Walking the Line

Finn Ahearn’s Irish luck runs out when he
travels half way around the world to Sydney.

The seedier side of the city’s Kings Cross
soon catches up with him and he finds the only way he can get back
on stable footing is to accept a bartending job, working for tough
Aussie bar owner Ellie Finch.

Ellie is a decade older than Finn but that
doesn’t stop the charming Irishman from wooing her.

Ellie doesn’t believe in the
happily-ever-after dream any longer, not since hers imploded a long
time ago. Her values are a world apart from Finn’s. They have
absolutely nothing in common.

But can a smooth-talking Irishman sway a
hard-hearted cynic to believe in love again?

By

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Nicola Marsh 2015

Published by Nicola Marsh 2015

All the characters in this book have no
existence outside the imagination of the author and have no
relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names.
They’re not distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown
to the author and all the incidents in the book are pure
invention.

All rights reserved including the right of
reproduction in any form. The text or any part of the publication
may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the
written permission of the publisher.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or
trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned
in this work of fiction.

Discover other titles by USA TODAY
bestselling & multi-award winning author Nicola Marsh at

http://www.nicolamarsh.com

Crossing the Line

Towing the Line

Blurring the Line

Before

Brash

Blush

Bold

Crazy Love

Lucky Love

The Second Chance Guy

Banish (YA)

Scion of the Sun (YA)

Wicked Heat

Wanton Heat

Not the Marrying Kind

Busted in Bollywood

FINN

The fabled Irish luck my homeland is famous
for? A leprechaun’s crock of shit.

Since I’d landed in Sydney yesterday I’d had
my pockets picked, lost my passport, had my secret stash of cash
stolen and was about to get my head kicked in by a bunch of
lowlifes hanging around the fountain at Kings Cross.

Four ferals wearing hoodies that hadn’t seen
the inside of a washing machine for a month stalked toward me,
hands in pockets, trouble in their frigid glares.

I hesitated, glanced at the park behind me,
knowing that making a run for it wouldn’t stop this rabble. They
looked meaner than my Aunt Siobhan when her whiskey soured.

I had no choice. I had to cut through the
group to get to the backpackers’ hostel at the other end of
Darlinghurst Road. And that meant I was definitely cruising for a
bruising.

As I squared my shoulders and tried to make
the most of my six feet two inches—yeah, like height trumped
weapons—I wished for a fleeting second I was back in Cork, sitting
down to one of Mum’s famous stews alongside my six siblings, a
raggedy mob who bickered over anything from Gaelic football results
to the state of the economy.

My family drove me nuts, but the last thing
they needed was to get a long distance phone call reporting I’d
been beaten up. Or worse.

Cursing my idiocy at wanting to experience
more beyond the charmed life I’d led in Cork, I strode toward the
gang.

“Hey mate, you’re late.” A young guy stepped
out of a doorway on my left and clapped me on the back. “The rest
of the guys are inside waiting for us.”

I had no idea who this guy was but as the
ferals frowned and their narrow-eyed gazes flicked between us in
confusion, I knew I’d rather take my chances heading into the bar
with my new bestie.

I made a grand show of glancing at my watch.
“Sorry. Didn’t think rugby training would finish so late.”

The young guy grinned, appearing suitably
impressed by my quick improvisation. “Come on. Next round’s on
you.”

I gladly followed the guy into the bar,
hoping he didn’t have ten biker mates in the back room who’d do
worse than the gang outside.

After scouring countless websites citing
Kings Cross as raw and edgy and real, I’d known this is where I
would kick off my Aussie trip. Way past time for this good Catholic
boy to get down and dirty and what better place than the Cross, as
locals called it. I’d expected the strip club spruikers, druggies,
drunks, pimps, prostitutes, transvestites and dealers. I hadn’t
expected to feel so goddamn vulnerable.

“First day in Oz?” the guy asked, as we
stepped into a surprisingly empty bar, considering dusk brought the
crowds out along this strip.

“Second,” I said, managing a wry smile. “What
gave it away?”

“The fact you were dumb enough to take on
four guys unarmed instead of taking refuge in a bar ‘til they
left.” The guy stuck his hand out. “Kye Sheldon.”

“Finn Ahearn, clueless Irish mick who thanks
you for saving my arse.”

Kye grinned. “You’re welcome.” He slid behind
the bar. “Beer?”

I nodded. “You work here?”

“Nah, but I’ve known Ellie for years, she
won’t mind.” He pulled two beers like a barman, leaving the right
amount of head. “She loves it when I visit.”

“Ellie’s the owner?”

“Yeah, she’s the best.” Kye slid a beer
toward me. “We used to be neighbors.”

A local had rescued me. Made sense the gang
had backed off rather than attacking us. They probably sensed a
kindred spirit, though Kye looked far from a hoodlum. In fact, he
could’ve been a double for one of the Hemsworth dudes my youngest
sis was always drooling over.

“You lived here?” Unfortunately, I made it
sound like he’d grown up in the gutter and a frown slashed his
brows.

“My Mum ran the strip joint next door. We
lived in the apartment above.” Kye’s flat tone held so much
coldness I almost shivered. “She died five years ago, when I was
fifteen.”

I wanted to say sorry but knew this kid
wouldn’t want a trite apology.

“Sounds tough, losing her so young.”

“I survived.” Kye drained his beer in a few
short gulps. “Which is more than I can say for you if you keep
wandering around the Cross with ‘tourist’ tattooed on your
forehead.”

He narrowed his eyes, glared at me. “No
offence, mate, but you look like a kid waiting to be beat up.”

Bane of my existence, looking like a
teenager. Mum’s genes. Dad resembled a Sharpay.

“I’m twenty-four.”

Kye’s eyebrows rose. “No shit?”

I chuckled, liking Kye’s forthrightness. “I
get enough of that from my six siblings.”

“Six, fuck.” Kye winced. “Let me guess. Good
Catholic family?”

I nodded. “Born and bred in Cork, five
generations.”

“What brings you here?”

I’d been pondering that very question for
months. The simple answer was the four-month turf management job
I’d been offered courtesy of my granddad’s connections. I didn’t
want to think about the rest right now, so I settled for
simple.

“Job offer in Melbourne to up-skill, couldn’t
say no.”

Kye tilted his head slightly, studying me,
like he sensed I was full of BS. “What do you do?”

“Specialty turf management for sporting
grounds. You?”

“Tennis player.”

From where I came from, tennis was a hobby,
and my skepticism must’ve showed because Kye sniggered.

“I know, right? Imagine getting paid to play
sport.”

“You must be good.”

He shrugged. “Been at the academy two years.
It’s a shithole.”

“Then why do you stick at it?”

Damn, the question popped out before I could
stop. My bluntness was something I’d tried to conquer my whole life
and failed, despite several black eyes and the odd case of blue
balls spurring me on.

“Because I can’t do anything else.” Rather
than punch me in the head, Kye eyed me with newfound respect. “How
long are you in Sydney for?”

“A month. Thought I’d do the touristy thing
‘til the job starts. Though considering I had the bulk of my
savings stolen by some hippy chick I was drinking with last night,
I may have to cut my time in Sydney short.”

Kye hesitated, as if weighing his words
carefully. “Where are you staying?”

My thumb jerked at the door. “One of the
backpacker hostels on Darlinghurst Road.”

“You won’t last a week.”

Annoyed by his accurate assumption,
considering what had occurred over the last twenty-four hours, I
rested my forearms on the bar.

“Guess that’s my problem, not yours.”

Kye frowned and glanced over his shoulder at
a huge mirrored glass window at the back of the bar. “Actually, I
think I have a solution to your problem.”

“What—”

“Ever worked in a bar?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m Irish. What do you
think?”

“I take that as a yes?”

I nodded, increasingly confused.

“You need to lose the deer-in-the-headlights
expression for locals to respect you. Plus you need money.” Kye
pulled me another beer though I’d barely touched the first. “Here,
get this into you while I have a chat to Ellie.”

He grinned. “If Ellie can’t toughen you up,
no-one can.”

* * *

ELLIE

As Kye stuck his head around my office door,
I pointed at the bar where he’d left his mate. “Hope you left your
money in the till.”

Kye grinned. “What happened to your beers on
the house policy?”

“That only applies to you, not some stray you
drag in here when we’re officially closed.” I stood and moved
around the desk, beckoning him in. “Who is he?”

“Irishman who was about to get his head
kicked in.”

“So you saved him?” I clutched at my chest.
“Careful there, Squirt, you’re almost making me believe you have a
heart.”

“You’ve known me long enough to know that’s
bullshit.” Kye entered the office and made a beeline for me.
“How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain.”

He hugged me and I swallowed the lump that
inevitably lodged in my throat whenever Kye visited.

I’d known him for fifteen years, since I’d
lobbed in the Cross and started working here. He’d been a cherubic
five year old who’d made my heart bleed for what I’d left behind
and what I could never have. Sheree, his mum, had been instrumental
in me eventually buying the bar so after she’d died, I’d made a
personal vow to look after Kye best I could.

He’d left the Cross five years ago, sent off
to boarding school by his rich dad, then lived at the
fancy-schmancy tennis academy the last two years. But Kye never
forgot his roots and often came to visit, usually dropping by
unexpectedly, like now. Highlight of my shitty week so far. Casual
employees and their fickleness sucked; trying to make the roster
work when down two workers was a major pain in the arse.

He released me, and held me at arm’s length.
“You look tired.”

“Pulling extra shifts to fill in for flaky
shitheads will do that to a girl.” I gestured at my desk. “Plus I’m
way behind on paperwork because of it.”

A slow grin creased his face. “I might have
the answer to your problems.”

“Unless you have Ryan Gosling willing to pull
beers for an evening before tucking me into bed, I’m not
interested.”

Kye laughed. “The Irishman knows how to work
a bar and he needs a cash injection.”

“No.” I held up my hand. “I don’t hire
tourists.”

“He has a working visa. Heading down to
Melbourne in a month.” Kye pointed at the glass. “He can help you
out of your staff shortage fix and you can provide him with
something he needs more than money.”

“What’s that?”

“Life experience.” Kye’s audible concern
surprised me. “The guy’s a patsy. An easy mark.” His eyes narrowed,
suddenly sly. “You know what that’s like, right?”

“Touché.” I’d almost been mugged—and worse—by
one of Sheree’s drunk patrons when I’d first arrived at the Cross,
a naive country girl who’d run from my past, seeking refuge in the
big city. Small town life hadn’t prepared me for Sydney but I’d
wised up, learned, adapted, thanks to Sheree and my job here.

Maybe I should do the same for the Irishman?
Pay it forward and all that karma crap.

“Working here will give the guy some
experience of the Cross, so he’s not picked off before the week’s
out.” Kye snickered. “Plus I feel sorry for him.”

“He’s that clueless?”

“Worse. One of those annoyingly cheerful
optimists, the exact opposite of us.”