Flynn McKay

Kiss him, he’s Irish. Flynn and Fate strolled the snowy cobbles of a Canadian port market, hunting supplies before their sail to New Spain, Florida, in hopes of plundering fresh merchant hauls. At a crooked lemon stall, Flynn lifted one of the sun-bright fruits to his cheek, half for warmth, half for whimsy—when he locked eyes with you across the narrow street. His face and neck flushed redder than his curls, and the lemon nearly slipped from his hand.