airlines have lost it.” Who knows what my face looked like when I watched the baggage carousel go round and round, empty after all the other passengers moved along with their luggage, and I stood there numbly hoping against hope that mine would somehow materialize.

  “Ah, dear. Waaat airline? Oi can gie dem a call for yer.”

  “I already met with someone at the airport. They should call me when they locate it.” Shit. My stomach sinks. How can they call me when I don’t have my phone, because it’s in the purse that I left in the cab? I never should have come here.

  “Why don’t yer go up an’ git sum rest.” I love the way the Irish put emphasis on R’s. It’s endearing. And it distracts me from the look of concern on her face.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” I turn and walk toward the elevators, flipping the key card through my fingers. While I wait, I check out framed photos of Ireland. Some of the lush, green rolling hills, others of stately old castles. My heart pitter-pats for the first time since I landed.

  The room is an average size for a hotel room. At least the ones I’ve stayed at. There are two double beds situated in the middle of the room, a small table with two chairs in the corner and a small desk with a TV mounted above it. Everything is a different shade of maroon, from the comforter to the carpet and curtains.

  This would’ve been the perfect room if she could’ve come with me.

  The red-eye flight can be taken literally; my hazel eyes are sore and feel as if I scrubbed away at them with sandpaper. The only cure is the all-elusive sleep. Removing my sweater and jeans, I crawl under the covers, snuggle in, and decide it’s best to call Fiona before I rest. My best friend warned me if I didn’t call her when I got settled there would be hell to pay.

  “I made it.” I tell her as soon as she picks up.

  “Oh, thank goodness. Is it as amazing as it looks in the pictures?”

  I go back and forth between how much information I should give her. I don’t want her to worry, but she can also read me like a book. Probably best to go with honesty. “I haven’t seen much yet. The cab ride to the hotel was a blur. I took a Xannie before I got on the plane and had a couple of glasses of wine. You know, to calm my nerves. I don’t remember much after landing and going through customs.” I don’t need anxiety medicine on a regular basis, nor am I a proponent of mixing prescription drugs with alcohol, but my deep-rooted fear of flying trumps all.

  “Shit. How are you feeling? You sound exhausted,” she says.

  “It could be worse. I didn’t sleep well. Every time a baby cried, or if there was turbulence, I woke up. That’s when I’d order another drink.”

  She laughs into the phone. “I’m glad you made it safe and sound. What are your plans today?”

  “Well, I’m going to attempt a nap and I’m hoping I can get a hold of my luggage. It didn’t make it to Dublin.”

  “That is so your luck.”

  Nodding my head, I say, “No kidding. And I can top that, too. Between the airport and the hotel, I managed to lose my purse.”

  “What the hell, Lettie? You weren’t kidding when you said you were out of it.”

  “Please, spare me. All I wanted was to change my luck and here I am all the way across the Atlantic with a dark cloud still over my head.”

  “I’m sorry. Things will get better.”

  I chuckle, but there’s no real humor in it. “I doubt it.”

  “I’m not sure I should bring this up, but I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t say anything.” There’s hesitation in her voice.

  My curiosity is piqued, there’s no way she’s going to hold back now. “Spill.”

  She lets out a long sigh; it’s oozing reluctance. “Mark reached out to me.”

  I sit straight up. Damn him. He’s got no right contacting Fiona. I’m angry, but I do my best to keep the edge out of my tone because it isn’t her fault. “Why would he do that?”

  “He’s been trying to get in touch with you, but since you aren’t taking his calls, he figured I was the next best thing.”

  “What a jerk. I’m sorry that he called you.” She is the last person that needs to be burdened with him.

  “It’s okay. He sounded torn up. I took pity on him and listened. Are you pissed?”

  I take several calming breaths before I answer her. I am a little upset that she would talk to him. Her loyalty is with me, but it’s in Fiona’s nature to be kind and have empathy, and I love her for that. Maybe I used to be that way. Not anymore. Mark changed that for me. Prick. “I am a little disappointed.”

  “He took me off guard. I didn’t recognize his number. I was surprised to say the least when I realized it was him.” Her words come spilling out like the coffee I dumped
all over my laptop last week. Fast and sticky.

  “I bet.”

  “Anyway. He feels terrible for what he did to you. He wants to apologize,” she says.

  “It won’t do any good. He doesn’t deserve my forgiveness,” I say.

  “I don’t want to upset you. In fact, I wasn’t sure I should tell you at all, especially on your trip, but I couldn’t hold it in anymore. But if you want my two cents, I think you should just forgive him, drop the bitterness, and move on with your life. You’re only hurting yourself.”

  “If only it were that easy. Thanks for the advice though.” There’s no sarcasm in my tone. I love Fiona. She’s my oldest and dearest friend, and I know any advice she gives me comes from her heart. She only wants the best for me and the same goes for me with her.

  “Please try and enjoy your trip. Take tons of pictures. When you get back, I’ll help you find a new job.” Her voice is soft and encouraging and wraps around me like the blankets I’m under.

  Losing my waitressing job last month was a slap in the face. They let me go because the restaurant slows down too much in the fall and winter. I’d rather not be waitressing, but I need a job. I have my teaching degree, but there haven’t been openings in Charlottesville since graduation over two years ago. I keep applying anyway. It’s hard not to get down on myself. “That sounds like a plan.”

  “Why don’t you go have a drink?”

  I smile thinking about my co-conspirator. If she were here, she and I would be at the pub already. “I think I will after I have a cat nap.”

  “Great idea. Call me tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Hopefully, I’ll have my cell phone.”

  “I didn’t recognize the number you called me from. What is it?”

  “It’s the hotel phone. I should go now before I ring up too many more fees that I can’t really afford.”

  “Love you,” Fiona says.

  “Me, too.”

  I hang the phone up and pick it up again. I give the airline a quick call to update them with the hotel phone number so they can reach me if or when they find my luggage. I snuggle back down under the covers. Despite my horrible luck today I’m going to do my best to make this trip a success.

  After tossing and turning for a couple of hours, my stomach lets me know it’s time to get up and find some food. Thank goodness, I have some money left in my pocket from the cab ride to pay for a meal. I’ve been prone to insomnia lately, so it’s no surprise that I couldn’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, my mind wants to hike up a mountain that I have no strength or will to climb. It’s exhausting.

  I hang my stale, day-worn clothes on the end of the shower rod, hoping the steam will liven them up a bit. After a hot shower with rose scented hotel shampoo, conditioner, and soap, I’m feeling somewhat refreshed, until I put my clothes back on. What I wouldn’t give for a clean outfit. Without my brush, I make do by running my fingers through my long, blonde, wet strands. It doesn’t look half bad. I rub under my eyes and pinch my cheeks. It could be worse.

  When I exit the lobby, I breathe in deeply and fill my lungs with fresh crisp air. I’m in Ireland. It’s early fall and the temperature is perfect: cool, but no need for a heavy jacket. It’s overcast, but it doesn’t look like it’ll rain today. The street is lined with a strip of orange brick buildings and, being at the city center, there is a fair share of honking horns and brakes. Buses and cars line one side of the street, and the opposite side is bustling with pedestrians. I pass a camera store, goldsmith, and drug store. Turning to my right there’s a large sign just down the road that says, “O’Neill’s Pub Home of the best Bangers and Mash in Ireland.” Decision made.

  Walking through the doors, it’s dimly lit and full of patrons. It smells of hops and fried food. One wall to my left is lined with old pictures and newspaper articles, and the back wall is lined with what looks like over one hundred beer bottles. The bar is huge with rich, dark woods, and the stools are high-backed and padded. I scan the area and find one empty seat. It’s mine.

  “Waaat can oi git for yer?” the dark-haired old bartender asks in an endearingly accented voice.

  “I’d love a Guinness, and bangers and mash please.” I’ve been waiting for this ever since my grandmother and I planned this trip just about a year ago now.

  “Anythin’ for de juicy American lassie.” He winks at me and wanders away toward the pint glasses where he starts the process of pouring my draft. I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.

  The first sip of my beer is heaven, heavy, and thick as it passes my lips and warm as it hits the back of my throat. For the first time since this trip started, things are looking up. Halfway through my drink, the bartender brings me my meal. I load my fork with a large bite. The sausage is spicy and potatoes are buttery, but what makes the dish is the rich onion gravy with a hint of red wine.

  “Waaat do yer tink?” the bartender asks.

  Closing my eyes and swallowing my mouthful, I answer. “Delicious. Almost as good as my grandmother’s.” She loves to cook. One of the great joys of her life is making a meal from scratch and sharing it with family or friends.

  “Best in de British Isles.”

  “She is from here.”

  “Ah, yeah. Wha?”

  “Waterford.”

  “Oi nu a gra’many people from dare.”

  “How about you? And what’s your name?” I ask before taking another sip of my pint to wash down my dinner.

  “Well oi’m Vaughn from Dublin. Dis is me bar.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Vaughn. My name is Scarlette from Virginia.”

  “Gran’ ter meet yer.”

  “Thank you, Vaughn. Good to meet you, too.”

  He nods and walks off to attend to a couple that just sat down at the bar.

  Dredging the last of my sausage through the remaining gravy on my plate, I savor it. I wipe the corners of my mouth with a napkin and polish off the rest of my Guinness. The button of my jeans digs into my lower abdomen, the true sign of a good meal. Spinning around in my bar stool, I notice a group of three tall men walk in the pub. They make their way in my direction. One of them is familiar. He’s tall with dark hair and a good amount of scruff. It can’t be him. Shit. I’ve got to get out of here before he sees me.

  2

  I spin around in my seat, hoping he didn’t notice me. Attempting to flag down Vaughn, I wave my hand in his direction. He’s making a drink for someone and pays no attention to me. I sneak another peek in Braeden’s direction. He hasn’t seen me. I may get out of here without him noticing.

  Bad luck has followed me to Ireland. Why the hell is Braeden McLoughlin, my friend Janessa’s ex, in Dublin at the exact same time that I am? Janessa used to be Faye’s roommate, but moved out over a year ago. We used to go out from time to time, but it’s been less and less. Especially since Mark and I moved in together. Janessa told us that Braeden was an asshole to her; granted he is pretty to look at, but I don’t care how hot you are, being a jerk is inexcusable. Not to mention that before he dated her, he was known in town as a womanizer.

  Vaughn comes toward me and hollers out. “Scarlette from Virginia. Yer nade another Guinness?”

  I know Braeden heard him. Of course, he looks right at me. “What?” Braeden says. He’s up and out of his seat before I have a chance to register what’s happening. His strong arms are around me, wrapping me in a hug. He smells like fresh air and spicy cologne. “Hey. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.” I pull away from him and get a good look. Damn. He is better looking than I remember. I’m average height, but he’s at least five inches taller. When he hugged me, his toned muscles fit up against my curves ever so nicely. His jaw is chiseled, and the lines of his face are angled in the most masculine and endearing way, strong and confident. And the dark stubble along his jaw is not too shaggy, not too smooth; I’m a sucker for a man with a five o’clock shadow. Mark could never grow one. It would always be uneven a
nd awkward. Serves him right. The gods knew he was a cheating ass so they wouldn’t allow him to grow facial hair correctly.

  His chocolate brown eyes with specks of caramel and gold seem to be appraising me as well. It’s suddenly too warm in here. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question.” If he thinks I’m going to spill my guts to him, he’s sorely mistaken. Keep yourself to yourself. That’s what Grandma has always told me.

  “Me and my brothers.” He points to the two dark haired guys he walked in with. “We’re here on vacation. Riding our motorcycles along the coast.”

  Damn. I forgot that Janessa used to brag all the time about how he took her out for rides. Come to think of it, I was so caught up in all of my and Mark’s shit that I barely remember anything Janessa told me.

  I hate how hearing the word ‘motorcycle’ makes me feel. I remember being on the back of my dad’s Harley when he was alive. We would go out into the country, I’d wrap my arms around him and tilt my head back, soaking up the heat from the sun on my face and letting my long hair fly behind me out of the back of the helmet. It was the freest I’ve ever felt and some of the best memories I had with my father flood in like the tide. I can’t help but grin.

  “You’re gorgeous when your eyes light up like that.”

  Heat moves up my neck and I frown a little.

  “What’s wrong? Did I say something?” he asks, lowering his head down toward me. There’s something engaging in the way he tilts his head and bites on his lower lip.

  “No. I’ve got to pay my bill and go try and figure out how I’m going to survive this trip without my I.D. and credit card.”

  He places his hand on my shoulder and angles me toward him. “What happened?” The look on his face, lined with concern, and his words, his actions are so protective.

  I must seem like the world’s biggest idiot when I tell him about losing my I.D. He doesn’t make me feel like a fool. No, he just listens and takes me in. All of me. It’s intense. I can’t remember the last time Mark made feel like I had been heard.