Page 2 of Dark Medicine (Strange Gifts #2)
Fiona Graham slammed the door of her small apartment off Arran Quay and the River Liffey. It was a dismal day, even by Ireland’s standards. Her tight black pencil skirt was soaked, her white sweater drenched as well. She was smart enough to leave the house in her Wellies this morning but forgot the umbrella. Topping it all off, her boss was a complete asshole who couldn’t keep his hands to himself.
She could only give a small grin, knowing that his mental torture of her would end soon. Immediately, Fiona crossed herself and begged forgiveness. There was nothing to be done for the man.
Peeling off the wet skirt, she tossed it in the corner with the sweater and moved toward her dresser, where she pulled out a pair of long running tights, matching running top, and water-resistant hoodie. All she needed was a good long run, and she would feel better. It always made her feel better. She pulled the sports bra over her head, her small breasts pressed flat against her chest.
Slipping into her favorite pair of running shoes, she looked in the mirror and gathered her long hair into a tight braid that rested on her back. Grabbing her key and cell phone, she left the apartment once more. At the entrance to the building, she secured her key and placed her phone in the inside pocket of the water-resistant jacket. With her headphones in place and Ed Sheeran blasting in her ears, she was on her way.
Heading east toward the Ha’Penny Bridge, she started slow, letting her muscles warm up, and then picked up her pace and found her rhythm. As a high school and collegiate runner , Fiona had outrun nearly all of her competitions, even trying out for the Olympic team once. Her Olympic trial hadn’t ended well. A competitor intentionally bumped her at the curve of the last leg of her ten-kilometer race and sent her tumbling. The referees didn’t call it, and Fiona’s career was done.
Her father, an engineer who contracted with governments all over the world, allowed her to finish her studies in America. Fiona was grateful, as the full-ride athletic scholarship meant no student loans and no student debt. With a finance degree in hand, she left America and headed back to Ireland, where she thought her life would fall into place.
Two years ago, her parents died in a house fire in South Africa, where they were living at the time. It was unexpected and devastating for Fiona. Only her parents knew her secrets, her parents and her deceased brother. They were so close. They were more like siblings than parents. She felt the sting of tears and blinked, forcing them back.
Turning over the bridge, she ran on the opposite side of the River Liffey, dodging rain-soaked pedestrians and workers rushing to get home. This was her time. The time when she was able to clear her head and not worry about anything or anyone. She didn’t think about Mr. Malone, with the fast hands and lude glares. She didn’t think about her ex-boyfriend who cheated on her. She didn’t think about her ex-girlfriend, who cheated with her ex-boyfriend. No sir. This was her time to think of nothing.
Or everything.
Fiona turned on Aston Place and raced past the Hardrock Café, filled with tourists and locals alike. The noise was deafening, and, in her opinion, the food was only fair at best. She preferred traditional Irish cuisine, but then again, it only made her think of her mother.
Kicking her run up a notch, she picked up the pace and raced toward St. Andrews Church, her halfway point. The rain was pelting her skin, stinging the sensitive fair freckles of her face. Her jacket, which normally kept her dry, was starting to feel a bit heavy and damp, the cold seeping into her skin. Frowning, she decided to cross the street and head back to her apartment.
Crossing Church Street at St. Andrew’s Street, she turned and smiled at the Molly Malone statue as she always did, something her mother taught her to do.
She was a hard-working Irish girl, Fiona. She deserves a wave or a smile.
As she crossed back over to Church, music blasting in her headphones, she never saw the motorcycle heading toward her. His dark helmet and jacket made him nearly invisible in the rainy evening light, his headlamp dim at best.
Speeding toward her down the tiny, cobblestone street, his front tire clipped her heel and sent her sailing into the air and down hard against the pavement. Startled, she shook her head and leaned up on her now scraped hands. She shook her head again and then felt her legs and arms for any broken bones, pressing her hands carefully against her limbs. The motorcyclist stopped long enough to see that she was sitting up and okay, and then sped away.
“You arsehole!” she screamed. Fiona looked around to see if anyone was close by to help when a tall black shadow fell across her body. Long, strong fingers reached out for her, and they were attached to the richest, deepest, most alluring voice she’d ever heard.
“Are you alright? Can I give you a hand?” he asked. Fiona craned her neck, looking up at the rain-soaked stranger. His black hair was plastered to his head, his blue eyes glowing in the streetlight. She looked down at his hand and back up at him.
Gingerly, she took the masculine hand, and he easily lifted her to her feet. Her backside was soaked through, her hands stinging and burning from the concrete. She wiggled her ankle and felt the twinge of pain but knew it wasn’t severe.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“I saw everything if you’d like to make a police report,” he said smoothly.
“You’re American.” She said the words as a statement, not a question, and he nodded ever so slightly.
“Guilty,” he smiled.
“Sorry, no guilt intended.”
He was still holding her hand, and she looked up into his face. His eyes almost appeared as though they were calculating something. Fiona thought she should be nervous, but all she felt was warmth and security.
“It doesn’t seem that you have any serious injuries. Is your ankle painful?” he said.
“So, you’re a doctor then, are you?” she smiled jokingly.
“Actually, I am,” he replied. “I’m here on vacation for a friend’s wedding, but yes, I’m a doctor. A surgeon, actually.”
“Impressive. Yes, I mean, no. No serious injuries. The ankle will most likely be bruised and sore, but nothing I can’t live with.”
“I’m Adam, Adam Thorn,” he said, still holding her hand.
“Hello, Adam Thorn, and thank you again. I’m Fiona Graham, and I suppose I should probably take a taxi back home. That is if you’ll give me back my hand.” Fiona smiled at the giant of a man. It wasn’t often she had to look up at a man, her own towering height intimidating. She looked up and down the street. No taxis to see within a hundred miles on this night.
“Why don’t I buy you dinner first so you can warm up and dry off? By that time, most of the evening traffic will have died down, and you can catch a taxi home.” Adam reluctantly released her hand as she eyed him suspiciously and looked up and down the street again.
Why not? She had no plans, no prospects, and she was definitely hungry now that the adrenaline had died down in her body.
“Alright, O’Neill’s is pretty good. Good Irish pub food, if you’re okay with that,” she said.
“I’m more than okay with that.” He held her elbow as they crossed the street, and the warmth of his hand traveled up Fiona’s arm at an alarming rate. It was as if his hand was on fire, and her body instantly warmed.
“You’re quite tall, aren’t you?” she asked, looking up at him. His eyes grew wide, and a small grin escaped his beautiful lips.
“I suppose I am. I’m six-foot-two, but you’re pretty tall as well. Most women don’t reach my shoulders.”
“Aye, I am. Five-feet-nine in my bare feet. My parents were both tall. Da was six-feet-three, and mam was five-feet-eight. I suppose it’s a curse and a blessing.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s a curse. It’s a nice change for me.” Perfect change thought Adam. To be able to dip my head just slightly and kiss a girl. Where the fuck did that come from?
“Well, thank you. It’s harder for a tall woman, though. Most men don’t want to have a woman as tall or taller than him. I have to be careful with my shoes.”
He laughed a sincere, warm laugh as they stepped into the crowded pub. He pointed to a small table in the corner, and she made her way through the crowd, people turning to stare at her drenched clothes.
“I assure you, you can wear any heel you want with me,” he said, smiling. Adam felt his groin stir at the thought of the flaming redheaded beauty in sky-high heels and a tight dress.
Slow the fuck down, asshole! The woman is hurt.
“Well now, Adam Thorn, that makes me think you may ask me out properly some time,” she smiled and gave a small wink to him, and Adam felt himself blush.
“I just may do that, Fiona Graham.”