Kiss Me, I'm Irish: The Sins of His Past / Tangling With Ty / Whatever Reilly Wants...

KISS ME, I’M IRISH

The Sins of His Past

Roxanne St. Claire

Tangling with Ty

Jill Shalvis

Whatever Reilly Wants’

Maureen Child

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

The Sins of His Past

Roxanne St. Claire

Dear Reader,

The Sins of His Past is centered around Monroe’s, an old-fashioned Irish pub undergoing a twenty-first-century transformation. When Deuce Monroe’s professional baseball career comes to an untimely end, he returns to his hometown with the intention of taking over his father’s bar. But nothing at Monroe’s is what he expects. Vying for the ownership of the neighborhood watering hole is a sexy and daunting opponent, more threatening than any Deuce ever faced on the pitcher’s mound.

When The Sins of His Past was originally released, my son was playing Little League and inspiring me to write baseball heroes. Now I’m celebrating the book’s reissue in this anthology…just as that little ballplayer heads to college. Talk about twenty-first-century transformations! My writing has changed over the years, too. These days, my books usually include one villain and a few dead bodies, but in re-reading this novel, I remembered how much I enjoyed writing a sensual story with a conflict-rich romance driving every scene. Oh, and a baseball-playing hero.

Seamus “Deuce” Monroe is that endearing Irish mix of a wild card with a good heart and lost soul. He’s hot, he’s funny, he’s vulnerable, and he’s facing a few transformations of his own. So, I invite you to step into Monroe’s, raise a glass (or cup of coffee, depending on which team you’re rooting for) and enjoy this story about two people who have some sins in their past and love in their future.

Roxanne St. Claire

This book is dedicated to the gang

who gathers at our field of dreams every weekend.

From my side of the chain-link fence, I’m often reminded that it’s not whether you win or lose, but how incredibly cute you look playing the game. Special love to the coach

I married, the shortstop who takes my breath away

and the littlest cheerleader by my side.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#uef4ac01d-bb1d-562f-96c7-d6963183825b)

CHAPTER TWO (#u9590c908-b74c-5c24-9fdf-fbcafad6ce3c)

CHAPTER THREE (#ud97de127-1b63-58e1-a578-cc4c0eff0ec3)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u5626664f-5da2-549e-9747-04230753c712)

CHAPTER FIVE (#uecad9a2d-4d6c-5aeb-900d-86168fea72e2)

CHAPTER SIX (#u8e764e0c-f352-50c7-8c3f-0d89b7d04f2c)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#u94bf781b-a68c-5f35-893d-a004a1e23f74)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#u2e26b450-1efb-524b-9657-9aa0af12f8aa)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

ONLY ONCE BEFORE could Deuce Monroe remember being speechless. When he’d met Yaz. He’d shaken the great man’s hand and tried to utter a word, but he’d been rendered mute in the presence of his hero, Carl Yastrzemski.

But standing in the warm April sunshine on the main drag in Rockingham, Massachusetts, staring at a building that had once been as familiar to him as his home field pitcher’s mound, he was damn near dumbstruck.

Where was Monroe’s?

He peered at the sign over the door. Well, it said Monroe’s. With no capital M and a sketch of a laptop computer and a coffee mug next to it. But the whole place just seemed like Monroe’s on steroids. In addition to taking up way more space than he remembered, the clapboard had been replaced by a layer of exposed brick covered in ivy, and three bay windows now jutted into the sidewalk.

At least the old mahogany door hadn’t changed. He gripped the familiar brass handle, yanked it toward him and stepped inside.

Where he froze and swallowed a curse. Instead of the familiar comfort of a neighborhood bar, there was a wide-open area full of sofas and sunlight and…computers?

Where the hell was Monroe’s?

The real Monroe’s—not this…this cyber salon.

He scanned the space, aching for something familiar, some memory, some scent that would embrace him like his long-lost best friend.

But all he could smell was…coffee.

They didn’t serve coffee at his parents’ bar. Ice-cold Bud on tap, sure. Plenty of whiskey, rum and even tequila, but not coffee. Not here, where the locals gathered after the Rock High games to replay every one of Deuce’s unpredictable but deadly knuckleballs. Not here, where all available wall space was filled with action shots from big games, framed team jerseys and newspaper clippings touting his accomplishments and talent. Not here, where—

“Can I help you, sir?”

Deuce blinked, still adjusting to the streaming sunlight where there shouldn’t be any, and focused on a young woman standing in front of him.

“Would you like a computer station?” she asked.

What he’d like is a Stoli on the rocks. He glanced at the bar. At least that was still there. But the only person sitting at it was drinking something out of a cup. With a saucer.

“Is Seamus Monroe here?” Not that he expected his father to be anywhere near the bar on a Tuesday morning, but he’d already tried the house and it was empty. Deserted-looking, actually. A little wave of guilt threatened, but he shook it off.