Love and Shenanigans (Ballybeg, Book 1) (The Ballybeg Series) Read online

  LOVE AND SHENANIGANS

  A BALLYBEG ROMANCE (BOOK 1)

  ZARA KEANE

  Table of Contents

  About This Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Love and Blarney (Ballybeg #1.5)

  Love and Leprechauns (Ballybeg #2)

  About Zara Keane

  Zara Keane’s Mailing List

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Love and Shenanigans (Ballybeg, #1)

  Vows in Vegas…

  Three days before leaving Ireland on the adventure of a lifetime, Fiona Byrne returns to her small Irish hometown to attend the family wedding from hell. When she discovers the drunken vows she exchanged with the groom during a wild Las Vegas trip eight years previously mean they’re legally married, her future plans ricochet out of control. Can she untangle herself from the man who broke her heart so long ago? Does she even want to?

  …True Love in Ballybeg

  Gavin Maguire’s life is low on drama, high on stability, and free of pets. But Gavin hadn’t reckoned on Fiona blasting back into his life and crashing his wedding. In the space of twenty-four hours, he loses a fiancée and a job, and gains a wife and a labradoodle. Can he salvage his bland-but-stable life? More importantly, can he resist losing his heart to Fiona all over again?

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  For C.A.L.L.

  Chapter One

  Ballybeg, County Cork, Ireland

  GAVIN STEERED HIS BMW down the winding road leading to Clonmore Lodge, windows down, punk rock blaring. Through the gaps in the trees, he glimpsed the sea. He inhaled deeply, tasted the salty air on his tongue, and felt it sting his nose.

  Ballybeg was the best place on earth. He’d loved this area from the first moment he’d seen it. Adored the wildness of the sea, the rolling green fields, and the seaweed-scented wind. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. While he liked to travel, the best part of every holiday was coming back home.

  He rounded a last bend in the road and turned into the drive that led to a spacious three-level house. It was gorgeous; of that there was no doubt. Built in the mid-nineteenth century, it combined the quaint elegance of Old Ireland with modern comforts. It boasted five bedrooms, a sauna in the basement, and a small tennis court out the back. As his fiancée assured him daily, it would be the perfect home to raise kids.

  And yet he’d trade it in for his cozy cottage any day. Yes, the cottage was too small for a family. Yes, it wasn’t as fancy as this house. And yes, it wasn’t in the most desirable area of Ballybeg. But the cottage was the first place he’d called home, and leaving it was a wrench.

  He pulled his car to a halt outside the ivy-framed door. He was on the verge of opening his car door when his mobile phone flashed a message. A glance at the glowing display made his stomach cramp. He read the message several times. By the time he tossed the phone back on the passenger seat, the words were imprinted on his brain.

  Hi, Gavin. Best wishes on your wedding day. Sorry we can’t make it. Too much to do on the farm. I know you’ll understand. All the best, Mum xx

  He exhaled sharply. He was used to his mother’s offhandedness. Resigned to her disinterest in his life. So why did this latest rejection hurt so damn much? He was thirty-two years old, for feck’s sake. Too old to get maudlin over her lack of interest and old enough to have developed a thicker skin.

  He grabbed his briefcase and architect’s tool bag, climbed out of the car, and slammed the door.

  Inside the house, seventies pop music drifted down the hallway. He laughed softly. One thing he and his fiancée definitely did not have in common was their taste in music.

  “Muireann,” he called. “I’m home.”

  Over Abba’s crooning, he heard what sounded like a dog barking. He frowned. That couldn’t be right. He and Muireann had a strict “no pets” rule.

  He dumped his bag and briefcase and headed toward the living room to investigate.

  Muireann was sitting on the sofa, humming and cradling a curly-haired puppy in her arms. “Isn’t he adorable?” She beamed and the puppy slobbered all over her face. The same face Gavin was barely permitted to air-kiss these days in case he smudged her makeup. She’d always been particular about her appearance, but in the months leading up to the wedding, she’d become obsessed.

  Gavin stared at the scene before him, slack-jawed. There was an overturned vase, claw marks on the leather sofa, and a suspicious yellow stain on the hearthrug.

  “Jaysus. That dog peed on a one-thousand-euro rug.”

  “Hmm?” Muireann glanced at the hand-tufted rug Gavin had specially commissioned for her engagement present. “He’s not quite house-trained, but we’ll soon have that sorted. Won’t we, Wiggly Poo?”

  Gavin sank into an armchair and groped for the whiskey decanter. “Why is a dog urinating in our living room? Why is a dog in our living room in the first place?”

  “Daddy gave him to us as an early wedding present.”

  “What?” He clenched the decanter. “I’m allergic to dogs.”

  “Yeah.” She nuzzled her nose into the canine’s curly fur. “But he’s an Australian labradoodle.”

  “A labra-what?”

  “It’s a cross between a Labrador and a poodle. They’re supposed to be hypoallergenic.”

  “Supposed to be. That’s reassuring.”

  Muireann’s pink lips compressed into a perfect pout. “You’re not suggesting we give him back?”

  “We discussed marriage. We discussed babies. We never discussed labrawhatsits.”

  “If you want rid of him, you talk to Daddy.”

  “You can be damn sure I’ll talk to Bernard. I bowed to pressure over the house. No way am I allowing him to foist a pet on us.” Gavin sloshed a generous helping of Jameson into a tumbler and knocked it back in one. This wedding business was getting out of control. The sooner the ceremony was over and they were sunning themselves in Mauritius, the better.

  “I realize you wanted us to live in your cottage, but you must see it’s not practical.”

  Gavin sighed. “Yeah, I do. That’s the reason I agreed to move in with you rather than vice versa.”

  “We’ve been spoiled by our years of living in separate homes.” She patted his hand. “It’ll take time to adjust. For both of us.”

  The dog
barked, drawing his attention back to his unwanted guest. “Who came up with the daft name?”

  “Mummy. Wiggly Poo wouldn’t be my first choice, but I didn’t want to offend her. Besides, it rather suits him.”

  Gavin eyed the animal with suspicion. It resembled a walking bath mat. The dog panted and batted canine eyelashes at him.

  “Do you want to hold him?” Muireann raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

  He edged back in his seat. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug.

  Gavin gestured at the dog with his whiskey glass. “Who’s minding the mutt while we’re in Mauritius?”

  “Aunt Bridie.”

  “What about her bad hip?”

  Muireann sniffed. “After all Daddy’s done for her over the years, it’s the least she can do.”

  “Why can’t your parents dog-sit?”

  “It would be too much for Mummy’s Chihuahuas. Wiggly Poo’s a little wild.”

  Gavin’s gaze dropped to the stained rug. “You don’t say.”

  “Mummy called boarding kennels, and none had a free place at such short notice.”

  “I’m not happy about having a dog thrust upon me. By the time we get back from our honeymoon, I want him gone.”

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Can we discuss this later? It’s the day before our wedding. I don’t want any unpleasantness between us.”

  “Okay, but I’m not backing down. You got your way over the house, the wedding, and the honeymoon. No bloody way am I agreeing to keep a pet.”

  “Yes, dear.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. He smelled her face powder and her signature scent. “Whatever we end up doing with the dog, Wiggly Poo needs a walk this evening. Will you take him out while I’m with my designer?”

  “What? Me?” She had to be bloody joking.

  Muireann treated the curly-haired destroyer of rugs to one last pet and dumped him in Gavin’s lap. “I told you this morning. I have an appointment with my bridesmaids to practice the choreography for the wedding. My designer is bringing all the dresses to my parents’ house.”

  “The choreography? Won’t you all just walk down the aisle?”

  “It needs to be timed.” She slipped her powder compact into her handbag. “I want everything to be perfect.”

  Wiggly Poo buried his snout in Gavin’s crotch, making him squirm. “Jaysus, Muireann. You can’t be serious about us keeping the dog. My asthma’s already kicking in.”

  Actually, it wasn’t, much to his chagrin. He clutched his throat for dramatic effect and forced a feeble cough. What was the point of having an allergy if it didn’t act up when you wanted it to?

  “Nonsense. You’ll be fine once you get used to him.” She snatched up her handbag and overnight case from the coffee table and carried them into the hall. “Don’t be late for dinner,” she called. “Mummy and Daddy are expecting you at six.”

  Gavin struggled to his feet and followed his bride-to-be. The dog dug its claws into his tailored shirt. “What am I supposed to do with him while we’re out for dinner?”

  “Oh, leave him here,” she said airily. “He’ll be fine.”

  “He might be fine, but will the house?”

  Muireann checked her lipstick in the hall mirror and smoothed her straight blond hair. “It’s natural for Wiggly Poo to want to explore his new terrain.”

  “His new terrain is our house. Our heavily mortgaged house, complete with expensive furnishings.”

  “Gavin, don’t make a fuss. My interior-design business is picking up. And once Daddy promotes you, we’ll easily afford the mortgage. Besides”—she gestured at their luxurious surroundings—“we’re getting the house for a steal. Daddy gave us a great price.”

  “He gave us a good deal on a very expensive house. And you’re trying to distract me from talking about the dog.”

  Her eyes widened in faux innocence.

  “What are we doing with the dog tonight?” He watched her slip on her jacket and pick up her bags. “You’re staying at your parents’ house and say you can’t bring him with you, and I’m staying at my old house with Jonas. We can’t leave him here alone.”

  “Can’t you take him to yours? Jonas’s kid can play with him. Kids love dogs.”

  “Luca’s staying with his grandparents. It’s only me and Jonas at the cottage.”

  Muireann glanced at the slim gold watch her father had given her for her last birthday. “I’m going to be late. You’ll figure something out. Bye, Wiggly Poo.”

  With these not very reassuring words—and yet another air-kiss—Gavin’s future bride made her perfume-scented exit.

  Chapter Two

  IF AN EVIL FAIRY conjured Fiona’s personal hell, it would be this wedding.

  “Isn’t your dress gorgeous?” The evil fairy of the moment—Fiona’s cousin, Muireann—displayed dazzling white teeth set in a saccharine smile. “Since you’re my maid of honor, I wanted you to wear something special.”

  Fiona tongued her lip ring and squinted at the satin monstrosity hanging in her cousin’s walk-in wardrobe. No, she wasn’t hallucinating. Muireann wanted her to wear snot green.

  “You’re in the chartreuse.” Muireann’s smirk widened. She took down the hanger and held the dress against Fiona. “Maroon is so draining on brunettes, don’t you think?”

  Fiona grimaced. Who the feck chose chartreuse and maroon for their wedding colors? And what in the bejaysus was that thing at the end of the dress? “Is that a fin?” She poked at the stiff fabric. With a bit of luck, it was detachable. She’d “lose” it somewhere between here and the church.

  “It’s a mermaid bottom. I thought the design particularly well suited to someone with your physique.”

  My physique. Riiight.

  In other words, she knew the dress would draw attention to Fiona’s childbearing hips and thunder thighs. What better way for Muireann to emphasize her own petite figure than to contrast it with her heifer of a cousin?

  A lot had changed in the eight years since Fiona left Ballybeg, but her cousin had not. And neither, it seemed, had Fiona’s reactions to Muireann’s jibes. Over the years in Dublin, she’d shed her body-image issues and learned to embrace her curves. Half an hour back in Ballybeg and Muireann’s company, and all her old insecurities had come flooding back.

  “Plus,” continued Muireann, “the long sleeves will cover your tattoos.”

  Fiona shifted her weight from one lace-up boot to the other. “If you find my appearance offensive, why did you ask me to be your maid of honor?”

  “Mummy insisted. But she doesn’t feel it’s proper to show tattoos in church.”

  “In that case, I guess your groom will be wearing a high-necked collar.”

  Her cousin’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What do you know about Gavin’s tattoos?”

  Feck! Curse her for a fool for speaking without thinking. She cleared her throat. “The one on his neck’s pretty obvious.”

  “Gavin’s a man,” Muireann said with a sniff. “Tattoos aren’t ladylike.”

  But being a total bitch was? Fiona gave a mental headshake. Why had she let Bridie talk her into participating in this farce? She’d bloody well known Muireann would do something to humiliate her.

  Muireann draped the dress across the queen-sized bed and pivoted on her heels. “I’ll leave you to get ready. Claudette—my designer—needs to check the fit. Such a shame you couldn’t make it to Cork to attend the earlier fittings. Claudette was most distressed.”

  “I had to work. I was teaching summer school up until yesterday. It’s hardly my fault you scheduled the fittings for weekdays.” Fiona fingered the hooks at the back of the dress. “Am I going to manage to do it up myself?”

  Her cousin waved one French-manicured hand in a dismissive gesture, the other already turning the crystal doorknob. “I’ll send Olivia in to help. Be quick about it, will you? Claudette doesn’t have all day.”

  The door half closed, leaving
Fiona to contemplate fish tails and dresses the color of infected sinuses.

  Muireann’s head popped round the door again. “By the way, Fiona?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Lose the boots.”

  The door clicked closed.

  Fiona slumped onto the four-poster bed. Three days. Three days until freedom and white sandy beaches. Three days until she embarked on the trip of a lifetime. The catch was surviving the next seventy-two hours.

  Someone tapped on the door, making her sit bolt upright.

  “Are you decent?” Olivia—her best friend and only ally at this infernal shindig—slipped into the room. She wore a simple maroon bridesmaid’s gown that complemented her auburn hair and slim figure. She held a bottle in one hand and two champagne flutes in the other.

  Fiona leaped to her feet and enveloped her in a bear hug. “Liv!”

  “If you’re initiating physical contact, it’s got to be bad.” Olivia spied the dress draped across the bed and recoiled. “Oh, my gawd! The color’s hideous.”

  “It’s a shade I associate more with sinus infections than weddings.” Fiona scrunched her nose. “What the hell was Muireann smoking?”

  “It’s odd. She’s got a good reputation as an interior designer.”

  “Obviously her good taste in color schemes doesn’t extend to clothing.”

  Olivia cast another look at the offending garment and gave an exaggerated shudder. “I’m so glad I nicked the champagne. You’re going to need it if you’re to model that dress before your aunt Deirdre and the evil twins.”

  “The twins are here, too?” Fiona groaned. “In that case, bring it on.”

  Olivia popped the cork and poured. She handed a glass to Fiona. “Get that down you. If there’s a silver lining to this wedding, it’s the Cristal.”

  “Sláinte.”

  The bubbly liquid coated Fiona’s tongue like a caress. “Delicious. Uncle Bernard’s wine cellar can’t compensate for the fugly dress, but it certainly helps.”

  Olivia peered at Fiona over the brim of her champagne flute. “Jokes aside, how are you coping? This can’t be easy, especially after the breakup with Philip.”

  Fiona swallowed hard. The concern in her friend’s gaze almost persuaded her to succumb to her inner blub fest. “I’m grand,” she said, ignoring the quaver in her voice.