Hello out there!! I haven't published any fics in forever and this is my first published one for Ballyk, so I hope you all enjoy it. It was just for kicks really, I wrote it last night. Tell me what you think about this "pairing"--other than P&A, it's my fav!! Reviews are much appreciated! Thanks!
LOVE. 3

Orla O'Connell huffed impatiently and flopped down on the bottom of the balloon basket, causing it to rock back and forth slowly.

"Steady on!" Brian snapped irritably.

"Brian, there's no use trying to keep going, there's no bloody wind!" Orla told him for what must have been the fifth time.

Brian grumbled under his breath, messing with the controls a few more times, and then, with the pride and dignity of a man who has been proven wrong, joined Orla on the floor of the basket, sighing heavily. "No wind," he reported.

"Ah." Orla tried not to grin. "Lovely day, though."

"For some," Brian muttered, half to himself.

But she heard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean whatever I want to mean, all right?" he quipped, then took a big breath. "I mean… everything is not coming up roses right now, Orla. Not at all."

She thought for a minute, and then-- "Oh, you mean with… Niamh?"

"Yeah."

"Ah, she'll come round, Brian, she's just confused right now."

"Confusion ruins marriages. Lives."

Orla sighed softly. He was from a different generation. Making him understand that divorce wasn't a one-way ticket to hell was going to be difficult. "Divorce… isn't all that bad, Brian," she ventured.

"You know better than to patronize me, Orla, for God's sake, it's not a divorce I'm worried about. It's the people, not the principles."

She felt stupid. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

He shook his head. "Niamh and Ambrose… were my way of telling me that I'd done something right. Raising Niamh, I mean. I wanted her to just be like everyone else. Normal. Well-adjusted."

"So, making human mistakes means she's not normal and well-adjusted?" Orla asked a little incredulously.

Brian took a deep breath. "No. I just… when she goes and does something like this, it makes me think that it must be my fault."

Orla felt a jab at her heart. Here was Brian Quigley, the man who never let his guard down for one minute, telling her everything--his feelings, his emotions, his regrets. His soul. It terrified her. "Brian, there is no way that this is your fault. Whatever Niamh's doing is between her and Ambrose, or her and… whoever, and it's got nothing to do with the way you raised her. Sure she's gotten this far okay. We all go astray, make mistakes sometimes. Some people just take longer to catch themselves than others."

Brian looked at her, their eyes leveling. She was a smart one, he'd give her that. She had a good head on her shoulders, a quick tongue in her mouth, and a smile that he'd found himself thinking of probably more than he should. She was headstrong and independent; she was a lot like Niamh. But she was more like him.

She'd called him 'a mover and a shaker'; he'd called her 'a globetrotter.' But when it came down to it, they were basically the same. Two free-spirited people who didn't let anything get in the way of getting what they wanted.

"You know," Brian said after a minute of them just staring at each other, thinking. "I've got a right mind to kiss you right now."

"Then why don't you?" Orla taunted with that mocking smile.

One part of him told him he was a stupid old fool and the other part told him that he only lived once; how many more times was he going to be stuck in a hot air balloon with a beautiful young woman who'd just asked him to kiss her? He felt her warm breath so close to his mouth, and he smelled the musky, floral scent she had, and he looked at her honest blue eyes, and knew that this couldn't be wrong. Brian leaned forward--

"Mr. Quigley!" Liam called suddenly from the other balloon. It jolted both him and Orla back to reality. Flustered, Orla cleared her throat and casually stood up as Brian's head popped up from inside the basket.

"Yes," he said testily.

"If you win the race, do we get part of the forty thousand pounds?"

They would ask a stupid question like that. They would interrupt the first intimate moment he'd had in years. "If you're not in the winning balloon you don't."

"Not even a sort of finder's fee, Mr. Quigley?" Liam pleaded.

"If it wasn't for us you wouldn't even know about this race," Donal added.

"If it wasn't for you two I'd be relaxing at home right now," Brian muttered.

"Do not worry," D'Argon assured Liam and Donal. "Monsieur Quigley has no chance of winning against me."

"You wanna bet?" Orla asked, raising an eyebrow. "Right." She fired up the burner and the balloon went soaring upwards again.

"Steady on…" Brian warned, gaining his footing again.

"Oh don't worry, Mr. Quigley," Orla said with a patronizing smile. "We won't go far. There's not any wind, remember?"

Brian figured he should just keep quiet. She was obviously annoyed now; women got that way when they didn't get what they wanted. But there was something he needed to know. "Just one question… and I won't mention this conversation again. But. Did you mean it?"

Blue eyes met brown, and in those murky, mysterious depths he saw truth and emotion and feeling in their rawest forms. "Every word," she answered, and sent them higher.