Page 2 of Beneath the Quiet

What a complete and utter fool. I can’t believe it’s come to this. How did I end up here in this coastal village, chasing bulls and being called to the pub when some of the regulars get a bit too loud? That’s it? That’s supposed to be enough to fill my days?

I used to fall asleep in the heart of Dublin to the sounds of sirens, traffic, and the catcalls of drunks on the streets, or bursts of laughter, music, and, well, life.

Who are you, Maeve, and what are you doing here?

No sooner have the wallowing thoughts settled than I toss them aside. I’m not one to admit defeat, even to myself. I might be cold and wet, and even though I’m beginning to feel sore, especially on my generous behind, I’m still a resourceful member of the Gardai.

And no member of the Gardai backs down from whatever comes their way.

I’m not about to start now.

I steel my shoulders and jerk my head up, only to hit something that feels as hard as concrete. Stars burst in front of my eyes.

“Fuck!”

The comforting hand on my back drops away as quickly as it appeared, and I reach out a hand.

“I’m so sorry, sir.”

He bats my hand away and rubs his chin, brown eyebrows drawn together so far down that they almost meet in the middle.

“What are you made of? Stone?” the stranger asks.

I shrug. “I wish. I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I didn’t see you. Obviously.”

“Took me by surprise, that’s all.” His lips pull up at the corners. “I’m not used to letting women clop me. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Careful not to poke myself in the eyes, I swipe more of the muddy glob away from my cheeks. I’m sure I look like a lunatic, but that’s the least of my worries right now. I glance at the bull and wipe my hands on the grass.

“Can you give me a hand up, please?”

“Sure.”

The stranger sits back on his haunches, leans forward, and takes a firm grip of my elbows. With an ease I envy, he pulls me up on solid ground.

“Thank you.” I push a loose corkscrew curl away with my muddy hands and take in my saviour. It’s embarrassing, but since he’s here now, I might as well make good use of him. He’s already wearing muddy wellies and dark-blue denim overalls; he seems used to working in the fields. One thing’s for certain: he doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.

I turn my neck from side to side, and as it pops with a crack, my saviour raises a pointed brow.

Damn it. I’ve always wanted to do that, but alas, I’ve never mastered the art. I push my lips into a flat line and point at Harry. “Any experience with obnoxious old bulls?”

My companion quirks an eyebrow at me. “Not bulls, per se, but me and Harry go back a long way. He knows me. I won’t mind trying to give you a hand.”

I nod once. “Please. I’m willing to do just about anything to get him home.” I reach out my hand. “Detective Sergeant Maeve Gallagher. Nice to meet you.”

He takes my hand and shakes it once, his grip firm, his clear ocean eyes on mine.

His lips pull up in that half-smile again. “Aidan Lynch, at your service.”

Even though I’m fully invested in solving the conundrum I’ve found myself in, a pleasant thrill runs through me when he keeps his gaze locked with mine and doesn’t wander down my body instead. In fact, the intensity with which he holds my eyes shoots sparks I haven’t felt in a long time down my arm, and my fingers tingle. Not once do his eyes stray from mine, and the longer he keeps my hand in his, warmth settles in my cheeks.

The curse of a redhead: my feelings are always on full display.

I’m no different than the average one, and right now, I need to pull up my big girl pants and get a move on.

Luckily for me, Aidan finally lets go of my hand. The imprint of his touch burns me, even more so when he lets his fingers slide through mine for an agonising beat, and my breath catches in my throat at the intimacy of his gesture. Finally, though, he no longer touches me, and the fog clears from my head. It’s the first time in my life I’ve felt as if time stood still.

He runs his hand through his wavy, sandy-coloured hair cut short at his sides and at the nape of his neck. I wonder if that’s his natural hair colour or if it’s been brightened by the sun, and I mentally roll my eyes at the direction of my thoughts. Where did that come from? The sharp edges around my heart have not fully healed, yet here I am, taking an unusual interest in a local farmer when I should be focused on the job.