His Lucky Charm: An Irish Mountain Man Read online

  His Lucky Charm

  An Irish Mountain Man

  Frankie Love

  Contents

  His Lucky Charm

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Also by Frankie Love

  About the Author

  KINKY RESOLUTIONS

  17. Chapter 1

  JOIN FRANKIE LOVE’S

  MAILING LIST

  AND NEVER MISS A RELEASE!

  Copyright © 2017 by Frankie Love

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  His Lucky Charm

  The tourists call me the lucky Irishman.

  My mates call me a lucky bastard.

  Things always seem to go my way.

  After a night of drinking with my brother, we make a bet. A bet that favors me.

  He doesn’t seem to think I can stay with one woman for an entire week.

  Just because I never have, doesn’t mean I can’t.

  We raise the stakes. If I win, I get the land he owns in the Wicklow Mountains.

  And that land is all I’ve ever wanted.

  Until Clover walks into my life.

  She’s here in Ireland chasing rainbows, trying to turn her luck around.

  It doesn’t take long to see that this girl isn’t the end of me—she’s the beginning.

  But while I have the luck of the Irish, Clover doesn’t, and getting her to open up to me is no easy task.

  When she finds out the real reason I brought her to my place in the woods I know she’s going to run.

  I need to find the rainbow she’s chasing before my luck runs out.

  Dear Reader,

  It’s your lucky day! This Irish mountain man is the complete package. Emphasis on package. This is a filthy-sweet romp in the woods that will have you looking for leprechauns and rainbows. Get ready, baby cakes, you’re about to get shamrocked.

  xo, frankie

  1

  The pub is loud, hot, and full of drunken idiots––men I’ve known my whole life, but men I usually avoid. I prefer my cabin in the woods up in the Wicklow Mountains.

  I’m still not quite sure why I let my brother Patrick convince me to leave my mountain tonight, except that the tour I gave today comprised of only three old men–not exactly the sort of tourists I take home with me after a day of pointing out rainbows and shamrocks. Usually, there's at least someone hot chick or cougar type, but not today. I sure wasn't going to take any of the three 60-year-old men home with me, so why stick around?

  And since there’s no one on the mountain to sleep with after the tourists leave, I figured my chances of getting lucky tonight would be better if I came down to Dublin to see my brother, Patrick and my oldest friend, Sean.

  I forgot how obnoxious the two of them get, though, and, just a few pints in, I figure whiskey alone in my barn would beat a night with these two dumbasses.

  “So, Conor,” Patrick says. “Any plans for St. Patrick’s Day next week?”

  My buddy, Sean, slaps his knee. “You know Conor’s plans. Same plans most every night. Take some unsuspecting tourist back to his place, woo them with his knowledge of the Irish countryside and get lucky.”

  I shrug, knowing it’s the truth.

  I raise a finger to get the three of us another round. I can hold my own, but these two are already getting pissed, and it’s gonna get ugly damn fast. I figure if I speed up the process, I can go home sooner. There’s certainly no one in the old neighborhood pub I want to sleep with.

  “What are your plans, Patrick?” I ask, turning the tables. “God knows, you aren’t getting laid.” I grin and Patrick purses his lips, like the uptight prick he is.

  He focuses on his work here in Dublin; he’s an accountant and takes it seriously. Too seriously. Never takes a day off, never lets loose. Unless you count drinking with your brother and his mate as letting loose––which maybe he does. Patrick has had as many hours of overtime as I have sexual conquests.

  “I think coming out tonight is enough for the month.”

  At this, I shake my head. “What kind Irishman are you? Whiskey for breakfast, and Guinness for dinner, that’s what our pop always said.” I elbow him. “Our mam, too.”

  “But they aren’t with us, are they?” Patrick asks, raising his pint to the memory of our parents.

  “Do you think they’d be proud of you, Patrick, slaving away like you do? I bet you haven’t had a real weekend in years.”

  “Getting a little close to home, aren’t you?” Sean asks knowingly. He’s known my brother and me since we were wee lads. He knows that Patrick and I couldn’t be more opposite. Our parents always pointed that out as a flaw, and apparently, Sean has taken up their mantle.

  “A little close to home, I suppose,” Patrick says. “But Conor, I don’t think you’re one to talk about making our parents proud.”

  At that, I raise my hands in defeat. My mam always wanted me to settle down; her dying wish was that I find a wife, even gave me her wedding ring in her will.

  A lot of good that’ll do me. What I really want, my parents gave to my brother: the most gorgeous stretch of land in the Wicklow Mountains. They wanted him to enjoy the countryside nearly as much as they wanted me to stop fucking around

  “Another round,” Patrick says, waving the barkeep over. And this time it’s whiskey. I see his eyes clouding. Sean’s too. I have a feeling they’re not going to remember much of this tomorrow. Lucky for me, my tolerance is higher; must be because I drink more than the two of them combined.

  “Me taking time off,” Patrick says, “is more likely to happen than Conor ever settling down. Hell, Conor, you can’t even stay with the same woman for a week. You’ve never had a real relationship in your life.”

  “I have a different lass each night by choice, not because I can't keep her,” I tell him. “And be that as it may, you’ve never taken a week’s vacation.”

  “You’re wrong,” Patrick says raising a finger, his words slurred. “In fact, I booked myself a holiday. That’s why I wanted you to come out tonight, so I could gloat about it.”

  “Truly?” Sean asks. “I’ve known you since you were a boy, Patrick, and I don’t think you’ve ever stopped working.”

  “That may be true,” Patrick says proudly, pulling up his travel itinerary on his phone, “But I’m taking a month-long holiday in Thailand two weeks from now.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I say, laughing. “That certainly calls for another round.” The room is spinning, but I don’t care. Patrick, my straight-laced, three-piece-suit-wearing brother is going to Thailand. Even sober, that’s enough to make me fall off my stool.

  “See?” Patrick says. “I am going to make our parents proud.”

  “They wanted you to love Ireland, not a beach in Asia,” I say, finding this hilarious, but also realizing that he’s right. He is making our parents proud with this choice.

  “Hey, it may not be perfect, but it’s a start. And it’s a better start than you, Conor.”

  “He’s right, Conor, you have some work to do,” Sean says, slapp
ing his knee as if my lifestyle is a joke.

  I run my hand over my beard, not liking to be one-upped by my brother like this––especially in a way I wasn’t expecting.

  Still, Patrick may have Thailand, but I have sweet tourists sidling up to me all afternoon as I show them the sights of the Wicklow Mountains: the fields of heather, and the lakes covered in fog, while pointing out romantic spots, like the bridge from the film, PS I Love You. The entire time knowing that they're watching me, my accent causing a flutter in their hearts.

  But of course, no lasses like that were on my tour today. So, instead, I’m here with my brother and my oldest friend. And they think they know me better than I know myself.

  Which, perhaps they do, but I’d bet those bastards would trade places with me in a heartbeat.

  I’ve always had good luck. I built my entire business around it. The Lucky Irishman Tour Company. There’s a guarantee that if you spend the day with me, I can find you a rainbow; perhaps a pot of gold. Find the four-leaf clover they were dreaming about, and the lucky leprechaun spots. I have a knack for these things, for the enchanted land of Ireland, and it rewards me.

  I get lucky as often as I like. And their insinuation that I can’t have a woman if I want her is an insult.

  I down my whiskey, my indignation at their assumptions rising.

  “I can keep a lass around for a week,” I say, slamming the glass against the bar.

  Sean laughs. “I’ve been wed twice and know a thing or two about women. They’re fickle. You can’t just choose one from the room and assume they’re going to fall for you. Your luck won’t help you with love.”

  “Are we talking about love now?” I clarify.

  “Yeah, we are. Lust is one thing, you can shag the same woman for a week, and it still won’t be what our mam was talking about.”

  I shrug, a bit cocky, sure, but also never backing down from a challenge––especially if it’s one of my own making.

  “Bollocks. I can make a woman love me in a week,” I say, my confidence growing with each syllable. “I’m the lucky one, my friends.”

  My brother raises his glass and makes an offer. “I don’t believe it. I bet you can’t keep a woman for a week.”

  “A bet now?” I ask.

  Sean joins in, laughing. “You make this bet, mate, and you’re fucking screwed.”

  “Damn right, I am,” I laugh, rubbing my hands together, already mentally counting my winnings. “And what are the stakes?”

  “An Irishman can’t make a bet without stakes being involved,” Sean adds.

  I grin at my best friend, appreciating that he already believes in me. Or is trying to make a fool of me, I’m not sure which yet.

  “I know what I want,” I tell them. “But it will cost you.” I cross my arms, thinking perhaps it truly is my lucky night.

  There is only one thing I’ve ever wanted, and Patrick might be drunk enough and giddy enough about his upcoming trip to give it to me.

  “And what’s that, brother?”

  “You choose a woman, and I make her love me by next week, and you give me the land.”

  Sean whistles low.

  My brother pulls back. “The land, you say?”

  “How hard do you really think it will be for me to capture a woman’s heart in a week?” I’m hoping the brotherly rivalry we’ve got going will tempt him to give me what I want.

  Patrick smiles. “And if you lose, what will I get?” he asks.

  “If I lose I’ll give you mam’s ring.” I laugh.

  Patrick leans back in his barstool, thinking it over, methodical as ever, even if he’s three shades to the moon. Finally, he raises his brows, a Cheshire grin spreads across his reddening cheeks. “Only if I can pick the girl, and I'm picking her from this pub, tonight,” he says, pressing a finger into the bar.

  Without pause, I nod, knowing a bargain when I find one. Don’t care where the lass is from, I just care about the damn land my parents left Patrick.

  “Deal’s on, brother,” I tell him, shaking his hand. “Don’t suppose I have much need for a ring, otherwise.”

  “In that case,” Sean says, “we ought to find you your lady.”

  The three of us look around the pub, my heart surging with excitement. I never thought I’d get my brother to give me the land. And now it’s within my grasp.

  Hell, if I’d known it would be this easy, I would have drunk him under the table years ago.

  “Who is the lucky woman?” I ask. “Not her,” I tell him, nodding at a local girl who has already thoroughly enjoyed her time in my barn.

  My brother shakes his head. “That’s too easy for you. That girl, she’d do anything for you and your bed. You said you can make any woman fall, so we need to make things a bit more difficult for you.”

  Sean agrees and raising his pint, points to another option. “What about Hilde? She might make a good week-long wife.” We snort, Hildegard runs the breakfast shop out near my house. She scowls like a devil, forever cursing me for the endless revolving door of women leaving my barn.

  Her hair is silver, she wears an apron, and she hates my guts for being a cocky ass.

  “Don’t be cruel,” I tell them.

  “We won’t be cruel, but we won’t make it easy,” Patrick says, wearing a shit-eating grin. “How about her?” Patrick points to a woman who has just walked into the pub.

  She looks like a mess. And not one bit Irish. Her dark hair is wild, her face flushed. She’s got a map in her hand and is clearly not from around here.

  She walks straight up to the bartender and starts asking about a place to stay tonight. I can hear that she’s American, and I start to shake my head. “You can’t have me falling for an American lass.”

  At this comment, Patrick slaps his knee in laughter and Sean nods eagerly as if this is the perfect woman for me.

  I have no problem with American girls, but this one isn’t like the regular tourists I see with their shiny faces and bright smiles, longing for an Irishman to sweep them away.

  This woman hasn’t even looked in my direction, which isn’t promising.

  “Lassie,” I shout.

  She turns towards me, her eyes dark, a scowl on her face. “Don’t ‘lassie’ me.”

  At this Sean and Patrick clutch their bellies as if this is the most hilarious thing they’ve ever heard.

  “Oh, brother,” Patrick says snorting with laughter. “That’s your girl! Good luck.”

  I shake my head at these drunk-fucks, having no doubt I’ll get lucky. Tonight.

  2

  This day has gone to shit. But what’s new? I mean my entire life has been a fucking shit show. An endless parade of fuck floats. A black cat crossing, haunted by ghosts, lost the rabbit’s foot before I ever found it, disaster.

  But this was supposed to be different.

  I needed to start the fuck over.

  Something to jumpstart my career and at the same time give me a new lease on life.

  I needed to reverse my luck.

  So, I bought a round-trip ticket to Ireland where I would photograph rainbows.

  Fucking rainbows.

  My photography is a joke. My love life nonexistent. And I swear bad luck has followed me everywhere I go. My life is a voodoo doll, and my body aches from getting stuck with pins.

  So, I thought: You know what? Enough. Enough feeling sorry for myself and my shitty-shit luck. I’ll go all in: become the luckiest girl.

  And you know how I would do that?

  I was going to start creating my own luck.

  I’m not looking for a winning lottery ticket or a slot machine raining dollar bills. I just want a rainbow.

  So, naturally, I came to Ireland. You know, the land of good luck. Of leprechauns and shamrocks. After all, my name is Clover. My entire existence is like a slap in the face. So, I came here to Ireland with my camera, backpack, and determination.

  Spoiler alert: Determination means shit. Making your own luck? Not a thing.
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  I have walked around this island for the last three weeks and just how many rainbows do you think I found?

  No, really, guess.

  Yep, you’re right.

  Exactly 0. As in none.

  Zilch. Nada.

  Fuck luck.

  People say Ireland is the luckiest place in all the world? Spoiler alert number two: They’re all liars.

  I haven’t seen a single rainbow.

  So why am I still here? Well, supposedly thirty minutes from here, in the Wicklow Mountains, there is some tourist company called The Lucky Irishman, where they guarantee to find you a rainbow.

  So, after not finding any rainbows on my own over the last three weeks, I went to the website this morning and made a reservation.

  Tomorrow, it’s going to happen.

  Tomorrow, I am finally going to get lucky.

  I’m going to show up to this tour and I’m going to take so many pictures of rainbows that I’ll be able to make a rainbow collage. A rainbow mural.

  I know a rainbow isn’t a magic wand … fairy godmothers aren’t real anyways.

  But I can go look for my own pot of gold.

  First, I need a drink. Hence, the bar. And hence the scowl on my face. And what is up with that asshole?

  “Stop shouting at me!”

  His friends are on the floor, literally; two Irishmen are laughing on the floor clutching their bellies and pointing. At him. At me. At the fucking room––I don’t know and I don’t care. I just need a drink and a room for the night.

  “Sorry, lass,” he says, this time not shouting. This time speaking in an accent that is really fucking hot. Low and earthy, like he’s spent his life breathing in fresh air, making the beer and bar food seem stale. “My friends seemed to have taken a fall. I wasn’t meaning to shout at you.”

  I shake my head and look away for two reasons.

  1) Because I really need to grab my drink. The bartender with his flushed face and his chubby cheeks is handing me a pint of something dark and stout and perfect. It’s delicious. The most delicious beer I’ve ever had in my entire life.