Hard Irish by Jennifer Saints

herself nodding agreement.  Leave it to Dessie to put a mountain into anthill perspective.
    “Second thing you’re going to do is spend the night with me and have a drink or two.  Any argument there?”
    “Or three,” Rocky added, finding her voice amid the grateful rush of emotion.  If it wasn’t for Dessie, Rocky realized that she would really be alone, just as Uncle Pat had worried.
    “The third thing is you’re going to tell me the last part of that story all over again.  The man-kiss part.  Damn.  He must be something.  To get you to do in seconds what I’ve been pushing you to do for years is beyond believable.”
    Rocky laughed.
    “The fourth thing we are going to do is figure out what you’ve got to do to be comfortable in your house and do it.  I know one sexy-as-hell bouncer you’d just love having around for a while and he’d make mincemeat of your ex.”
    “Have I told you lately that I love you?” Rocky smiled through her threatening tears.  She hated herself for this weakness.  She wished like hell she could march right up to Collin, plaster his ass to the ground and walk away, leaving him to cower in fear.
    “Not nearly enough, dear.  Now let’s get the PJ party on the road, but don’t forget your shotgun.  My Bessie hasn’t been oiled in a while, so no telling what she’d do in a pinch.”
    “I’ll bring my kit and clean her up for you.” Rocky left the room, thinking what a difference a friend makes.
    Everything from the day’s events and the past that had been crashing down on her moments ago had been pulverized to dust.  By the time she walked into Dessie’s house and cleaned her friend’s shotgun, she was almost wishing Collin did show up just so she could show him that she wasn’t afraid of him.
    “You do that like an expert,” Dessie said.
    “What?”
    “Handle that gun.”
    “With what goes on in today’s world, a woman needs to know the business ends of weapons.”
    “Oh, I know the business end of a gun, doesn’t mean I can handle it like a, pro.”
    Rocky shrugged.  “I’ll take you to the shooting range.  It won’t take you long to learn.” She set the unloaded weapons on the counter and washed the gun oil off her hands.
    “Deal,” Dessie said moving into the living room.  “Speaking of hot guns.  What’s his name?  This miracle man who managed to kiss your socks off?”  She plopped down on her zebra print couch and sank deep into a sea of pink satin pillows.
    Sighing, Rocky joined her.  “I don’t know.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’ve never seen him before.  He just showed up in the middle of the bar fight and took on Collin.”
    “This is great.  I’ll call Sally tomorrow.  She’ll be able to playback surveillance and we can ID your mystery man in a jiffy.”
    “You sound like one of those high-tech spy shows.  You going to run his picture through a computer or something?”
    “Honey, nothing so complicated as that.  If he was in that bar, he had to have had a drink, which means he had a waitress and these days he likely used plastic.  Just leave it to Dessie.  I will find your man.  What you have to decide is what you’re going to do with him when I do.”
    That was one question she did not what to answer at the moment.  Would .  Should .  And Could , were often worlds apart.  “What did you decide to do with yours?” Rocky asked, turning the tables.
    “My what?”  Dessie blinked.
    “Your Redford hunk.  What did you decide to do with him?  And what is his name.  You’ve never said.”
    “He goes by the name of Saint.  Don’t ask me why because there is nothing saintly to what his bedroom eyes incite.  But fantasy is as far as it will ever go.  The young man has a whole life to live in front of him.  I’ve lived most of mine already.  And even though I can be talked into gratuitous sex on occasion, wisdom demands that I draw the line.  He’s too young.”
    “We’ll see,” Rocky