A/N: Title comes from one of my favourite Kings of Leon songs of the same name. The song itself alludes to a possible one-sided love of the lead singer by their local preacher's wife, but I don't think that has every actually been proven. Anyway, seeing as how I don't know very much about the Catholic faith, I didn't get too… 'churchy' in this fic.

I did, however, really want to explore the MacManus element in their younger days, so this takes place circa 1986 in a small town outside of Dublin. Twins are roughly seventeen, going on eighteen. As my last fic was full of action and general bad assitude, I decided to go a little bit different with this one, a little humorous, a little romantic, nicely doomed, bittersweet, and of course, innocently sexy. Tender, maybe, and maybe tame, too, but I think it's hot so you probably will. Rated M on a whole, but as Murphy is only 17 in the first few chapters, we'll keep the smexy times toned down (with no actual sex until he's 18; don't worry, in the fic's world, his birthday is only a few weeks away)

I don't own the MacManus twins. I know, sad, but true. They are, however, coming to my home town in April when we shall discuss said ownership. I'll probably be arrested at that point and both Reedus and Flanery will put a restraining order on me. Ah well. Life's too short to live on the safe side.

As always, unbeta'd, I don't believe in betas, I just believe in me. Reviews are like manna from heaven, people. I don't write for them, but they are welcome, good, bad, or otherwise.

Enjoy.


"Murphy Michael MacManus, you get down here ta dis' kitchen dis instant!"

Torn from the book he was reading for English Lit, seventeen year old Murphy glanced up at the door with wide eyes. Across the room, at his own desk, his twin brother Connor snickered.

"Aye, Murph, better get goin'," he chided with a broad, satisfied grin. "Sounds like Ma found out somethin' you were tryin' ta hide." Connor's blue eyes that were carbon copies of Murphy's twinkled with mirth.

"Ah, fuck me," Murphy groaned, tossing his book aside and launching himself from the bed. "If I don't come back, ya can have me collection of Hustler. Dey're under me mattress," he winked.

Connor grinned. "Already read those ones, but thanks all tha same. Reckon I'll trade em' with Mickey Calhoun for a spot of his Da's whiskey."

"Aye, aye," Murphy nodded, taking a breath and heading to the door. "Comin', Ma," he called, rolling his eyes at his brother before he stepped out into the hallway.

Getting into trouble was something that the twins excelled at. In fact, it was oft thought that if one of them wasn't in trouble, then they were sick, or possibly dead. Murphy and his brother were used to their Ma's discipline; their father wasn't around to give them a whooping anyhow. But as Murphy descended the narrow staircase at the back of the MacManus house he racked his brain trying to remember anything he'd done recently that would make Ma use his middle name. He sauntered into the kitchen, seeing his mother's face red with anger. He wondered if steam would come out of her, too, and not just the stew simmering on the stove.

He opened his mouth, although he wasn't sure what he'd say. The look in his mother's narrowed eyes, however, shut him up quickly and he waited for her to speak, the only sound that of the bubbling stew pot next to them.

"Seems that back in January, a couple of tha local boys were seen tramplin' through the rosebushes at tha back of that church," Ma started, her gaze steely as she stared down her son.

For his part, Murphy didn't move.

Ma continued. "Tha boys were runnin' tail after stealin' this," she growled, and with a flourish, she produced a rather sad looking resin Baby Jesus that would be at home in a church nativity scene, but that had, as Murphy knew, spent the latter part of winter tucked under the back step that led out to the chicken coops. Being early May, Ma had probably been cleaning, and Murphy had honestly forgotten about the prank. But it was thrust in his face now and he knew that there would be no talking his way out of this one. He pleaded for mercy instead.

"Ah, c'mon, Ma, it was five months ago," he started with a sheepish grin and shrug. "I mean, we waited until after twelfth night an' all dat." When his mother said nothing, he reached for the Baby Jesus, turning it over in his hands as he spoke. "N'besides, tha church could use a new one altogether, aye? 'Ow long has dis one been in use?" He passed it back and forth from hand to hand. "Jimmy McDermot an' Ryan O'Shea…"

"I don't give two pisses about Jimmy McDermot or that O'Shea brat!" Ma spat, snatching the Baby Jesus back and shaking it at Murphy for emphasis. "You stole tha ever loving Messiah right out from under his Ma's nose an' then completely demolished the rose bushes that have been there for fifty years!"

Murphy pursed his lips, refusing to let his voice carry to her level. They'd had their screaming matches, for sure; she was as hot headed as Connor and Murphy didn't feel like getting into it. Behind him, the stairwell creaked and suddenly, Connor flooded the kitchen.

"It was my idea, Ma, really, Murph didn't have anything ta do…"

"Oh, shut yer little lyin' trap, Connor Benjamin," Ma snapped, her eyes flashing. She knew that her oldest was merely trying to protect his brother, and her heart warmed with the though, but Murphy was old enough to handle his own messes. "You know dat yer plans are half-baked at best an' dat dis would have come to light far sooner than now."

Connor's face fell and he scowled at the floor, muttering something about good plans and always working out, but he didn't speak out of turn. Instead, he looked back to Murphy, who in all his petulant glory, merely glared back at Ma and waited for her to dish out punishment. She'd probably have him clean the coops for the next four Saturdays, or maybe take to market with her on Sundays after church, or maybe shear sheep with Old Geoffrey Connelly over the way. None of it was really punishment.

Ma tapped her fingers on the counter top, waiting for Murphy to protest loudly, but she could see his stubborn nature shining through. She was glad for once that she wouldn't be the one administering the punishment for his little stunt. "Yer ta go ta St. Patrick's on Saturday mornins an' help replant tha bushes that ya trampled. Then you're goin' ta help build a fence around the back side so that next Christmas, if any little shits decide ta try an' outdo Murphy MacManus' Savoir Heist, they won't get away as easily."

He knew there was no point in arguing. "Yes, ma'am," he sighed. "Anythin' else?"

"Yeah, you can roll up yer goddamn sleeves an' make biscuits for dinner tonight," Ma decided, untying her apron. She wadded it up and threw it at Murphy as she waltzed out of the kitchen. "An' don't mess up tha floors, either! Just washed em' this mornin'!"

Murphy glowered in his mother's direction but said nothing, and instead threw the apron onto the table with a tiny uttered curse.

"Hey, don't be too upset, Murph," Connor soothed as he took a seat at the table and fiddled with the apron ties. "Ya do make outstandin' biscuits."

"Shut up, Connor."

"So you should have no problem prunin' rose bushes, either, ya fuckin' fairy!"

"Shut up, Connor!" Murphy huffed. He busied himself yanking ingredients out of the cupboard and piling them on the counter, only halfway listening to Connor's teasing.

"Suppose this means that I'll hafta take both Katie and Molly ta tha movies on Saturday afternoon," Connor sighed wistfully. "Can you imagine havin' ta take both of those lovely girls? Maybe we can go fer a bite after…" He was cut off by a tin measuring cup sailing close to his head. Connor settled down for a moment, watching as Murphy made biscuits from memory. "Or maybe I can just bring em' back here fer tea and biscuits."

Murphy's reply was a fistful of flour to the face.


"Márín?"

I looked up at the sound of my brother-in-law's voice, my hands plunged in fresh potting soil and peat as I worked to prepare the beds for the new rosebushes. Dressed in his best wool slacks and the dark charcoal sweater I'd given to him for Christmas, Colin smiled down at me, before he dropped to a crouch.

"You don't hafta do this – I told ya, the MacManus boy is being punished," he chuckled.

I wiped at the sweat that had already formed on my forehead. Early May for Wicklow was unseasonably warm, and the sweater I'd started with that Saturday morning had already been tossed aside. I shrugged and sat back on my haunches. "And I told you that I needed something to do with my hands when you go away on these weekend trips." My arms crossed over my chest. "Trust me, there's plenty here he can do."

Colin frowned, and I felt a small pang of guilt for making him do so. "Márín, I know you've been having a rough go of it since Joe…"

I put my hand up to cut off what he was going to say. Colin sighed and continued. "Maybe you should go into town? Take the market in, rent a car, drive into Dublin to see your girlfriends…" he trailed off, looking slightly awkward.

I couldn't blame him, really. It was his brother I had been married to, and said brother had died the prior September. With little family to speak of in Dublin, where we'd been living, Joe's older brother Colin extended a warm hand like the good Catholic he was and took me into his home without question. I was grateful, for certain, but the winter in the small town had been long, and I spent most of it haunting the four rooms of Colin's modest home. Now that summer was around the corner, I was getting anxious. But for what, I didn't know.

Picking up the trowel I'd stuck into the earth, I began digging up the remnants of the old rosebush roots once more. "I'm sorry, Col," I said softly. "I haven't been very good company lately."

He brushed my golden blonde hair from my face and smiled warmly. "You're not at fault, Márín. But if you aren't willing to find peace with those you love, perhaps you'll find peace with He who loves you?"

I smiled in spite of myself and tilted my head, looking at him in the early morning sun. "Colin," I warned. He knew how I felt about religion. I had no problem with it, if it wasn't being forced down my throat.

He smiled again, just as warmly as he had before, and stood smoothly. "At least think on it. I'll be back tomorrow evening." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked up across the church yard. "Ah, here comes our new gardener now."

I twisted around on my knees and raised a hand, shielding out the sun. A boy tore up the drive on a ten-speed bike and put the brakes on in a cloud of dust. Dismounting, he leaned the bike against the side of the main stairs and trudged across the lawn, raising a lanky arm to wave in greeting.

"Mornin', Father McMahon," he trilled. He came to stop before my brother-in-law, and I discovered that my first assessment – that of him being a 'boy' – wasn't quite on the mark.

"Good mornin' ta you, Mr. MacManus. I'm glad you could make it."

The young man shrugged and my eyes were drawn to impossibly broad shoulders – he couldn't have been older than seventeen, I decided, watching as he toed the ground with his tennis shoe.

"Me Ma made it sound so interestin', I couldn't resist." He flashed a cheeky smile at Colin.

Colin laughed and clapped the young man on the back, and then turned him in my direction. "Murphy MacManus, I'd like ya ta meet my sister-in-law, Márín McMahon. She's agreed to help you out with your task."


Murphy swallowed the sigh he was prepared to heave and swung his blue eyes to the right, where Father McMahon had indicated. He knew, from village gossip, that Father McMahon's sister-in-law had come to live with him just before Christmas, but who she was or what she looked like had remained a mystery, at least to him. He expected some old matron in an oversized hat, floral dress, grey hair, glasses…but what he got was the opposite.

Márín McMahon couldn't have been older than thirty (Murphy's guess was actually 27), and she hadn't bothered with a hat that morning, and the long golden waves of her hair shone brightly in the warm sunshine, pulled back from her face in a simple ponytail. Her eyes were clear green. She wore an old t-shirt with a UDUB crest on the front and light colored jeans, torn at the knees. She knelt in the dirt, the dark stuff streaking her arms and her face. When she stood, she smiled and held out her hand for him to take.

"Hi, Murphy." Her voice was smooth, low, and Murphy swallowed thickly at how she said his name. He didn't know how it was different from anyone else saying his name, it just was.

"Hello," he answered softly, holding her hand in his.


Up close, it was easy to get lost in his gaze. It was dark – not the color, mind you, for he had brilliant blue irises – but on a whole, he seemed a little…petulant. A little rebellious. His lip quirked up in half a smile as he greeted me; his hand was warm and held mine firmly. He was several inches taller than me, too, and muscled like young athletes were. His voice was soft, and a little rough, when he greeted me and it was at that point that I knew Murphy MacManus was going to be a handful.

Colin was chattering away in the background, too caught up in the work that needed to be done around the church yard. "…general clean-up. Clearing dead fall from the hawthorn and honeysuckle, edging the lawn, and of course, the fence."

I snapped out of the trance Murphy's tilted blue eyes had put me in and quickly looked to Colin. "Yep, lots to do."

Out of the corner of my eye, Murphy nodded, and then rubbed the back of his head, ruffling the thick, dark waves of his hair. "Ah…Father McMahon, I know ya said ev'ry Saturday, but there's a game next one over, yeah?" He flashed a charming smile. "Wouldn't be proper deprivin' tha team of their star pitcher." He gave a little shrug to effect indifference, but there was an arrogant swagger to his voice.

Colin frowned and nodded. "Aye, I'm aware. Let's see how ya go today an' we'll talk. An' don't be thinkin' that Márín will let you off easy, ya hear? She'll give me a full report tomorrow evenin'." He winked at me and flashed a small grin as Murphy huffed.

"Yes, sir," he muttered, jamming his hands in his pockets.

"Right then," Colin concluded. He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. "I'm off. Take care, love. Call if ya need me, aye?"

I shoved him away with a chuckle. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine. Drive carefully. We'll have dinner tomorrow."

I watched then as Colin turned, picked up his overnight bag and with a final wave, tucked himself into his car and pulled out of the lot. Shaking my head fondly once more, I turned to find Murphy looking at me.

It startled me, just a bit; his eyes swept down my legs once more and then traveled along the flower bed I'd been digging up. "D'ya want me ta start here, or…?" he trailed off with another nonchalant shrug.


She gave him half a smile and chuckle, and then twisted and bent down to where she'd been working. He couldn't help it as his eyes traveled the sweetly sloping curves of hips and thighs under those snug, faded jeans. All too soon she'd turned back, he was clearing his throat and looking quickly to the left, at some random tree, and he felt something light and flimsy smack him in the gut. His hands scrambled to catch the work gloves she'd tossed at him and he looked down at them before he glanced back to her.

"Dig in," she invited, before turning once more and dropping to her knees. "We need to get all of this cleared out by noon. Truck is coming from Dublin with the new bushes and I don't want them exposed to air for too long." She continued working as she spoke over her shoulder.

So he hunkered down beside her, in the dirt, and took the trowel she handed him. Mimicking her movements, he began to dig deep, and pull up what wasn't needed anymore.


I checked my watch. It was close to noon and I was starving. Tossing my trowel back into the earth, I surveyed the work that Murphy and I had accomplished. He was a hard worker, and didn't balk at heat or dirt or the strain on his muscles as he pulled the stubborn roots. What we had yanked up and out of the earth now sat in a heap next to the bed and I nodded, satisfied, and sat back on me heels.

"You hungry?" I asked, wiping my hair back from my brow and watching as he sat back.

He looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "Is tha Pope Catholic?" he quipped with a cheeky grin. "M'always hungry," he shrugged before nodding.

I laughed. I should have known, him being a teenaged boy. I had brothers. I knew how much they could eat. "I'll tell you what," I said as I stood and peeled my gloves off. "You haul this lot over to the incinerator," I began, toeing the heap of pulled roots, "an' I'll fix up somethin' ta eat."

He nodded and set to work, while I headed across the yard to Colin's house. At the back steps I stopped and unwound the hose, toeing off my work boots in the process, and then turned the water pressure high. I doused my hands and then my feet, and then aimed the stream of water to my dirt streaked arms, soaking my upper body in the process. I squealed involuntarily at the cold shock of the water, and sputtered a bit as I got a mouthful.


The sharp yelp of surprise brought Murphy's head up, and he dropped the armload of garden waste and then turned, leaning against a fencepost and watching as Márín doused herself with the hose. He guessed she hadn't been going for the full-body soak, what with the way she spat and wiped water from her eyes, but what was done was done, and Murphy shifted as his eyes took in the thin cotton of her t-shirt that suddenly clung everywhere he knew he shouldn't be looking. He threw up a cautious Hail Mary for good measure, but didn't bother averting his eyes.

Márín wrung out the length of her hair and rolled the cuffs of her jeans up to her knees, exposing shapely calves that were tanned. The golden color of her skin intrigued him – he was used to seeing pale legs, knees socks, long skirts. He licked his lips, casting a quick glance about, as if Connor might be near by call out his leering. But he was alone, save for Márín, who couldn't have known how she affected him as she pulled at the bottom of her t-shirt to wring it out and exposed a smooth, flat expanse of torso, tanned the same color of her legs. Was she that golden everywhere? Or were there tan lines, white patches on her breasts and between her thighs where a bikini sat…

His hand tightened into a fist and he suddenly gasped as a stray thorn stuck in his glove pricked him, brining his mind back to the present. Swearing sharply, he yanked the glove off and inspected his thumb, watching the blood well in the small puncture. Fascinated with the tiny pearl of blood that formed, Murphy scuffed his way across the yard. When he neared the parish house, a sharp rapping on the window brought his head up and he watched as Márín leaned out of the window and smiled.

"Do me a favour an' clean up, aye?" She nodded towards the stairs. "Hose is down there. I'll be out in a few."


I almost dropped the plates I had balanced on one hand, and I tightened my grip on the two bottles of Guinness in the other as I froze at the top of the steps. He'd shucked his shirt, tossing it over the railing of the low fence, and had obviously turned the hose on himself while I finished making sandwiches. Murphy now sat on the last step, his naked back to me, hair even darker from the water, and the waistband of his jeans soaking up the stray droplets as they dripped down his neck, his spine, and finally his waist.

He craned his head back as the screen door squealed, and he bounced to his feet, pitching half a cigarette aside and climbing halfway to meet me. "Here," he said hurriedly, reaching out to take something for me. I let him take the plates and he backed down, still looking up at me through dark lashes, and I forced myself to look anywhere but into those dangerous blue depths. My eyes landed on a tattoo on his chest, right over his heart, a scrawled script that read 'Connor'. I quirked my head as I came down the steps and motioned for him to sit.

"Who's Connor?" I asked as I dug a bottle opener from my jeans and popped the lids from the bottles. "Your Da?" I handed him a beer and he took it with a grin.

"Nah," he said, before taking a healthy sip. "Me brother," he replied. "Me twin brother."

I cleared my throat at the dangerous prospect of two young men (boys, my mind scolded, teenage boys) that looked like him. "Really?" I busied myself with one of the plates and tore the sandwich there into smaller pieces.

"Not identical," he shrugged, before managing to shove half the sandwich into his mouth and top it off with another swig of beer. "Fraternal," he clarified around his full maw, though to me it sounded like 'fawdernal'.

I nodded again and gave a small gesture towards his torso. "You must be pretty close."

"Close as you can get without bein' tha same person," he summed up. He went back to munching on his sandwich. "Ya married then?" he asked, tossing his head in the direction of my left hand.

I fumbled a bit, and looked down, rubbing the plain platinum band with my thumb. "Yes." That wasn't right. "I mean, no." I sighed. "I was. Joe. He…um…he was Colin's younger brother."

Murphy paused and I saw a flicker of realization pass over his eyes. So young, I thought, and yet strangely worldly. "Sorry," he murmured sincerely.

I took a breath and nodded. "Thank you." His next question caught me off guard.

"How old are ya?"


He'd always been told that it was best not to ask a woman her age, a woman who appeared older than he was, anyway, but he had to do something to steer the subject away from what he guessed was a deceased husband. He said the first thing that came to mind, mentally smacking himself when her green eyes, which weren't completely green when she was this close, but more of a green with tiny flecks of gold and mahogany in them, widened.

"Sorry," he quickly backpedalled. "I shouldn't have asked ya that…"

She laughed and shook her head, setting her plate aside and concentrating on her beer. "It's okay." She leaned towards him with a conspiring grin. "How old do you think I am?"

Murphy stuck the edge of his thumb between his teeth and worried the skin there for a bit before rubbing along his bottom lip. When he looked back up, he found her eyes fixated on his mouth and he licked the blood from the thorn before pulling his hand away. Her eyes flashed back to his and he saw her cheekbones flush. "Dunno," he said hoarsely. "Uh…twenty-five?"

She blinked at him slowly, and then she let out a raucous scream of laughter, and sagged against the steps as his words sank in. Murphy shifted, not quite sure what the joke was, but Márín's laughter soon died down enough that she could speak. "Ah, bless you, Murphy MacManus."

"I take it my guess was wrong?"

Márín snorted. "Aye, a bit. But let's just go with I'm older than you, right?" She winked with good nature and picked up the last bit of her sandwich.

"Aye," Murphy rasped before swilling the remainder of his beer.


We didn't go back to work, not right away, and instead enjoyed the fair weather of the afternoon. The truck with the new rosebushes still hadn't arrived by the time I brought out coffee, thinking it wise to only offer one beer to the young man. Murphy still hadn't put on his shirt; the slight breeze that was still holding on to winter's chill fluttered the ends of his dark hair. In the May sunlight, it wasn't just dark brown, but almost russet in places, not quite auburn, and I could tell by looking at it that it would be thick between my fingers.

I watched as his hands patted down his jeans and then he arched his hips up from the step where he'd perched, digging his hand down into his pocket. I quickly looked away. I'd seen the soft, downy dark hair of adulthood that had whorled gently around his navel and scolded myself for noticing. He wasn't even eighteen; if I wasn't a god-fearing woman before, I had a feeling that I'd be confessing sins I had only committed in my mind. I heard the flick and rasp of a lighter, and I smelled the spicy smoke of burning cloves.

"Ya smoke?" he asked lightly, and while I could have answered him with my eyes trained on the Garden Centre truck that was finally trundling up the drive, I found that I had to look at him. And when I did, those eyes snared me, held me close, and dared me to look away.

I nodded. He nodded, too, and handed me the cigarette he'd just lit, pulling it from between soft lips that couldn't have kissed that many girls and handing it to me. He then lit another one. My hand shook as I raised that cigarette to my lips – it felt even more forbidden than my first real smoke when I was twelve years old. I swore that I couldn't taste anything on the damp filter, save for the coffee and the sweetness of tobacco, but my tongue touched the end like it might be his tongue and I felt a longing I hadn't felt in ages.

"Truck is here," I managed to get out, motioning to the drive.

Murphy's eyes narrowed, focusing on my mouth once more before lifting to my gaze. "Aye. T'is."

I forced a carefree smile to mask the sudden conflict of emotions that threatened to spill over. Joe's face flashed in my mind, young and handsome in his own way, but tame, and unfettered. Safe. Calm. The complete opposite of the insolent dark haired boy before me. "Lots of work to do," I continued dumbly, moving to greet the driver that had stepped down from the pick up.

"Márín," Murphy rasped.

It was the first time he'd said my name since I'd met him that morning and it sent a chill down my spine. A warning, maybe, but even at thirty-two (Murphy had grossly under-estimated my age), I ignored it and instead tossed him a look over my shoulder, my eyelashes fluttering.

"Thanks. Fer lunch." He smiled faintly and then took off up the drive, moving past me, maybe brushing his bare shoulder against me as he did.

"Aye," I said softly behind him, unable to tear my eyes from the back of his jeans, the smooth line of his spine, the strong spread of his shoulders.

I must have started believing in God right then and there – because certainly, I was going straight to hell. And you can't have one without the other.


Murphy lay awake that night, worrying the small punctures he'd received from the thorns on the new rose bushes. It seemed as though Márín kept her distance for the rest of the afternoon, meeting his gaze only to look away, and he was fairly certain she was blushing as she did so. He didn't have kind of effect on women. It puzzled him, made him shift against the fleece blanket under his back. Across the room, Connor snored peacefully, having filled up on dinner and then filled Murphy in on his afternoon outing with both Katie and Molly.

Normally, Murphy would have snapped, shoved Connor and told him to shut his mouth when it came to Katie. After all, everyone knew that Katie Hannigan had a thing for Murphy and that Murphy had, on occasion, kissed her after school or a winning baseball game. It wasn't like he'd got a hand down or anything, but he knew Katie was hopeful. Up until that morning, he had been, too.

His mind shifted to Márín. She wasn't other-worldly beautiful, or exotic, or really anything overly special. But she was different; different from the girls that flocked after him and Connor on a daily basis. Girls always wanted to kiss and hold hands and giggle and gossip with other girls, and made time for silly things like how much of a bob Bono was and who was going into town for a new lipstick on Saturday. Márín was most definitely not a girl. She'd even been married, once, and Murphy winced as he recalled that stilted conversation.

Clearing his head, he concentrated on the image of Márín that afternoon, dousing herself good with the hose, rolling up her jeans and t-shirt, piling all of that wonderful golden hair on top of her head. She'd brought him beer, and food, two things that rated highly in young Murphy's mind, but the thing that got him the most was how easily she accepted the cigarette that had been in his mouth. That was close to kissing, as close as he dared think, at least when it came to her. Jayzuz, Mary, n'Joseph, she was Father McMahon's sister in law, a guest in his house, and Murphy's thoughts were focused on the way her lips pursed around the filter of his clove cigarette and how he'd caught her looking at him. Really looking at him, like when she thought he wouldn't notice. That was when she reminded him of a girl, reminded him that he was a male, she was a female, and then his mind really started to wander.

She'd know how to kiss – how would she do it? These girls that dogged his steps were all teeth and rubbery lips, sloppy kisses with little finesse. Márín, he decided, would be sweet, pliant, but not a pushover, and would no doubt be able to teach him a thing or two.

The girls he knew wore cotton panties, nothing flashy, white, or maybe pale pink or yellow, except for Siobhan Finnegan who was notorious for wearing red or nothing at all. He'd had a go, decided she wasn't for him – she liked too many guys at one time, his brother included. What did Márín wear under her jeans?

He'd heard rumors, too, from the guys on the baseball team who had older brothers that some girls actually shaved down there. Murphy didn't know what he thought about that, couldn't make heads or tails of finally having a woman under his hand only to discover she looked like a child.

He bet her tits felt amazing; he was fairly certain she wasn't wearing a bra that afternoon. And her legs. And her thighs. Christ, her hips. Girls, he decided, were all awkward angles, gangly limbs, unshaped, plain. Women, on the other hand, and particularly Márín, were wickedly curved, soft and yielding, firm when it was needed. He huffed as he felt the beginnings of a hard on, images of Márín's bare calves and bare stomach flitting through his mind.

"What's got ya all in a twist, Murph?" Connor's soft voice floated up from his bed.

Murphy frowned when he realized he'd crossed one ankle over his knee and was bouncing the lot on his mattress. "Feck off," Murphy muttered, not interested in anything else Connor had to say.

"Ya tossin' one off over there?" Connor snickered. "Hail Mary, at least pull the blanket up…"

"Lay off," Murphy grumbled, rolling under his blanket and turning his back to Connor.

Connor was silent for a moment, and then his voice came back, soft and cautious. "Ya know…Katie wouldn't shut up about ya all day. Kept goin' on about how fine y'are. Wanted ta box her ears at one point, but Molly wouldn't let me."

Murphy had to chuckle. He knew Connor was telling the truth, about all of it, but he also knew it was Connor's way of clearing any bad air between them. Murphy wasn't really upset about that. He wasn't actually sure what he was upset about at all. But Connor knew him, almost better than he knew himself, and for that, Murphy was thankful. "I woulda let ya," Murphy muttered around another chuckle.

"Aye. Well, Katie says she wants ta talk to ya after service tomorrow. Told her that'd be okay."

Murphy nodded, finally feeling his eyelids drooping. "Aye," he yawned. "That will do well enough."


Joe had been the one to teach me how to roll a bifter. I giggled at the thought as I did just that at Colin's kitchen table that night. Big brother Colin the Catholic priest didn't have the slightest clue that his little brother Joe was more into chugging pints and smoking weed than he was the Catholic faith. I didn't feel the least bit of guilt as I threaded the paper and licked the seam shut; perhaps that's why I didn't think I'd make a very good Catholic: I didn't believe in guilt. It was self inflicted. I halted on that thought, my mind wandering to that afternoon. No, I definitely didn't feel guilt, but I didn't know what that gnawing in my gut was each time I looked at Murphy.

At first, I thought it was because I was lonely. I pushed that thought away; I knew loneliness better from being married than from being widowed. I'd married Joe because he'd been sweet, and kind, and cared for me like no other man had. I loved him. But I wasn't in love with him. He was gentle and sweet, and attentive in the bedroom, but I never really felt desired. I certainly didn't inspire any panty-ripping or frantic, frenzied quickies in the front hall while he was on his way out to work. My best girl Jenny had me crazy jealous as she regaled me with tale upon tale of her own sordid encounters, and they were all with the same man, her husband of almost ten years. They were in love, in lust, and it made me shrewd.

In the end, we'd both grown distant, though Joe had tried his best to keep the lines of communication open. He'd died suddenly, from an aneurysm, and when it should have felt as if my heart had been torn open, that my life had been blown to pieces, I mourned him, but I mourned the loss of myself, more. We'd been married five years. I didn't recognize the face that stared back at me in the mirror last fall when Joe had died. Jenny had been there, had been my rock, reassuring me that it would get better, that I could move past this, but really, she didn't know. No one really knew, certainly not Joe, of how I didn't feel about him.

Still, the guilt never came.

Perhaps this is guilt come to haunt you, my mind hissed as I sat on Colin's back step and lit the bifter and took a long hit. Dark-haired and sullen with a tiny mole at the corner of his mouth. I'd done a lot of staring at Murphy's mouth that afternoon. And his hands. He always seemed to be touching his mouth, smoking or otherwise, and it drew my attention every time. And of course, every time he caught me staring, I looked away, but my traitorous eyes strayed to the chest he didn't bother to cover up after lunch. By the time five o'clock rolled around, he'd turned pink across his shoulders, freckles rising in the sun's wake, and I longed to count each one.

He looked at me like I was something to be had.

He looked at me like I was something to be wanted.

I wondered what his mouth would taste like; what it would feel like to kiss him. Would he know what he was doing? It looked like he'd kissed a girl or two; he was too devil-may-care good looking to not have had some heavy petting under his belt. Would his hands be soft, cautious? Or would he be bold and brash, the unchecked lust of youth driving him? Was he a virgin?

The very thought of him never having been with a woman suddenly had me heated and pulsing between my thighs and I sucked in a breath, pinching off the joint. I exhaled the last hit with a shuddering sigh and tilted my head back, planting my elbows on the step behind me, and leaning towards the starry sky.

Would I have to teach him? Guide him, his hands, fingers, lips, tongue, to do what pleased me? Would he be a quick learner? Did I still know what pleased me?

I shook my already hazy head. This was dangerous ground. But in my altered state, my mind was off and running, and each breath I took only served to make the fantasy swell and become more vivid. I thought of his mouth on my skin, his tongue flicking over my nipple, down my belly, further still, his dark head tilting up, his blue eyes narrowed with apt concentration. He was a quick learner, and a hard worker, two things that could be disastrous under the right circumstances.

I thought of him below me, letting me take every inch of him inside, holding him snug, seeing the awe on his face as he felt that warmth and wetness for the first time. What would he look like when he came?

Christ, I was out of control. I frowned, suddenly realizing that the weed was not having the desired relaxing effect on me. I tore up the steps then, back into Colin's kitchen, and raided the icebox. Plunking down in front of the telly, I plugged in the latest episode of C.A.T.S. Eyes.

The last thing I remembered that night was wondering if he was thinking about me, the way I was thinking about him.