Thursday, February 24, 2011


Tabitha turned and grinned over the long plank bar at the patrons of O’Shea’s Irish pub. Here was a pub with the true substance of the Emerald Isle. They had fae mixing it up with brownies and sprites. Leprechauns and djinn shot pool, and druid maidens swayed to Bocephus. Okay, so the Bocephas weren’t really an Irish thing, but Tabitha was from Texas, and since she couldn’t get them to listen to any rap or hip hop and she was frankly frightened of their knowledge of Motown and their love of artist like Bobby Blue Bland and Clarence Carter and Denise la Salle, she passed her time watching them bond with the humans over the countries newest acts and biggest hits.

Her boss was definitely Irish. The coppery red hair that was currently cut close and spiky on top of his head. The piercing green eyes that where often deeper than the whole Atlantic Ocean. Those were her favorite parts. Well, those and his massive shoulders and chest. Maybe those washboard abs or God—hey, she may be in a bar full of creatures and mythical critters, it only reinforced her belief in one true God—Seamus’s ass. No doubt about it. Irish looked hunky, handsome and damn fine on Seamus.

“You’re staring at me like you’ve missed your morning meal again, Tab,” Seamus said from over his shoulder.

Sure, she wanted to get in his bed and find out if the bulge running up the left side of his pants was real or just a hunk of German sausage.

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