The Player and the Pixie(69)

God, what was I doing?

This couldn’t continue, eventually we’d have to move into the friend-zone or end our text messaging.

Simply put, if I valued my relationship with my brother at all then I couldn’t be with Sean. It was reality and it made me sad, which was why I found myself continuously trying to figure out ways to make Ronan accept us. If I told Ronan that Sean had never actually slept with Brona, then maybe he’d change his mind. Or perhaps if I found something they could both bond over they’d finally put all the bickering aside and become friends.

I know. I was living in a dream world.



Lucy: I’m great. Work is keeping me busy. You?

Sean: Exhausted. Just finished training. Eating dinner now.

Lucy: Oooh, what are you having?



He responded with a picture of a plate containing two steamed breasts of chicken, broccoli, aubergine, and a gigantic glass of some thick, beige smoothie.



Lucy: Ouch.

Sean: Yep. And when Coach McLaughlin told us to start doing running squats I nearly got hard. I think you’ve ruined me ;-)

Lucy: Omg, lol! Sorry.

Sean: Don’t be. Memories of us together are keeping me warm at night. I have this particular favorite of kneeling behind you on the carpet while you’re on all fours…

Lucy: Sean!

Sean: Lucy.



I put the phone down, fanning myself with the collar of my T-shirt, a tad overwhelmed by the imagery. I saw his hands gripping my waist, his head between my legs, tongue licking . . .

Focusing back on my work, I replied to a few comments on the blog and began answering a couple of emails, but my head wasn’t in the game. Sean was invading my every thought and it was driving me crazy. The frustration of being an ocean away—far beyond touching distance—was a new form of torture.

My phone buzzed again. I glanced at it, biting my thumbnail.



Sean: Are you still there?

Sean: I’ll be good. I promise.



Unable to help myself, I tapped out a quick reply.



Lucy: Are you capable of being good?

Sean: Yes. I’m always good.

Sean: You’re coming home next week for the wedding, aren’t you?

Lucy: Yes. I’m flying in on Tuesday.

Sean: We should meet up.



I closed my eyes for a second, swallowing as my tummy churned with anticipation. I knew I shouldn’t, but I really wanted to see him. Even so, I didn’t want to send mixed signals . . . well, I didn’t want to send any additional mixed signals.



Lucy: It’ll be a busy time. Got to plan Annie’s hen party and I’m also maid of honor.

Sean: I’m sure you can fit me in somewhere :-D

Lucy: Is that an innuendo?

Sean: Of course.

Lucy: Leave me alone, pervert. I’ve got work to do and you’ve got a whole lot of beige to drink :-P

Sean: Okay, but we should get together while you’re here. I’ll take you out to dinner and you can toss your drink in my face again, mock me for how I say “fam.”



Placing my phone down on the desk, I didn’t respond. He made me feel too many conflicting emotions and my confusion was exhausting. Instead, I opened up the folder on my laptop containing the itinerary for Annie’s hen night, happy for the distraction and smiling as I perused it.

I’d purchased a bunch of Where’s Wally jumpers and hats for us to wear, though Broderick was keen to inform me that he was known as Waldo in the States. I also booked an hour on a Pedibus around the city. It was going to be hilarious. After that we’d have dinner and karaoke at one of my favorite Japanese restaurants before heading out to Temple Bar for more drinks.

I chuckled because Mam was insisting on coming and I knew she’d hate every moment of it. Everything about the night was going to be ridiculous and sloppy, my favorite kind of fun, and her most hated.

Noticing the time, I let out a few choice swearwords as I realized I was late to meet Broderick for lunch at our usual spot. Throwing my hair up in a ponytail, I grabbed my coat and handbag before heading out.

I saw him as soon as I stepped inside, sitting at our favorite spot by the window, headphones on, a coffee and pastry in front of him. Shooting him a quick wave, I went to order some food while surreptitiously sliding a raisin and oat cookie into my pocket.

It was a common tactic: buy something to cover up that you’ve stolen another. I’d been doing the exact same thing for five afternoons in a row and I didn’t understand why. I knew it didn’t make things any better, but I’d even been giving the cookie to a homeless man who sat begging outside the café as I left. I thought I had a handle on my compulsion but it was coming back for some reason, even though I’d barely spoken to my mother in weeks.

The barista smiled at me, completely oblivious, as I dropped a ridiculous amount of coins in the tip jar, took my things and headed over to join my friend. Broderick pulled off his headphones as I sat, a heavy baseline blasting from the speakers.