Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1 Page 3

  Even though she’s created countless love stories, the hole in her chest makes her empty. The cavity where her heart would have been rages against the evil sorcerer who stole the very core of her being.

  Unable to feel love, although talented at imagining it, Brigid renews herself and keeps herself young by being born every thirty years—in the body of an orphan. She grows up a normal girl, not showing her guardians any of her special gifts, while she searches for the evil being who left her without the ability to receive or give affection.

  One day, she meets a man—a proud, gorgeous ass of a man who claims he is her true love. He brags that he has her heart, except he’s turned it into a worthless bauble—a purplish-red glob of crystalline minerals.

  He makes a fatal mistake. He underestimates her and falls asleep on an airplane after taunting her with the rock he claims is her heart.

  Clare’s fingers itched as an idea rang like a doorbell in her mind. What an awesome screenplay she’d dreamt up. She could be Brigid, the heartless goddess, wandering throughout the worlds until by sheer good luck, she happened to sit next to the evil sorcerer—lying fully exposed with her heart inches away from her.

  She’d write the play and invite him to invest in it. It would be a vanity project, no doubt, but he would fund it. Maybe she could be the actress and pretend to fall in love with him.

  The curse would be broken. He’d get his happily ever after—only until he “died” and forgot.

  She’d be a runaway success with her book turned into a movie, and he wouldn’t remember her—not one whiff.

  Win-win.

  Clare thanked her stars for turning negatives into positives. What was better than a forgetful hero or villain?

  She eyed the lump underneath Griffin’s shirt. He’d left it partially unbuttoned with his tie loosened, and after his double whiskey, he was snoring gently.

  What would Brigid do if she were present?

  Clare let her mind wander as she rummaged in her bag for a lump of coal she kept for warding off naughty children. It was roughly the same size and shape as Griffin’s sparkly lump.

  Using a crochet hook and a ball of yarn, she created a net to contain the coal. It wouldn’t pass the look test, but then, Griffin wouldn’t be staring at the amulet until it was too late.

  The clip on the lanyard was no problem. Clare could see it right under his tie. What she needed was turbulence and a distraction.

  She got her chance when the flight crossed the North Atlantic on its approach to Dublin. The flight attendants braced themselves to pick up the trash, despite the captain turning on the seatbelt sign.

  Griffin was still out cold as the attendant picked up his empties. When she reached for Clare’s can of club soda, Clare lurched toward the aisle with her hand over her mouth.

  “I’m about to throw up. I can’t hold it any longer. I have to go to the bathroom.” She bent over Griffin’s lap, waking him.

  “You need to remain seated, miss,” the attendant said. “Here’s an airsickness bag.”

  “Ohhhh,” Clare moaned. She flailed her hands at the bag, missing on purpose, and flung her full can of club soda and the cup full of ice over Griffin’s chest.

  “What the feck?” Griffin lurched awake when Clare plastered herself on his fizzing chest, with ice rolling down his shirt.

  “I’m so sorry, argghhh,” she made retching sounds, all the while pawing at Griffin as if he were a life raft.

  “Here, let me hold the bag,” the attendant said. “Right here, in front of your face. Don’t miss. Please, don’t miss.”

  Clare made hurling sounds into the airsickness bag, lifting and dipping her long, messy hair so that it flung every which way. Her crown of thorns fell onto her lap, stabbing her gut as she mock-retched.

  But underneath all the commotion, her busy hands swapped the Heart of Brigid, which weighed more than she’d expected, with the hard lump of coal.

  Making one giant roar, she pretended to try and cover the stomach contents spewing from her mouth, and neatly dropped the Heart of Brigid into the bag.

  “Dear, dear, let it all out,” the flight attendant said. “We’re almost landing. Let me get you another bag. Think you can hold onto this while I unfold another one?”

  “Yes, I shouldn’t have eaten so much. Shouldn’t have drank all the whiskey, oh, no, it’s all coming out.” Clare dropped the bag onto the floor and kicked it under the seat in front while reaching for the new one. She made more disgusting noises and rolled to her side of the seat, moaning and holding her stomach until the airplane had safely landed.

  No surprise, as soon as it was time to deplane, Griffin grabbed his carry-on and elbowed his way out without a backward glance. Clare saw him pat his chest, apparently satisfied he still had his “heart.”

  She recovered miraculously as she carefully hooked the Heart of Brigid to a braided cord around her neck. Calmly, she strapped on her ostrich wings, took out her compact, and reapplied her makeup. After patting down her hair and putting on her fairy queen crown, she reached for her carry-on bag.

  A small, green, spiral-bound notebook was sticking out of the pocket in front of Griffin’s seat.

  Very interesting.

  It appeared she and Griffin were indeed fated to meet again. Casually, she slipped the green, plastic-covered notebook into her carry-on and joined the rest of the deplaning passengers.

  “Feeling better?” the flight attendant asked Clare on her way out.

  Clare put her hand over the lump under her vest. “Oh yes, my heart belongs home in Éireann.”

  Chapter 3

  Clare’s first homecoming stop was the Blarney Bear, her favorite diner in Dublin. She called her two best friends, Maeve Malone and Sorcha O’Shea, and they were there when she arrived. It was already getting close to noon, but Clare needed a Full Irish breakfast after starving on the airplane.

  Maeve and Sorcha jumped up from the booth and skittered to her side, giggling and squealing, drawing gawks from the men lounging at the bar.

  Tall, blond, leggy, and bosomy, Maeve wore her queen of the forest huntress garb. With a quiver of hawk-feathered arrows, a yew-wood bow under her arm, and a mantle of skins hung from her shoulders, she resembled a Viking princess.

  The dark-haired, dark-eyed Sorcha was an exotic mixture of unknown origin. Her Irish mother left her few clues, leading her to believe she had a spot of Chinese, a smidgen of Barbary pirate, and a splash of Persian sultan. Slim, with her long, black hair wrapped around her head in multiple braids, Sorcha’s legs were encased in reptilian leather boots. Multi-colored glitter shimmered on her body-hugging, iridescent sea-serpent bodysuit, mesmerizing every male eye in her vicinity.

  By comparison, Clare in her bedraggled black-feathered Morrigan costume looked positively normal—an auburn-haired, pale-skinned, green-eyed, average-sized Irish lass. Her crown of black twigs had been broken in the turbulence, and she’d thrown out her wilted lettuce leaves before going through customs. Not to be outdone by their attention-attracting welcome, Clare spread her ostrich wings and let them flutter as she jumped up and down to hug her two besties.

  “How was America?” Maeve asked after Clare folded her wings and slid into the booth. “Did you score a movie deal?”

  “Who’s going to play the fairy boyfriend?” Sorcha asked. “Will we get to meet the actors?”

  “Yes, yes, tell us.” Maeve’s bright-blue eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Did you get lucky? Did all of your affirmations and intentions come true?”

  “Let me order first.” Clare waved off their questions. Things hadn’t exactly gone her way in America, especially since she’d gotten fleeced. But she’d already thrown away her losses and swatted off all negative energy with a single “bad, bad, begone” incantation. Nothing would disturb her newfound good luck of running into Griffin Gallagher and his blessed Heart of Brigid.

  “Well, well?” Both Sorcha and Maeve bounced in their seats after Clare gave her order to the waitress wh
o set the default pot of tea on the table.

  Aware of their impatience, Clare took her time pouring her tea. The aroma was strong and bold, and it prepped her mind for the announcement of her good news—make that awesome news.

  Two sets of eyes watched her expectantly, because after all, Clare was their inspiration and guru—the one who made things happen by believing in them.

  “Mmmm …” she hummed after taking a long, bittersweet sip and set down her mug. “I have an investor who’s going to fund an entire mini-series. It’s going to be a blast working with him.”

  “Is he hot?” Maeve asked. “I’d like for him to do a little investing with me.”

  “I want to know which actors you’ve lined up,” the more practical Sorcha demanded. “Can’t wait to meet them.”

  “Can you get parts for us, too?” Maeve added her petition. “Kissing parts, absolutely.”

  “We’d better get the costume-making contract.” Sorcha was being her bossy self again.

  “I want to kiss all the superheroes in the entire mini-series.” Maeve made a smooching sound. “Which series? Is it the fairies ate my boyfriend one?”

  Sorcha and Maeve were Clare’s first backers, and Clare felt like she was in a business meeting instead of having a late breakfast with her besties. They definitely had skin in Clare’s writing and movie business.

  Maeve was her editor, and Sorcha dealt with research and fact-checking. After the three of them left the orphanage at Bronagh Abbey where they grew up, they’d headed for Dublin. Clare worked as a barmaid in the Temple Bar District. Maeve became a librarian for the Old Library of Trinity College where the famous Book of Kells was kept. Sorcha, ever the academic, took college classes and worked part-time researching the archaeological finds at the National Museum of Ireland.

  Both of them had followed her journey in America through frequent updates and social media, although Clare had gotten cagey near the end when her main investor, a man she’d gotten too close to, had absconded with all the money she’d raised.

  Clare simply stirred cream into her tea and held the cup to her nose, inhaling to calm her nerves. She wasn’t exactly lying. Oh no, she wasn’t. But at the same time, she couldn’t disappoint them and let them know her entire trip to America was a failure.

  Scratch it. Failure was not in Clare’s vocabulary. She was a positive thinker, and whatever she believed hard enough would come true. It had always been this way, and she would not allow anyone to drag her down with negative energy.

  Yep, that was what had gone wrong—not that anything was wrong with the publicity she’d gotten with all the parties and social media interviews she’d given. She’d simply learned a lesson not to trust anyone who would raise money in her name and take off with her crowdfunding account.

  This time, she would approach it differently. After all, she had a fabled fairy heart in her possession.

  Slowly and with much flourish, she unlaced her vest and pushed aside the feathered cape which covered her shoulders. She flipped her hair back and slid a finger underneath the braided leather thong around her neck.

  “It’s going to be a brand-new series,” she said as she lifted the amulet from between her breasts. “Behold, the Heart of Brigid, also known as the Heart of Éireann.”

  The dull, crystalline rock lay in the palm of her hand, heavy with what felt like a pulse. It was warm from her body heat and seemed to glow under the pendant light hanging over their booth.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Sorcha gasped, reaching out to touch the precious curiosity. “It’s not a real petrified heart, is it?”

  “Who knows?” Clare said. “It’s supposed to be cursed. The man who showed it to me says it always leads him to his true love. Except the poor guy is so forgetful, he wouldn’t know if he actually found her.”

  “Did he give this to you?” Sorcha asked, eyeing the amulet as if it would start beating and squirting blood at any moment.

  “I sort of filched it while he was out drunk,” Clare said. “But here’s the deal. He’s wealthy and out of his mind. Says he dies, but always wakes up the next morning with no memory. All I have to do is write a movie for him using this amulet. We hire an actress to be his fairy princess. He has this wondrous reunion with her, writes me a check, and forgets the next day.”

  “I can’t believe you robbed a man on the airplane,” Sorcha said. “He’ll come after you with the Garda, and you’ll be rotting in jail instead of making a movie.”

  Clare cupped the amulet in both hands. “The Heart of Brigid deserves its very own story. Do you two want in on this or not?”

  “Of course, we want in on it,” Maeve said, wiggling her shoulders. She flung her wispy blond hair. “Can I be the fairy princess?”

  It figured beautiful Maeve would automatically assume she would be the star of Clare’s new story.

  “Better not make me the warty, brainy sidekick.” Sorcha pushed her horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “Superficial beauty is overrated these days.”

  “Blondes have more fun, just saying.” Maeve sniffed. “Besides, I’m the editor in this gig.”

  “I do all the research into the fake science Clare needs to make her stories work,” Sorcha argued. “Just because I wear glasses doesn’t mean I’m not sexy.”

  “Stop, stop, stop.” Clare set the amulet on the table between them. She leaned back as the waitress put her full breakfast plate in front of her. The aromas of the baked beans, bangers, and fried tomatoes mixed enticingly. She cut pieces of the food and spread them to her friends’ teacup plates. “His lover is Brigid, the triple goddess of the Tuatha Dé Danann. We can all be faces of Brigid.”

  “Wow, yes, what fun!” Maeve squealed. “What were the three things she’s goddess for?”

  “You mean you don’t know? Oh, I forgot, you’re only the mere editor,” Sorcha said, cracking her knuckles. “Brigid is the goddess of healing, poetry, and metal-working.”

  “I get healing.” Maeve raised her hand and pumped her fist.

  “Why?” Sorcha challenged. “It takes brains to be a doctor.”

  “Not if I’m a magical healer,” Maeve retorted. “All a man has to do is look at my face and he’ll be healed.”

  “Ugh, how can you stand yourself in the morning?” Sorcha twisted her lips and rolled her eyes. “Clare should be poetry, since she’s the writer. That leaves me with the metal-working, the badass part.”

  “Which one of us is he going to fall in love with?” Maeve wondered. “I bet I can heal his broken heart.”

  “Oh, sure, go for his heart. I’m going for his wallet,” Sorcha said, making karate-shaped hands and swatting them around.

  Clare’s gaze ping-ponged back and forth between her nutty friends as gales of giggles bubbled from her belly. They were too funny and always eager to try out her schemes.

  “If you’re going for his heart.” She pointed at Maeve, and then at Sorcha. “And you’re going for his wallet, I guess that leaves his schlong for me.”

  Sorcha almost choked on her tea, and Maeve slapped the seat of the booth, while Clare doubled over.

  After Clare regained her faculties, she cut a piece of fried blood sausage, her favorite part of coming home.

  Maybe her luck had finally changed. Sure, she was the positive thinking guru, and she’d preached that making affirmations of success and stating intentions, as well as believing they will come true, would bring good luck. Not that her friends believed her prattle, but hey, it was better than being a disbelieving grouch.

  Sorcha pointed at her with a fork. “Let me guess. Once you finish with his willy, this rich, but forgetful guy will submit to all your schemes and do whatever you say. Did I get that right?”

  Clare nodded with her nose in the air. “Absolutely. No problem at all. The movie is practically a done deal.”

  “Can you imagine if it’s the real heart of St. Brigid, or even a piece of it?” Maeve picked up the heart and examined it. She spoke too loud, and her vo
ice drew the sharp attention of the waitress who swapped the teapot and two men in business suits who peeked out from behind their newspapers.

  “It could be a relic of the saint,” Clare said in a lowered voice. “But I think it’s the original Brigid—goddess and queen of the Fae—immortal, who chooses to walk the earth in the form of a mortal. Who knows? She could be among us.”

  Maeve rubbed the amulet as if for good luck. “Do you think we’ve met her?”

  “I wouldn’t be rubbing that thing if I were you,” Sorcha twisted her lips. “Who knows where it’s been?”

  “You dork.” Maeve kissed it. “It’s obvious, you’ll never get anyone’s heart, wealth, or flute.”

  I would get it all, Clare thought silently to herself. Because I think and therefore, I am Brigid.

  Chapter 4

  Home for Griffin was his grandfather’s castle perched on a bluff in the northernmost peninsula of Ireland. It was remote and wild, timeless like the ancient mists when Ireland was ruled by chieftains and druids.

  Griffin didn’t breathe easily until his family butler opened the door of the Rolls Royce Silver Shadow limo he was riding in.

  The airplane ride had been annoying, especially seated next to that bubbleheaded woman who wore outlandish clothing, claimed to be a witch and a writer, and then capped off the flight by threatening to vomit over him.

  These days, lowlife like her were allowed in first class. Her leather-like vest had patches of superglue on it, and her bootheels were worn rounded. The carry-on bag she kicked under the seat in front of her was of cheap canvas and fake suede, and she didn’t even have the grace to barf quietly and discreetly.

  Who’d paid for her ticket? Or perhaps she’d gotten a free upgrade by flirting with one of the pilots.

  Too bad she was attractive underneath her gaudy makeup, feathers, and salad fixings. If he could pluck out her pinfeathers, pick the thorns from her hair, and throw the hazelnuts and vegetables down the garbage disposal, she could be worth getting naked with. Or, perish the thought, getting her pregnant with a cabbage patch baby?