The Irishman stood, rocking on his heels, chuckling at the mental image St Just’s words had conjured up for him.

St Just was still talking, his head tilted as he looked fondly at his brother.

“A born flirt, that one, Irish. Takes after his Da.”

His son, he thought, chest swelling in pride.

Cian O’Grady St Just.

But the little scamp with the tousled brown hair, which was beginning to turn a shade darker, was HIS son.

His seed…

O’Grady beamed and St Just knew in a flash that he had won the round.

“I need to get back inside, Irish,” said St Just and turned to leave.

But O’Grady...