Page 12 of Gorilla in the Groove (Shamrock Safari Shifters #3)

Ninety minutes later, wearing the prettiest dress she'd ever owned while sitting at a very nice restaurant across from the biggest hunk of a man she'd ever seen, Irina privately allowed as how maybe this 'being spoiled' thing was worth trying.

They'd parted ways just long enough to change clothes.

Mick had sworn up and down that Irina's clogs and loose hair were perfect for an informal occasion, but also that his jeans and t-shirt just wouldn't do if he was to take her out on the town.

Since there wasn't much parking in Cork city center, and nothing was very far away from each other, they'd walked over on their own to meet outside the restaurant.

Irina had gotten there first, and stood nervously outside until she saw Mick's large, unmistakable silhouette coming down the street.

Then, as he'd come closer and his clothes had become easier to see, Irina had nearly bitten her knuckle at how attractive he was.

He was in lightweight trousers now, not really slacks, but maybe linen, and a silky blue button-down that contrasted beautifully with the cream-colored pants.

Like everything else she'd seen him in, it all fit perfectly .

As he came up to her side, she had said, "You're just gorgeous," and he'd beamed as he'd escorted her into the restaurant.

Irina didn't think she entirely imagined it when she thought people glanced their way, and then glanced again.

They were a great-looking couple, even if she did say so herself.

Now they were nibbling appetizers and had almost finished complimenting each other on how well they looked.

Irina said, "Thank you for the dress," for about the fifteenth time, and Mick brushed it away with a smile and a murmur about how he'd love to buy her another one.

Many other ones. All the other ones she could ever want.

"You said your gran's from Ireland?" he asked as the appetizers disappeared. "Do you know what part?"

"Westport. County Mayo. I'm hoping to go up there when the competition is over."

"It's a beautiful little town," Mick said. "I've not been there in years, but it won't have gotten worse. Will you climb the mountain?"

Irina's eyebrows rose. "Is this the tallest mountain you were talking about? Cullasharee or whatever?"

Mick grinned. "Carrauntoohil, but no, it's the Reek I'm talking about now.

Croagh Patrick, the holy mountain that St Patrick himself went up and stayed for forty days without food.

I've climbed it once myself," he said, his own eyebrows lifting, "and I'll tell you, once you're up, I can see why you wouldn't go down again until you were perishing of the hunger. "

"The views are that good?"

"Yes, but no, it's that the path back down is a goat trail at best. On the way up it looks like a proper path.

On the way back down you can see that the 'path' is really just where the water ran off and that it's lied to you.

Although." He raised his palms as if conceding a point.

"I've not been up it since the new path was finished, and I hear it's made all the difference.

A bunch of local lads took it on themselves to build a safe pathway with natural stone and hard work," he said with a note of obvious pride.

"Saving the Reek, they called it, it was that worn down with the tourists and the pilgrims eroding the way as they walked.

But it's better now, safer for the hikers and to the Reek's benefit as well. "

Irina started smiling somewhere in the middle of that and was beaming softly at him by the time he finished. "I could listen to you talk forever. Your accent is so wonderful, but besides that, you obviously love it all so much."

"Sure and it's my home," Mick said with an embarrassed little shrug. "It's a grand auld place, for all its faults. I was mad to get out when I was young, but I'm fierce fond of the place now that I'm a wee bit older."

"I think most people want to get out of their home towns," Irina said thoughtfully. "Well, if they're small, anyway. I don't know that anybody is eager to leave New York City, or anything. Why would you be, with everything there is to do there?"

"The cost of rent," Mick said dryly, and Irina snorted.

"It's terrible everywhere, though, so you might as well at least also be in New York, I guess.

Or Cork," she said with a glance toward the windows.

The street outside was pedestrianized, and the restaurant had outdoor seating that passers-by swerved around, just as they walked around other seating up and down the street.

Brightly painted pubs, shops, restaurants, alleys, and—Irina had to admit—the occasional inebriated human filled the whole length of the street, with voices rising up to the low building tops.

She didn't think there was anything over four stories along the whole street, and much more of it was two or three.

It made things feel homier than tall buildings did. "I could live here."

"Could you now?" Mick asked softly.

Irina's heart skipped a beat, but she answered, "Yes," without hesitation. "It's got everything a person would need. Except my family," she added, making a face. "But still…yes, I think I could."

"You're close with them?" Mick sounded fond and pleased at the idea.

"I am. I have two younger sisters who both think I'm nuts for being completely into Irish dancing, but Mom's really supportive and Dad thinks it's nice, because it was his mom who taught me.

My sisters don't remember Grandma as well, or maybe they'd be as into it as I am.

Or maybe they're just different people with different interests.

" Irina smiled, thinking about her sisters.

"Daria's about to graduate from high school and Sofia is twelve, so who knows what she'll want to do. "

"Oh." Up went Mick's eyebrows again. "They're quite a lot younger than you, then. I've a brother and a sister but we're all clustered together, myself in the middle and themselves barely two years older and younger than me."

"I was a surprise right after our parents got married," Irina agreed. "So Daria and Sofie are only four years apart, but I'm eight years older than Dar. But I think the age gaps kind of gave us all some time to be ourselves, you know?"

"I don't," he said with a grin. "I had to fight for my place to be myself. The lad who can't sing."

"You seem to be doing all right at it," Irina said with a smile of her own. "Not to press the point, but thank you again for the dress. It's so pretty." She smoothed her hand over the skirt as Mick shook his head.

"It's my pleasure."

"Also thank you for telling me the truth about the price," Irina added thoughtfully. "I bet your friend would have lied to me if you'd wanted her to."

"She asked if I did," Mick admitted. "I thought that would be a dick move."

Warmth and a feeling of safety rushed over Irina, making her sigh with contentment.

"Not everybody would see it that way, though.

Lots of people would see spending more than I was comfortable with as kind of a…

like, a romantic power move, or something.

" She made a face as she finished the sentence, and to her surprise, so did Mick.

"If you're using power moves, it's not romance.

And that's from a lad who does power moves—well, not for a living, but a hobby.

" He mimed picking up a weight bar and lifting it over his head.

"I'd rather listen to what a woman wanted than pull that kind of shite.

If you'd said no to the cost, I'd not have bought it for you.

I'm glad you let me, though," he added more softly. "You're lovely altogether."

"And you're gorgeous, so we make a great couple, don't we?

" Irina beamed at him, then oooh ed as the meal arrived.

It looked glorious and smelled better, some kind of white fish in a delicate sauce, and her stomach rumbled with hunger.

For the next several minutes most of their conversation centered around 'oh my god' and 'this is delicious' as they traded bites, as Mick had ordered a chicken dish to her fish.

Irina crunched into skinny, salty fries— chips , according to the Irish—and rolled her eyes with happiness.

"Okay, between shopping and dinner, I may be prepared to let you organize my life for, like, ever. "

Mick assumed an expression of mock-panic. "I don't think there are enough nice restaurants in Cork to keep introducing you to something new and delicious every night for your whole life."

Irina giggled. "I bet that no matter how flush your bank account is, there's not enough in it to buy me a new four hundred dollar dress every day, either. I'll accept the occasional splurge and, like, pizza or tacos or something the rest of the time."

"I have bad news about Irish tacos. Mexican food is not our strength, as a nation."

"Mmmm. I'll have to make tacos, then. I do an all right Tex-Mex dish. But we're okay on the pizza front?"

Mick smiled. "I think we can handle that, yeah. We've good Indian restaurants, though!"

"I know nothing of Indian food."

Mick's eyes lit up. "Oh. Amazing. I know where we're going for dinner tomorrow. You'll eat until you pop."

"Then we might have to wait until Sunday, because I'm dancing tomorrow," Irina pointed out. "The last thing I want to do is eat so much I explode on stage."

"A fair point. Though if you're going to, point yourself at the arsehole I talked to during the photo shoot today.

Did I not tell ye about him?" Mick asked as Irina lifted her eyebrows again.

"You were right about one of the judges not liking foreigners doing Irish dance, let's put that way.

No idea if he's got something about Americans in particular, but he was all in a twist over the international competition including more than dancers from the Republic and the North. "

"That's like the World Series being a competition between American baseball teams, isn't it?"

"Not quite, but close. We are two different countries on the same island. It's complicated," Mick said with the air of a man who had just updated his relationship status and now had to explain the details to his mother.

"I'll work with the simple explanation," Irina promised. "Unless we're having dessert."

"I vote for dessert, but also to not spend it explaining Irish civil war politics when I could be talking about," Mick took a deep breath, "almost anything else. It's barely even right to call it civil war politics," he added in a mumble, and Irina fought down a giggle.

"Dessert but no politics. Gotcha. Someday I'll understand it all, maybe."

"You'll be doing better than half the scholars of the subject if you do," Mick said in a tone that suggested he wasn't entirely kidding. "They didn't call it 'The Irish Question' for nothing. Although that was a British…you know what, never mind."

Irina grinned. "I'll mind one of those honeycomb brownies instead, how's that? What," she protested as Mick quirked a heavy eyebrow. "You've got me tuned into this whole honeycomb thing!"

"Well done me. Yes, excellent plan. Altogether brilliant.

" He signaled to the server, and a few minutes later they were presented with her brownie and an incredibly delicate-looking blackberry mousse for Mick.

They both regarded the tiny, beautiful mousse before Irina, thoughtfully, said, "Do you need to order, say, four more of those? "

"Let me check." Mick took a bite, groaned, and nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do. It's brilliant. Try a bite."

"If I try a bite it'll be gone!"

"If it's gone I'll order another!" And he did, too. Two more, in fact, as Irina nibbled her way through her more-substantial brownie. Mick did pause to take a picture of the mousse before he finished the final one, saying, "I want a shirt in this color. It's lovely."

"I'll want to lick you if you're wearing a shirt that color," Irina said unwisely, then blushed furiously as Mick's gaze jerked up to hers and he grinned.

"Would you now. Would it be only the shirt that made me lickable?"

Irina, still flushed hot pink, shook her head. "No. No, definitely not."

The big man across from her beamed. "Good to know. Now," he added with an almost guilty look, "it's only early but I've either got to bring you back to your hotel or otherwise set you free, as I'm meant to be back at the Marquee tonight. Unless you'd like to come along again?"

"There's almost nowhere else I'd rather be," Irina said honestly. "It sounds great. Although I can't stay out until three o'clock again, because I've got a performance tomorrow night. So I might just come along for a while?"

"Will I get you to dance for us again?" Mick teased, then shook his head. "I'd love it if you came with, of course. And you can slip out at a sensible hour. What are your plans tomorrow, besides the competition?"

"I can't dance in these," Irina said with a kick of her feet that nearly sent her clogs flying off. "But tomorrow I might just look around the town. There are cathedrals and churches to visit, right?"

"And the Four Liars!"

"The what ?"

"The Four Liars," Mick repeated cheerfully. "The Shandon bell tower has a clock on each side and they each always say a different time, so they're called the Four Liars. And the Butter Museum is right next to it."

"The butter museum?" Irina asked incredulously.

"It's unexpectedly good," he promised. "I'll bring you, if you like."

"I'd love that. Should we meet there at…" Irina paused, thinking about how late he'd probably be up. "I don't know, around one?"

"You're a star and the most thoughtful woman that's ever lived," Mick said with a grin. "Let's do it."