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“You from the States?” she asks.

My stomach growls, but I ignore it. “Maine.”

“That near Arizona?”

I shake my head.

“I’ve got a cousin in Arizona,” she begins, then continues on and on, proving that the Irish do indeed have the gift of gab. I politely listen to her story about a cousin who isn’t fond of the sun yet has moved to the sunniest place on the planet. At one point, the innkeeper waves me into the hallway to show me a picture of her extended family, a picture taken in Arizona but one that doesn’t include the cousin in question because the day the picture was taken, she’d “had too much sun and was suffering sunstroke.”

My stomach growls, loud and merciful.

She notices. “Go. Yer food’s getting cold.” I’m waved inside. “Holler if you want two more Blacks.”

With a polite nod, I step back inside the room. If Finn wants another pint, he’ll need to fetch it for himself, though I’ll innocently ask him if he could ask the innkeeper for some suntan lotion. I wouldn’t want my fair skin to get sunburned or miss a chance at sweet revenge.

Smiling, I close the door, turn, then jump.

“For a big guy, you move like a—” My mouth drops open and I forget what I’m saying. I mean, the sight of him ... Oh. My. God.

The beard is gone.

And Finn McDuff is gorgeous.

Absolutely, positively gorgeous, in a ruggedly male kind of way. Long, rich, auburn-colored hair. High cheekbones. Firm jawline. Why didn’t I notice the slight bend of his nose? The strong chin? Everything else about him is pure, rugged alpha male.

The two black eyes only enhance his raw masculinity.

He’s shirtless. His skin is damp and a light shade of pink. His broad chest is firm and without an ounce of fat on it, muscles taut and well-defined like those of a male sports model. He’s pulled on jeans yet neglected to button them. The material hangs low on his hips, tauntingly so.

One quick tug ...

I swallow hard.

“Foods getting cold,” he murmurs without a glance my way and completely unaware of the spike in room temperature. I’m flushed, my cheeks hotter than the innkeeper’s cousin’s toasted skin.

Not seeming to care how water drips off his body like light rain off marble, Finn folds himself into the wooden chair, places a linen napkin on his lap, and plucks the white lid off the ivory pot. “Brilliant. Lamb stew.”

I flex my fingers, redirecting awareness away from my center. Forgetting about the foil package, the condom slips free and falls to the floor.

I quickly step on it, hiding it from sight. It was one thing tossing a condom at someone who looked like Tormund Giantsbane inThe Game of Thrones, But I don’t know how to react to this sexier version of Finn.

For someone always quick on the uptake, he’s mercifully too preoccupied with the food to notice the eye-gasm I’m having across the room.

“I’m bleedin’ famished. Let’s eat supper.”

Swallowing hard, I do as I’m told. But not before giving the condom a good, solid back-kick and sending it flying under the bed while he’s occupied serving me a heaping bowl of stew.

We don’t talk as we eat. The silence isn’t awkward and my momentary freak-out over his appearance has faded. This feels comfortable. Normal, like we know each other. I’m reminded of how we taunted each other over Assassin’s Creed, how quickly we bonded over a silly video game.

Except something has changed.

I’m no longer simply curious about him.

I’m attracted to him.

What would sex be like a second time around?

I could teach him.