Chapter 1: The Invitation
Sarah stood at her garden gate, the late afternoon sun
catching in her blonde hair as Mr. Jinx curled around her ankles. She had just
finished her third cup of coffee when the postman handed her a letter —
old-fashioned, handwritten, sealed with a wax stamp shaped like a wave.
Curious, she opened it.
"Sarah," it began. "Your
creativity, your charm, and your rather brilliant cat have caught my attention.
I’m inviting you on a journey — not just through Europe, but through something
deeper. Meet me in Galway. You won’t regret it. — Mr. Salty."
She tilted her head. Mr. Salty? Who signs letters like that?
Still, there was something about the tone — cheeky, mysterious, bold. And Sarah
was no stranger to boldness. She looked down at Mr. Jinx. “What do you think,
boss? Should we go?”
The cat flicked his tail as if to say, Finally, some
excitement around here.
Chapter 2: Luggage, Lace & Leaving Clonsilla
There’s a difference between packing for a trip and packing
for a Salty adventure. Sarah knew this.
She stood in her bedroom, suitcase wide open, her fingers
brushing over delicate fabrics — lace, satin, silk — the kind of pieces you
didn’t wear unless you were planning to make someone forget their name. A fiery
red set she hadn’t worn in years. A black corset that hugged her in all the
right places. A sheer white number that probably broke at least three laws in
more modest countries.
Into the case they went.
"Don’t look at me like that,” she smirked at Mr. Jinx,
who sat on the windowsill, judging her as usual. “It’s not just about
lingerie. I’ve got class too, you know.”
Next went three of her favourite dresses: one emerald green
that clung to her curves like it had been designed for her alone; one soft,
lilac wrap dress that hinted at sweetness; and a plunging midnight blue one for
when the sun dipped and things got interesting.
And of course — heels. Tall ones. Dangerous ones.
She packed light, but she packed intentionally.
The next morning, Sarah kissed her tidy Clonsilla garden
goodbye and wheeled her suitcase toward Hansfield train station. The early
train to Galway rumbled into the platform with a low growl and that familiar
Irish rail charm — a little clunky, a little cozy, and full of possibilities.
She boarded, found her seat by the window, and settled in
with a sigh. Her reflection in the glass caught her eye — blonde hair perfectly
tousled, subtle lipstick, a flash of excitement in her blue eyes.
She looked like a woman about to fall into something
reckless and beautiful.
The train rolled through the heart of Ireland — past sleepy
villages, endless green, and skies that threatened to rain but never quite
committed. The soft rumble of wheels on track was oddly soothing, like the calm
before a storm.
Halfway through the journey, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You on board yet, gorgeous?
Sarah grinned. She didn’t need to ask who it was.
Sarah: Train to Galway. Red knickers packed. You?
Mr. Salty: Waiting with a bottle of wine and very
questionable intentions.
Sarah: Then I’ll be sure to wear something that
encourages bad decisions.
Mr. Jinx, curled in his carrier under the seat, gave a low,
sleepy meow, as if entirely unsurprised that his owner was flirting with a
mysterious man before even arriving.
By the time the train pulled into Galway Station, the sun
was starting to dip low — casting the streets in golden light. Sarah stepped
off the train, heels clicking, hips swaying, and confidence radiating like heat
off a summer sidewalk.
A man stood near the platform exit, tall, broad-shouldered,
with a crooked smile and salt-streaked stubble. He wore a linen shirt
half-unbuttoned, cargo pants, and boots that looked like they’d walked across
continents. He had a glint in his eye that promised trouble.
“Sarah?” he asked, stepping forward.
She tilted her head. “Mr. Salty, I presume?”
He took her hand and kissed it — old-school, smooth, and a
little outrageous. “You look like sin dressed as elegance.”
She laughed, low and warm. “And you look like my next bad
idea.”
They locked eyes. The air between them pulsed with
possibility.
He led her out into the lively streets of Galway, toward a
boutique guesthouse with ivy climbing its stone walls and candlelight
flickering in the windows. As they walked, they talked — not about work or
weather, but about books they loved, the worst dates they’d survived, and that
strange electricity you only feel when you’ve met someone who gets you,
instantly and completely.
Mr. Salty was charming — not in that polished, rehearsed
way, but raw and unapologetic. He had opinions. Stories. Scars. And he looked
at Sarah like she was the main event, not just a passing pleasure.
And Sarah, bustier and bolder than ever, felt something she
hadn’t felt in a long time.
Excitement. Anticipation. A bit of mischief.
That night, after wine and tapas and flirtation that flirted
dangerously close to foreplay, Sarah stood in front of the mirror in their
suite. She wore the emerald green dress. Her curves shimmered under the low
light. Her heart beat loud, steady.
Behind her, Mr. Salty leaned against the doorway, watching
her with reverent hunger.
“I told myself I’d behave tonight,” he said, voice low.
Sarah turned, slowly, smiling as she slipped off one strap.
“Tell yourself something else.”
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