Walking the Line
Finn Ahearn’s Irish luck runs out when he travels half way around the world to Sydney.
The seedier side of the city’s Kings Cross soon catches up with him and he finds the only way he can get back on stable footing is to accept a bartending job, working for tough Aussie bar owner Ellie Finch.
Ellie is a decade older than Finn but that doesn’t stop the charming Irishman from wooing her.
Ellie doesn’t believe in the happily-ever-after dream any longer, not since hers imploded a long time ago. Her values are a world apart from Finn’s. They have absolutely nothing in common.
But can a smooth-talking Irishman sway a hard-hearted cynic to believe in love again?
WALKING THE LINE
By
Nicola Marsh
Copyright © Nicola Marsh 2015
Published by Nicola Marsh 2015
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They’re not distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all the incidents in the book are pure invention.
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in any form. The text or any part of the publication may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.
Discover other titles by USA TODAY bestselling & multi-award winning author Nicola Marsh at
https://www.nicolamarsh.com
Recent titles by Nicola Marsh:
Crossing the Line
Towing the Line
Blurring the Line
Before
Brash
Blush
Bold
Crazy Love
Lucky Love
The Second Chance Guy
Banish (YA)
Scion of the Sun (YA)
Wicked Heat
Wanton Heat
Not the Marrying Kind
Busted in Bollywood
CHAPTER ONE
FINN
The fabled Irish luck my homeland is famous for? A leprechaun’s crock of shit.
Since I’d landed in Sydney yesterday I’d had my pockets picked, lost my passport, had my secret stash of cash stolen and was about to get my head kicked in by a bunch of lowlifes hanging around the fountain at Kings Cross.
Four ferals wearing hoodies that hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine for a month stalked toward me, hands in pockets, trouble in their frigid glares.
I hesitated, glanced at the park behind me, knowing that making a run for it wouldn’t stop this rabble. They looked meaner than my Aunt Siobhan when her whiskey soured.
I had no choice. I had to cut through the group to get to the backpackers’ hostel at the other end of Darlinghurst Road. And that meant I was definitely cruising for a bruising.
As I squared my shoulders and tried to make the most of my six feet two inches—yeah, like height trumped weapons—I wished for a fleeting second I was back in Cork, sitting down to one of Mum’s famous stews alongside my six siblings, a raggedy mob who bickered over anything from Gaelic football results to the state of the economy.
My family drove me nuts, but the last thing they needed was to get a long distance phone call reporting I’d been beaten up. Or worse.
Cursing my idiocy at wanting to experience more beyond the charmed life I’d led in Cork, I strode toward the gang.
“Hey mate, you’re late.” A young guy stepped out of a doorway on my left and clapped me on the back. “The rest of the guys are inside waiting for us.”
I had no idea who this guy was but as the ferals frowned and their narrow-eyed gazes flicked between us in confusion, I knew I’d rather take my chances heading into the bar with my new bestie.
I made a grand show of glancing at my watch. “Sorry. Didn’t think rugby training would finish so late.”
The young guy grinned, appearing suitably impressed by my quick improvisation. “Come on. Next round’s on you.”
I gladly followed the guy into the bar, hoping he didn’t have ten biker mates in the back room who’d do worse than the gang outside.
After scouring countless websites citing Kings Cross as raw and edgy and real, I’d known this is where I would kick off my Aussie trip. Way past time for this good Catholic boy to get down and dirty and what better place than the Cross, as locals called it. I’d expected the strip club spruikers, druggies, drunks, pimps, prostitutes, transvestites and dealers. I hadn’t expected to feel so goddamn vulnerable.
“First day in Oz?” the guy asked, as we stepped into a surprisingly empty bar, considering dusk brought the crowds out along this strip.
“Second,” I said, managing a wry smile. “What gave it away?”
“The fact you were dumb enough to take on four guys unarmed instead of taking refuge in a bar ‘til they left.” The guy stuck his hand out. “Kye Sheldon.”
“Finn Ahearn, clueless Irish mick who thanks you for saving my arse.”
Kye grinned. “You’re welcome.” He slid behind the bar. “Beer?”
I nodded. “You work here?”
“Nah, but I’ve known Ellie for years, she won’t mind.” He pulled two beers like a barman, leaving the right amount of head. “She loves it when I visit.”
“Ellie’s the owner?”
“Yeah, she’s the best.” Kye slid a beer toward me. “We used to be neighbors.”
A local had rescued me. Made sense the gang had backed off rather than attacking us. They probably sensed a kindred spirit, though Kye looked far from a hoodlum. In fact, he could’ve been a double for one of the Hemsworth dudes my youngest sis was always drooling over.
“You lived here?” Unfortunately, I made it sound like he’d grown up in the gutter and a frown slashed his brows.
“My Mum ran the strip joint next door. We lived in the apartment above.” Kye’s flat tone held so much coldness I almost shivered. “She died five years ago, when I was fifteen.”
I wanted to say sorry but knew this kid wouldn’t want a trite apology.
“Sounds tough, losing her so young.”
“I survived.” Kye drained his beer in a few short gulps. “Which is more than I can say for you if you keep wandering around the Cross with ‘tourist’ tattooed on your forehead.”
He narrowed his eyes, glared at me. “No offence, mate, but you look like a kid waiting to be beat up.”
Bane of my existence, looking like a teenager. Mum’s genes. Dad resembled a Sharpay.
“I’m twenty-four.”
Kye’s eyebrows rose. “No shit?”
I chuckled, liking Kye’s forthrightness. “I get enough of that from my six siblings.”
“Six, fuck.” Kye winced. “Let me guess. Good Catholic family?”
I nodded. “Born and bred in Cork, five generations.”
“What brings you here?”
I’d been pondering that very question for months. The simple answer was the four-month turf management job I’d been offered courtesy of my granddad’s connections. I didn’t want to think about the rest right now, so I settled for simple.
“Job offer in Melbourne to up-skill, couldn’t say no.”
Kye tilted his head slightly, studying me, like he sensed I was full of BS. “What do you do?”
“Specialty turf management for sporting grounds. You?”
“Tennis player.”
From where I came from, tennis was a hobby, and my skepticism must’ve showed because Kye sniggered.
“I know, right? Imagine getting paid to play sport.”
“You must be good.”
He shrugged. “Been at the academy two years. It’s a shithole.”
“Then why do you stick at it?”
Damn, the question popped out before I could stop. My bluntness was something I’d tried to conquer my whole life and failed, despite several black eyes and the odd case of blue balls spurring me on.
“Because I can’t do anything else.” Rather than punch me in the head, Kye eyed me with newfound respect. “How long are you in Sydney for?”
“A month. Thought I’d do the touristy thing ‘til the job starts. Though considering I had the bulk of my savings stolen by some hippy chick I was drinking with last night, I may have to cut my time in Sydney short.”
Kye hesitated, as if weighing his words carefully. “Where are you staying?”
My thumb jerked at the door. “One of the backpacker hostels on Darlinghurst Road.”
“You won’t last a week.”
Annoyed by his accurate assumption, considering what had occurred over the last twenty-four hours, I rested my forearms on the bar.
“Guess that’s my problem, not yours.”
Kye frowned and glanced over his shoulder at a huge mirrored glass window at the back of the bar. “Actually, I think I have a solution to your problem.”
“What—”
“Ever worked in a bar?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m Irish. What do you think?”
“I take that as a yes?”
I nodded, increasingly confused.
“You need to lose the deer-in-the-headlights expression for locals to respect you. Plus you need money.” Kye pulled me another beer though I’d barely touched the first. “Here, get this into you while I have a chat to Ellie.”
He grinned. “If Ellie can’t toughen you up, no-one can.”
* * *
ELLIE
As Kye stuck his head around my office door, I pointed at the bar where he’d left his mate. “Hope you left your money in the till.”
Kye grinned. “What happened to your beers on the house policy?”
“That only applies to you, not some stray you drag in here when we’re officially closed.” I stood and moved around the desk, beckoning him in. “Who is he?”
“Irishman who was about to get his head kicked in.”
“So you saved him?” I clutched at my chest. “Careful there, Squirt, you’re almost making me believe you have a heart.”
“You’ve known me long enough to know that’s bullshit.” Kye entered the office and made a beeline for me. “How’ve you been?”
“Can’t complain.”
He hugged me and I swallowed the lump that inevitably lodged in my throat whenever Kye visited.
I’d known him for fifteen years, since I’d lobbed in the Cross and started working here. He’d been a cherubic five year old who’d made my heart bleed for what I’d left behind and what I could never have. Sheree, his mum, had been instrumental in me eventually buying the bar so after she’d died, I’d made a personal vow to look after Kye best I could.
He’d left the Cross five years ago, sent off to boarding school by his rich dad, then lived at the fancy-schmancy tennis academy the last two years. But Kye never forgot his roots and often came to visit, usually dropping by unexpectedly, like now. Highlight of my shitty week so far. Casual employees and their fickleness sucked; trying to make the roster work when down two workers was a major pain in the arse.
He released me, and held me at arm’s length. “You look tired.”
“Pulling extra shifts to fill in for flaky shitheads will do that to a girl.” I gestured at my desk. “Plus I’m way behind on paperwork because of it.”
A slow grin creased his face. “I might have the answer to your problems.”
“Unless you have Ryan Gosling willing to pull beers for an evening before tucking me into bed, I’m not interested.”
Kye laughed. “The Irishman knows how to work a bar and he needs a cash injection.”
“No.” I held up my hand. “I don’t hire tourists.”
“He has a working visa. Heading down to Melbourne in a month.” Kye pointed at the glass. “He can help you out of your staff shortage fix and you can provide him with something he needs more than money.”
“What’s that?”
“Life experience.” Kye’s audible concern surprised me. “The guy’s a patsy. An easy mark.” His eyes narrowed, suddenly sly. “You know what that’s like, right?”
“Touché.” I’d almost been mugged—and worse—by one of Sheree’s drunk patrons when I’d first arrived at the Cross, a naive country girl who’d run from my past, seeking refuge in the big city. Small town life hadn’t prepared me for Sydney but I’d wised up, learned, adapted, thanks to Sheree and my job here.
Maybe I should do the same for the Irishman? Pay it forward and all that karma crap.
“Working here will give the guy some experience of the Cross, so he’s not picked off before the week’s out.” Kye snickered. “Plus I feel sorry for him.”
“He’s that clueless?”
“Worse. One of those annoyingly cheerful optimists, the exact opposite of us.”
“Ugh. Don’t you hate that?”
Kye grinned. “Shit yeah. The guy needs a mentor—”
“And that’s you?” I snorted. “You’ll have him corrupted in less than a day.”
Kye chuckled. “Reckon he needs me to be his new bestie and that means I’ll be visiting you all the time.”
“Blackmail, Squirt, seriously?” I laughed at his faux angelic expression. “Come on, what’s your angle on this? Tell me the truth and I might consider hiring him.”
Kye’s amused expression faded. “We’re two of a kind, El. Jaded cynics that can spot a shyster at twenty paces.” He jerked his head at the glass. “We don’t trust lightly but I could tell in the first five minutes that Finn’s one of the good guys.”
I snorted. “Finn? Could he be any more clichéd?”
“He is Irish.” Puzzled, Kye searched my face, as if he couldn’t quite gauge my mood. “With the accent to prove it.”
I wasn’t convinced that hiring an ingenuous Irishman was the answer to my staffing problems but it would get me out of a bind until I could hire someone more permanent.
And Kye was right. I didn’t trust many people but I did trust his judgment. Guess I had myself a new employee.
I found myself reluctantly nodding. “Okay. Introduce me to this guy who’s going to save my arse.”
Kye winked. “And what a fine arse it is, I might add.”
I punched him in the arm, hard, and we elbowed each other as we headed into the bar.
CHAPTER TWO
ELLIE
My first thought on seeing Finn as he swiveled on the bar stool to face me was emerald eyes, seriously, aren’t you taking the Irish cliché to extremes?
Though technically his eyes weren’t green, more a combination of blue and jade, resulting in a startling aquamarine that left me a little breathless. And I never lost my breath over a guy. Not anymore.
Kye gestured between us. “Finn Ahearn, meet Ellie Finch.”
Then Finn had to go and smile and dammit, he had a dimple.
“Nice to meet you, Ellie.” He stuck out his hand and I stared at it, shaken to my core.
That voice. That accent. Like Sean Connery and Alan Rickman slugging it out in an audition to star in an Irish feature film. So damn sexy.
I didn’t want to admit it, but I tingled. Down there. In a way I hadn’t tingled in a looooong time.
“You too.” I shook his hand, releasing it as fast as humanly possible, earning a raised eyebrow and sardonic twist of his lips.
His lips…full. Sensual. Kissable.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I didn’t lust over guys. I had the occasional meaningless one night stand to scratch a physical itch. Guys who knew the score. Bonking buddies. Guys far removed from Finn, an intriguing blend of innocence and charm, like he wanted to be naughty bu
t didn’t know how to do it.
Time to cut my losses and run.
“Ellie’s short-staffed and I thought you might want to help her out.” Kye slapped Finn on the back and damned if the both of them didn’t look at me like some life-saving angel.
So much for reneging.
“Can you start tonight?” Once again, I sounded harsh and mean, but rather than get defensive as most people did around me, Finn actually laughed.
“Absolutely.” He leaned forward a little, amusement quirking his mouth. “If you personally show me the ropes, that is.”
Oh my God. The guy was flirting with me? In front of Kye? I’d never hear the end of it.
“Come back at seven. We open at eight.” I looked him up and down, wishing I hadn’t. Lean legs, zero abdominal body fat, decent pecs and biceps a girl could grip onto while riding him all night long.
That observation was so not helping.
I probably needed to get laid. It had been about four months. Not that I counted or cared. But if my reaction to the Irishman I’d just met was any indication, I needed to do the horizontal shimmy with a buddy sooner rather than later.
“Wear black pants and a white shirt,” I said, turning on my heel and stalking back toward the office. Not before I’d seen Kye’s knowing smirk.
Damn, the kid knew me too well. I was rattled and it showed.
“Thanks, Ellie,” Kye called out, a teasing lilt in his voice, and I raised my hand without looking back.
“See you later,” Finn said, and damned if my insides didn’t quiver. The deep, sexy voice was bad enough. Throw in the charming accent and all I wanted to do was turn around and fire him before he’d started.
I made it to the safety of my office and slammed the door. It didn’t help the uncertainty churning my gut as I looked out through the one-way mirrored window, wondering what the hell I’d just done.
CHAPTER THREE
FINN
Things were looking up. My passport had been located near a bin at Circular Quay and the local police had called. I had a job to replenish my meager cash stocks. And with any luck, if I played my cards right, according to Kye I could have a better living situation by the end of tonight.