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So, if she’s kissing me, then she’s okay with all three of us. Before she can pull away, my hand goes to the back of her head, and I kiss her, my tongue tangling with hers. I swallow her moan as I press her closer. We kiss for ages. How long, I’m not sure. Panting, like I’ve run a marathon, my blood raging, I pull away and look into her dazed eyes, her mouth open.
“Wow, now that’s a proper good morning.”
I grin and take in her beauty. Her eyes are hazy from my kiss, her nipples hard, and she’s glowing. Whatever my brothers did to her last night agrees with her. She’s even more beautiful than I remember.
“I’m starving. What can a girl get to eat around here?”
Me, I want to say, but vault over the bar, take her hand and lead her to the kitchen. We don’t speak, but when I squeeze her hand, she squeezes mine back.
We step into the large industrial kitchen. Copper pots hang from the ceiling on butcher’s hooks. Gleaming white plates are stacked and ready for service. The faint scent of bacon, black pudding and treacle fill the air. The smell is embedded in the polished wooden counter tops and is as familiar as the front door.
I lead her toward the only person in the kitchen.
“Fiona, meet Angel. Technically, her name is Georgia, but she’s my Angel.”
Fiona, who had been scrubbing potatoes over the sink, turns, surprised.
“Fiona is my saving grace. I’d be lost if she didn’t come in every Sunday before church to prepare lunch. She is amazing, my sunshine, my everything.” I have my hand over my heart. Fiona, bless her seventy-plus years, scowls at me good-naturedly.
“Awa’ with ya an bile yer heid.”
I laugh out loud.
“What did she say?” Georgia whispers.
I lean down and kiss Fiona’s wrinkled forehead. “She told me to get away with me and go boil my head. It’s her Gaelic greeting to me every Sunday. Our love language.”
“Oh, that’s funny.” Georgia stills. “I mean it’s not. I’m not into violence, but cutting off your own head and boiling it?”
“So, this wee lass is the one?” Shrewd blue eyes scan Georgia. “About time,” she mutters, then stirs large vats on the Aga stove. Tomato, garlic and chicken scents fill the air.
I grin and shake my head. There’s no point in arguing with Fiona and telling her Georgia is not the one. There will never be a one. I learned from our parents that love is toxic, heartache and why the fuck would you ever sign on for that? None of my friends had parents with good marriages, from what I could see. Indifference? Sure. Staying together because it’s cheaper than divorce? Totally. So, money over love apparently.
Georgia drops my hand, and I immediately feel the loss. She moves toward Fiona. I’m behind a mobile chopping board before Fiona sees the painful swelling in my pants. The heavy wooden chopping block that could bat my cock into the next century.
“Please let me help. It’s the least I can do.” Georgia, rubbing her hands down those damn shorts. She isn’t even wearing shoes, only flip-flops, and her toenails are a sparkly blue. She shouldn’t be allowed back here without shoes. Industrial relations and shit, but there’s no way I will admonish my Angel. She grabs a ladle from the bench and starts stirring alongside Fiona.
“How’s Clyde?” I push my hand into my jeans pockets, trying to relieve the pressure of my cock trying to burrow out of the zipper.
As much as Fiona claims she’s never gone out with another man since her Harold died five years ago, I see her blush and smile when Clyde is around.
Fiona’s face clouds. “He’s under the weather.”
Damn. Not the words I want to hear. “Want me to check in on him? Give him some cheer?”
I don’t wait for her answer, knowing I’ll check on him.
Georgia turns her head and raises a dark brow.
“Fiona drags half her church here after Sunday service.” I smile fondly at Fiona. “Her and Clyde lead the congregation. Tried to convert me once.”
Fiona tries to look stern but her eyes sparkle. “Don’t pretend, laddie, that you don’t enjoy Sunday lunch.”
“You fucking know I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
And I wouldn’t.
I feed anyone who comes around, those who can pay, do, those who can’t and there’s more that can’t, we feed. Two thousand people could turn up every Sunday, and I’d feed them. Anyone and everyone are welcome.
