Page 5 of Gorilla in the Groove (Shamrock Safari Shifters #3)

Irina was almost certain she was gazing up at Mick with soppy, heart-struck puppy dog eyes, but she didn't care.

His voice had dropped into that resonant register, making her bones tremble with desire, and he'd used that word again.

She didn't know what it meant, but she loved the way he said it.

"What is that? Macushla? You said it before? "

There he went looking stricken again. Irina was pretty sure he'd gotten more mileage out of that expression with her than he ever did, because how could a big strong gorgeous guy like this possibly have a need to be troubled by much of anything?

"Macushla," he said, and then more slowly, "or, acushla mahkree.

They're Irish phrases, endearments. It's a bit bold of me to be going around using them.

" He flashed a smile. "And they're not spelled anything like they sound, in English. M-o c-h-u-i-s-l-e."

Irina felt her forehead wrinkle. "Mo chisel?"

Mick's smile broadened. "See? No, that's macushla.

The other one's worse, but I won't spell it out for you.

There's the taxi," he added in a rush, and for a minute or two they were involved in getting into the car, which, in Irina's case, meant wrangling a great deal of large leather coat.

She didn't want to take it off, though. It was the coziest thing she'd ever worn.

She liked how it made her feel safe and protected, and she liked how it carried Mick's warm, inviting scent.

He said, "Over to Shinay, will ye, thanks," to the driver as he settled in.

A few minutes later the cab pulled up to a building that said Sin é above the door, and Irina gave Mick a skeptical look. "Sinny? That seems like a non-starter for a low-key night out."

He laughed loudly enough to fill the taxi. "Sin is shin , and fada-e is a . Shin A."

Irina threw her hands up, which just made the long sleeves of Mick's coat dance. "Fada?"

"The accent above the E," Mick said, amused.

"You're right. We are separated by a common language.

Although in my defense like, the fada's Irish, not English at all.

C'mere to me, let's get inside. They'll have music until last call.

Bring your dancing shoes," he added. "They might clear half a square meter to let you do your thing in. "

Irina waved her purse, not that even she could see it from beneath the coat. "I actually have them, although the shoes I'm wearing work just fine for informal stuff."

"A woman who's prepared," Mick said in an admiring tone.

By that time they were out of the car and he was pushing the pub door open.

The music was already audible from outside; when the door opened, it became a nearly physical thing, fiddles and whistles and voices raised both in song and speech.

Irina felt like she was actually colliding with it.

But Mick was there, a huge, gentle hand against her spine, and the general size of him so much that people just… got out of the way.

That was a great trick. Irina was not only short, but slight. Muscular, yeah, in great shape, and she knew it, but that didn't change the fact that there just wasn't very much to her. Usually in a tight-packed crowd, she could squirm through.

Not with Mick. People parted for him like the Red Sea.

It didn't matter that they were all squished into the small, dark pub without much space to move.

They moved anyway. Mick and Irina sailed right through, all the way up to the bar, where Mick ordered enough ginger ales to fill up two pint glasses, then spent a minute pouring the little bottles into the big glasses.

He handed one to Irina, who was still fixated on the tiny, tiny ginger ale bottles, which couldn't be more than four ounces. "Don't they have normal cans?"

Mick shook his head. "Ginger ale isn't really a thing here.

Mostly just for mixers. But it looks beer-ish, in a glass, and sometimes that's easier than getting the langers to lay off about buying you drinks.

" He'd bent nearly double to talk to her, his mouth right by her ear.

Irina had the impulse to just wrap her arm around his neck and let him straighten up.

Her feet would be a foot off the ground, but she was pretty sure Mick would be more comfortable with her dangling from his neck than bent over like that.

She said, "Well, then, cheers," right back into his ear, and they tink ed glasses.

"Slancha!" Mick said, then grinned down at her. "That's not spelled like it sounds, either."

"I didn't know I was going to have to study a whole new language to get by over here!"

"Sure and the state of Irish in Ireland is desperate," Mick admitted.

Somehow he was steering her through the parting crowd again, still managing to have a conversation despite all the noise.

"There's places that still use it day to day, but most of us speak English and only use Irish in school or as a phrase here and there. "

"That seems like a shame."

"That depends on who you ask, and how much time you've got." Mick grinned down at her. "Feelings are conflicted. I won't give you a history lesson about it all just now. We've music to listen to." He grimaced as somebody got up from a chair and waved him toward it. "Here now, you take it."

"If you take it, I can sit on your lap," Irina pointed out.

Her ears got hot as she said it. That was not the kind of suggestion she ever made.

Mick's heavy eyebrows rose and her ears heated even more.

"Well, it certainly won't work the other way around!

And if you sit people will be able to see past you.

Unless you don't want me to sit in your lap.

" Her entire face was absolutely flaming by the time she reached that thought.

"Macushla," Mick said with feeling, "there's nothing I'd rather."

He did sit, put their drinks on the table next to the chair, and patted his thigh.

His huge, thick, muscular thigh.

Irina had clearly not thought this through. But maybe she hadn't thought it through in a good way. She was still blushing as she tried to figure out how to sit on his lap with the most dignity.

Mick solved it for her by putting both his enormous hands on her waist, lifting her up, and settling her in his lap.

Irina squeaked, trying to sit lightly, as if that was possible.

Mick dipped his head to speak next to her ear.

"Sure and you don't weigh anything, love. Don't worry about settling in."

She was almost certain he'd said in, but her mind went to on.

For a moment the blood rushing in her ears, not to mention other places, drowned out everything that was going on in the pub around her.

As far as Irina was concerned, there was no music, there were no singers, there weren't even any other people in the crowded, noisy pub.

There was just herself and Mick, and that sounded wonderful .

After a dizzy few seconds, she reached for her ginger ale, had a big gulp that made her nose buzz with bubbles, and risked saying, "I'm not used to sitting in laps."

"Well, no, neither would I be." Mick grinned at her from up close, and without quite thinking about it, Irina tilted in to lean her head against his chest. He went still momentarily, then gently encircled her shoulders with his big arm, and rested his mouth against her hair.

She wanted to do well in the dance competition, obviously, but right then, Irina thought she would be completely content to have come to Ireland for the sheer purposes of meeting Mick… "What's your last name? Presumably not 'Mouse.'"

He chuckled against her hair. "Mahoney. You'd probably say it Ma-HONE-ee."

"Mick Mahoney," Irina echoed, trying to match the way he'd said it, MAHa-nee. "That's nice. Mine's Zarabaka."

"God, that's lovely. Not a name you get a lot of here, whereas Mahoney is every third person's surname."

She thought, Irina Mahoney, and then nearly squeaked again. Her brain had no business thinking things like that. For one thing, Irina had only met this man a few hours ago. For another, she had a dance competition to focus on.

Not that she was going to get married soon enough to disrupt the dance competition, of course. Not even in whatever weird fantasy her brain was conjuring up. But she still thought Irina Mahoney had a nice ring to it.

And for some reason, despite having just met him, Irina felt so comfortable and safe with Mick that moving straight on to forever seemed like a very reasonable idea.

Generally she wouldn't have even moved on to 'sitting in his lap' by now.

Or for weeks yet, really. But here she was, all nestled soft and snuggly against his incredibly broad, muscular chest, and everything was about as perfect as it could be.

"I think it's a good name," she eventually murmured.

"Especially the way you say it. Oh, but you're too warm and comfortable. "

"That's a new one on me," Mick said with amusement as she straightened up and reached for her drink again. "Falling asleep, are ye?"

"Jet lag," Irina said apologetically. "I only flew in a couple of days ago and it's…

" She trailed off, trying to figure out what time it was at home, and finally shrugged.

"I don't even know if if it's night or day there but I'm tired, yes.

But I don't want to go back to the hotel yet," she said wistfully. "I want to listen to the music."

"Well, then, you'd best get up and dance.

That'll get the blood moving and wake you right up.

C'mere to me, lads," he said in a voice that carried.

Everybody near them, including the musicians, glanced their way, and Mick bumped Irina out of his lap.

"Get your dancing shoes on, macushla, and give her a bit of room, lads.

She's as fine a stepdancer as you'll ever see! "