Bet Me to Stay
by Candace Havens
Copyright © 2019 by Candace Havens. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
“I have some news for you.” Liam’s younger brother, Finn, rushed in through the back door of the pub, ran up behind the bar, and grabbed an apron. He was a half hour late for his shift, which wasn’t anything new. His brother didn’t care much about time or deadlines, or the fact that someone might have been working since the wee hours of the morning, doing an inventory, while covering the front of the pub as well.
But Liam wasn’t bitter or anything.
“You won’t believe it,” Finn said as he picked up a tray of clean glasses and started loading them behind the bar.
That look on Finn’s face was one he’d seen before. Oh. Hell. Not again. His brother had obviously met the next Mrs. Finn O’Connor. Again. Liam glanced up at the ceiling and prayed for strength.
He was annoyed as only the older brother of the biggest idiot in the world could be.
“Oy,” his brother said. “Did you hear what I said?”
He glanced back at said brother and leaned against the back of the bar, crossing his arms and trying to decide if he should smack the man serving a blonde a drink. Maybe he should order him a chastity belt. Did they make those for men? Surely someone had to make something like that for asshats who fell in love with every woman they slept with.
Every. Woman.
It was beyond infuriating.
“I heard you. Let me guess. You’re engaged? Again.”
Finn smiled. “No. Not engaged. But she’s beautiful, and we have the best time together.” His brother shook his head. “Wait. How did you know? I’m thinking about asking her, though. Did I mention she’s lovely?”
Hitting him wasn’t an option; he was as hardheaded as they came and Liam would probably break his fingers. Besides, they didn’t allow that sort of behavior in the pub.
Truth was, he could give two shits how many women Finn married—or almost married—if not for the fact that they each owned 50 percent of this traditional Irish pub, The Boars Head, and the soon-to-be ex-wife would then own a quarter of his family’s legacy.
Not on my watch.
Finn didn’t see the risk. He had to stop his brother from making a big mistake and risking everything their family had worked for, that Liam had sacrificed for. The last engagement had lasted right up until three weeks before the wedding. The bride had called it off, thank God.
But it had been close. That’s when Liam called the lawyer and asked for a prenup that protected the pub.
I should probably give her a call and see how that’s going. I may need that prenup sooner rather than later.
And honestly, if he’d dated his potential brides for more than a month before the engagement, Liam would likely not need to chew antacids like Tic Tacs. But of course a marriage based on thirty days of knowing someone wasn’t going to last. How could he not see that?
Liam glanced around the pub his grandparents had opened in the 1920s in the waterfront district of Boston and was surprised by how busy it was for a Tuesday night. Which was good. Keeping a bar afloat wasn’t easy, especially when one of the most popular pubs in the whole state was right across the street. He hated those lucky bastards running The Rustic Pig. Politicians and celebrities came from around the world to hang with the O’Brians in their fancy digs, while The Boars Head was a more authentic Irish pub experience with its homemade shepherd’s pie and stew made from his grandmum’s secret recipe.
His brother slid a full bottle of Jameson across the bar toward him and motioned with his head to refill a customer’s drink. Liam wasn’t usually the front man, preferring to handle the ordering and accounting in the back office.
In fact, he wouldn’t even be out here in the mix of things if Finn had been on time, and if he hadn’t felt the urge to keep an eye on his brother while their attorneys drew up new contracts so that Finn couldn’t give away part of the pub. If he got married, there had to be a prenup. The lawyers said that was the only way Liam could keep controlling interest.
Then his brother could marry any bloody person he wanted.
Though Liam never understood the appeal. Matrimony was most definitely not his thing. Weird, since his parents had the kind of marriage love stories were written about. But Liam had never felt anything like the passion his parents had. Sure, he liked to get laid now and again, but forever was a long time to be with the same person.
He walked over and poured the caramel-colored whiskey, checking to make sure the gentleman had already offered a credit card for a tab.
Next to him, Finn leaned both elbows against the bar, bringing his head—and mouth—to the same height as the blonde a few stools down.
Well, this wasn’t the woman he was marrying. He’d seen that one the night before, so he let out a sigh of relief.
His brother couldn’t help but flirt. It was part of his nature. It’s what made him so good at his job, working the front of the pub like this. People were naturally drawn to him.
Finn had his signature good-old-Irish-boy smile plastered ear to ear, his light-green eyes sparkling with humor as he reached up to ask why a beautiful woman was all alone. Liam rolled his eyes, but the blonde was eating it up. The man was a natural.
Finn said something else Liam couldn’t catch, but clearly it had the desired effect. The woman giggled and pushed her napkin toward Finn, her number clearly scrawled in blue against the crisp white paper. Liam leaned over and scooped it up.
“Sorry, lass, but this one’s got a terrible case of—well, we don’t like to talk about it.” He glanced over at his brother, who was giving him the finger.
Finn’s eyebrows sunk at the low blow, and then a smile Liam knew all too well spread across his brother’s face. Sure enough, Finn lunged forward. There wasn’t much an O’Connor loved more than a good family brawl, but Liam was about six inches taller and a good twenty pounds heavier and had him in an arm lock in one swift move. Finn struggled for a second, but Liam tightened his hold and warned, low, “I wouldn’t tonight, bro. I’m feelin’ a bit edgy. Besides, we have a rule about this sort of thing in front of our guests.”
“Kiss my arse,” Finn said.
“I’m going nowhere near that thing,” Liam joked. “You can’t keep flitting from one chit to the next and expect anyone to take you seriously. I’m thinking you aren’t as serious about this girl as you might think.”
“You’re an arsehole.”
“Aye, I am. We’ve established that. Now calm down and get back to work.”
When he was sure Finn was over the quick temper, he released his grip and settled against the bar again. The blonde was already weaving her way to the back of the crowd. Well, one future ex averted.
“Dickhead.” Finn just chuckled and went back to pouring drinks. He admired that about his brother. While Finn never ran from a fight—but who the hell did?—he was the easy-tempered one of the O’Connor brothers. Quick to anger and quicker to move on.
Even his hair was a light-brown compared to Liam’s inky black. They’d both inherited their grandpa’s light-green eyes, but Finn had their mother’s dimples and laugh, whereas Liam had their father’s more serious demeanor and large frame capable of stopping a fight with just a look.
Liam headed back to his side of the bar and shook his head when he spotted a ginger trying to pick up a woman clearly out of his league. He grabbed a mug, tilting it as he pulled on the lever of the draft beer before placing the full glass in front of the poor guy.
He deftly removed the previously ordered cosmo and got a thankful look tossed his way. Single men should never order a cosmo if they hoped to get laid. That should be etched on the bar somewhere.
A couple of hours passed in a blur of sloshing liquor and tinkling laughter. Liam couldn’t remember the number of women he’d run off that night. Jesus, they were like flies on honey every time his brother smiled. He thought about the next week or two it would take the attorneys to draft something while he spent his time playing bodyguard and groaned.
He had inventory to finish and he’d been thinking about making some improvements to the bar. But he couldn’t take the time for all that if had to babysit his brother.
“Hey, arsehole, stop frowning like someone kicked your puppy. You’re scaring away the customers,” Finn said for the fifth time that night between pouring drinks.
And for the fifth time, Liam shot him the bird.
“Maybe you should go in the back and do some dishes,” his brother suggested as he pulled a couple of pints. “Or go get laid. That woman over at the corner booth has been giving you the side-wink all night. Go say hello.”
“Know what would make me happy?” He couldn’t stop one corner of his mouth curling upward, an idea forming in his mind. If an O’Connor was one thing, they were an Irish cliché. They loved whiskey, women, fighting, and gambling. In no particular order.
“I’m trembling in my boots,” Finn said, but his big smile betrayed him. His brother was the funny one. The life of the party. Had been all their lives.
“One month without a date. I bet you can’t go one damn day, let alone a month, without picking up a woman or trying to marry one. A monk for a month.” That would give Liam time to have an iron-clad prenup drawn up that would keep their family business safe from Finn’s bad choice in women.
“Harsh. You’re in a mean mood, brother. Is it so bad that I want what Ma and Pa have? That kind of love that sees you through the good and the bad?”
“Life’s not a fairy tale, Finn. What they have is rare, you know that as well as I. They work hard on their relationship and have a special bond. But you’re not going to find it with these women you keep dating. And certainly not in the first two weeks—or in the case of the last one, in the first night—of meeting them.”
His brother’s eyebrow rose. That was never a good sign. Meant he was planning something diabolical.
Like that time he convinced Liam to take over the paper route so he could flirt with Sherry Arthur, and they both nearly got shot by her dad.
“Tell ya what,” Finn said as he wiped down the bar, the last of their regulars heading out for the night. “I might take that bet if you’ll date the very next single woman who comes through the door. Doesn’t matter who she is.”
Liam snorted. “What the hell do I have to do with your pathological dating practices?”
“That’s the bet. I go without for one month, but you have to go out with the next woman who comes in—and not just get her in your bed, although considering your sour mood that would be a good start. You need to lighten the hell up, and a girlfriend is just what the doctor ordered.” Finn stuck out his hand. “Deal? Of course, I’d much rather be the one curling up with a nice, warm—”
“Jackass,” Liam grumbled. But if it would save the pub from one more month of his brother’s whims, then so be it. Maybe he’d have to take someone out to a couple of meals. No big deal. He’d done it before.
Not since your ex ran off with your best friend, his dick reminded him.
Traitor.
His dick was right and clearly interested in what might happen after dinner, but Liam had a hard rule: no relationships. Been there and burned the T-shirt while still wearing it. He thought about not having to spend his evenings like a jealous ex behind the bar, warning off all the marriage-minded ladies from Finn and grabbed his hand. “Deal.”
They shook on it.
“Maybe if you find your own woman, you’ll lay off me for once. You’re tense. A woman would do you good.”
Liam had no intention of falling in love ever again.
And then the front door opened, and his stomach sank.
…
Six hours ago, Cassie O’Brian sat across the desk from her agent, in a posh office that had once been featured in a magazine, as she read the new pages of her novel. But the frown on Tansey Clark’s face sent twisting knots through Cassie’s gut.
Her agent hated the pages.
Flashes of The Rustic Pig, her parents’ pub, popped up like a bad movie reel in her brain. The place where she’d waited tables until her hands were callused and her heart was nearly broken.
And then she’d discovered writing.
A blessing. Her way out of the hell only an introvert would understand when forced to live in her parents’ extroverted world.
Until today. When everything went to shit.
She leaned against her chair and forced herself to keep breathing.
Tansey had that pinched-up face, like she’d swallowed wrong or put something in her mouth that tasted like feet.
Oh. My. Crap. She really hates it.
What am I going to do?
I’m fucked.
She didn’t even like using that word, which was part of her problem.
Her sweet romance novels had been doing well, but her agent had insisted Cassie challenge herself.
Write something sexy. That’s where the real money is. If Cassie wanted to write full-time and quit waitressing forever, she could get her a big, fat advance for an erotic romance.
So Cassie had done exactly that. They’d toiled for weeks over a story idea, and then her agent had pitched it to a publisher, who was now dying to get their hands on this amazing book. And they’d paid her a big advance, too. All Cassie had to do was go home and write her sexy novel.
It was a dream come true.
Except for one thing.
Cassie didn’t have much experience to draw from. She’d always been too shy to date in high school and a little too round to relish getting naked much in college—thank you Double Stuf Oreos for that.
Yum. Double Stuf Oreos.
No. She wasn’t that girl anymore.
But here she sat, at twenty-five and barely more than a virgin. But hey, they didn’t call it fiction for nothing, right?
She’d spent the last three months writing this cute book about a restaurant owner who falls for a sexy redhead, not realizing she’s his nemesis—a food critic who posted several damaging reviews. But of course, they work it out in the end, and all the in-between parts were filled with hot wax and whipped cream escapades. It was darling, if she did say so herself.
When the expression on her agent’s normally flawless skin turned into a prune, Cassie’s stomach sunk to the bottom of her shoes.
“Oh, honey,” Tansey said. “You know I adore you. You are absolutely my favorite author, but more than that, you’re my friend. And we’re always honest with each other, right?”
Well, Tansey was. As bile filled the back of Cassie’s throat in an uncomfortable ball, all she could do was nod. Lie, Tansey. Please, just this once. But she knew what was coming.
“Girl, the book is good, but the sex scenes are reading like some clinical trial. Put slot A in tab B and pump it hard. Pump it real hard.”
Cassie gulped. So what if she’d borrowed some of her ideas from sex manuals she picked up from the library? After her favorite librarian had given her a look much like the one Tansey wore, she’d ordered a few more online.
“But I’m accurate, right? Everything goes where it’s supposed to.” She held her breath.
Tansey snorted. “I’m putting my friend hat on right now. My advice to you, if you want this book to work, is to get some experience. Preferably with a hot piece of ass that can take you to Pluto and back. And I don’t care if it’s a damn planet or not. If a guy can get you there, then you’re going to be able to open the floodgates with your writing. Understand?”
Clearing her throat, Cassie frowned. “You want me to go screw some stranger for research? That’s all kinds of wrong.”
Tansey waved a hand in front of her face. “Of course not, silly. I’m your agent. I’m a professional. I’d never say such a thing.” She took her glasses off. “But as your friend, yes. You need to find a stranger and have him pump you hard. Real. Real. Hard.”
Six hours later, those words echoed in Cassie’s head as she stared at the door of her parents’ pub. No way in the world was she going to lose her shyness overnight, so she knew what she had to do.
But the idea of walking in and telling her family she’d failed made her want to puke on her boots.
They thought she wrote catalog copy for L.L.Bean. They had no idea what she did for a living. And every time she walked in the door, they believed she’d come home to work again. Now she’d have to go in there and tell them the truth, that she needed to borrow money to pay back the advance on a book she’d never be able to write because she apparently thought hot sex was like an eighties music video.
Because she wasn’t like her sisters, who had all the tall, thin genes. She was Roly Poly, her brother’s favorite nickname for her. And while she’d thinned out a bit since college, she’d never be the supermodels her sisters were.
Most days that didn’t bother her. But tonight, she felt defeated by her own gene pool.
No. I can’t do it. Walking across the street and into The Rustic Pig meant losing all of her dreams.
She blinked back tears.
Needing some liquid courage, and not quite ready to face her family, Cassie headed to The Boar’s Head. She’d never been there, so no one knew her.
And, maybe, their whiskey doesn’t come with a lifetime of guilt.
Pushing the heavy wooden door open, she was immediately assaulted by the smell of beer and dusty peanuts, both of which liberally covered the weathered flooring. It was kind of awesome in an old-school, just-stepped-out-of-Ireland, authentic-pub kind of way.
Her parents’ place called itself a pub, but it was geared toward strictly highbrow clientele, with sleek tables, velvet-roped alcoves, and a sophisticated black-and-white decor. But this place, this was what a pub really looked like.
I kind of love it. It was soaked in atmosphere, like something out of an old film.
Shoving her glasses farther back on her nose, she glanced around the huge bar, taking it all in. It was late for a Tuesday night, so most of the bar patrons had probably already left, but there was still a smattering of couples at low wooden tables, groups of women gathered around huge leather booths, and single men hovering around the bar in the hopes of catching a stray female on the way to the restrooms in the back. The bar itself stretched the entire width of the pub, and appeared to be made from one thick piece of oak from a single tree.
Wow. It really was like stepping back in time.
Cozy. That was the perfect word to describe the place.
Right here in the middle of Boston, they’d managed to create a comfortable bar that felt like home. So much more so than her family’s place.
Amazing.
Like a moth to a flame, Cassie was drawn to the massive piece of wood and walked closer. It had probably been here since the pub opened almost a hundred years ago. Her fanciful imagination tried to picture the flappers leaning over it, their pearls dragging across the warm oak finish. She wondered how many mugs had been shattered against the wood as brawls broke out between men over the affections of one of the patrons.
She climbed onto a leather barstool and ran her hand along the worn length of the wooden surface. Where had this pub been her whole life? She wanted to get married here. Consummate her marriage on this very bar. No. She wanted to fuck the bejesus out of her husband so hard on this thick piece of wood they’d think they broke it. A blush stole up her cheeks as her imagination took off.
Look at me using the word fuck.
She kind of liked it. She was tired of being the good girl. The one her family thought had to be set up on endless dates with boring friends.
Ugh. Tansey was right.
No wonder my writing sucks. I need real-life experience. Maybe with a guy who uses the word “fuck.”
Where was all of this when she was writing her novel? Maybe that’s what she was missing. Inspiration. She didn’t need to pick up a man to write sexier scenes; she just needed to be in a place so hot and masculine and raw that her imagination could be set free.
She closed her eyes and tried to picture the hero of her book, Sam. He was tall and lanky, with soft brown hair that curled at the ends. Yes, he’d love this place. And he’d definitely want to do very naughty things to her in one of those corner booths behind her. A smile curled her lips and her lashes fluttered open.
She almost choked on her own spit.
The man standing in front of her had a huge grin splitting his face, even white teeth, and gorgeous dimples winking at her. Her gaze traveled farther north to take in his softly curling light-brown hair and twinkling green eyes. Good God this man was hot. All the Googling in the world for sexy male inspiration couldn’t have turned him up. And he’d been right here across the street the entire time.
But when she tried to picture him taking her against this gorgeous wooden bar— Nothing. Nada. Zilch on the goose bumps meter. Her shoulders sank. Her fantasy man looked more like the type to take her ice-skating than fuck her brains out.
Fantasy Bartender asked Cassie something, but she just shook her head. He wouldn’t do at all. Maybe that had been her problem? She’d written the idea of a sexy hero in her book, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who would talk dirty or do the wonderfully nasty things she’d written about.
For the first time since hearing Tansey tell her that her book basically read like IKEA instructions, Cassie felt a little better. She’d written the wrong hero. She could fix that. She checked out the other men at the bar, hoping one of them would provide better inspiration. She needed someone rough but not too hard. Confident but not arrogant. He needed that look that said he’d do very, very bad things to you and you’d like it.
“My brother was asking if you needed a drink, lass,” a deep, gravelly voice said to her right.
Her head swung around and connected with the owner of the voice, and she honest to God thought she might pass out. Her thighs clinched and her breath caught in her throat.
Whereas his brother was all dimples and laughter, this guy was dangerous.
Oh. My.
Breathe.
If they’d lived a couple hundred years ago, he’d be the most feared gunslinger in town with a permanent room at the local brothel. And he’d never have to pay. The women would line up to try to bring a smile to that stubborn glint in his eyes. And those lips. No man should have lips that full, with a perfect Cupid’s bow in the middle. Her fingers itched to twine themselves in his thick black hair and hold on for dear life as he lifted her up with his huge arms and fucked her senseless against the door behind the bar.
She blinked. Yup. Inspiration found. It was all she could not do to fan herself with her hand.
“You can’t decide. Don’t worry, Liam prides himself on knowing exactly what drink suits a customer,” the fairer brother said. “Make the lass a drink, brother dear.”
Liam. What a perfect name for a hero.
Some weird silent communication passed between the two of them, and then her fantasy man—Liam—grabbed a glass and mixed what might possibly be the weakest gin and tonic ever poured before setting the abomination in front of her. Well, she shouldn’t be surprised.
Part of her hoped he’d taken one look at her and immediately imagined getting her naked and talking dirty to her, but that’s not the effect she tended to have on men.
Do you have many cats? That’s usually how conversations began.
She hadn’t bothered with her appearance today. Hell, she’d cried most of the afternoon, so she was fairly sure her face was devoid of makeup. She’d wrestled her long brown hair into a pony tail and shoved her feet into comfy walking shoes and her glasses onto her nose before heading out to admit defeat to her family.
Forgive her if she wasn’t on the prowl and dressed to slay.
Raising a chin, she leveled Liam with a pitying glare. Everyone always looked through her.
Not tonight. She pulled her shoulders back.
“Jameson. Straight,” she said, and satisfaction burned through her, as a hint of a smile touched his lips.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He tossed the offending gin and tonic in the sink before pouring her a whiskey. He placed the new drink in front of her without any fanfare. She liked that. “My apologies.”
The other brother leaned his elbows against the bar in what was obviously a practiced move. He winked at her and said, “You’ll have to excuse my brother. He was raised outdoors.”
Yeah. Not interested, for sure.
“Good,” she said, grabbing the tumbler of whiskey. “Rough is better. Now shoo.” She motioned with her other hand at the surprised Romeo, and Liam snorted. It was an attractive snort, so she let him have it. She tossed both fingers of whiskey to the back of her throat, enjoying the burn as it slid down and warmed her immediately. An idea formed in her head.
Maybe if she brought her laptop to the bar every day, she could get cozy in one of the booths in the back and rewrite her novel. She just needed to remove every trace of the brother and let fantasies of Liam take over. In no time, he’d be telling her imagination all the insanely erotic things he planned to do to her, and she’d have a bestselling novel and never have to work at The Rustic Pig again.
This plan was so perfect, what could possibly go wrong?
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