Irish Saying For Good Morning Novels & Stories

I kissed his lips, tasting the salt of the tears. "I love you," I said. "Even when you're difficult. Even when you make mistakes. Even when jealousy and fear consume you. I love you." Declan kissed my forehead, my nose, my mouth. "Mo ghrá... mo chroí... mo bhean..." he whispered again in Gaelic. "Tá grá agam duit... go deo." (Approximate translation: My love... my heart... my woman... I love you... forever.)

I’d been amazed when I’d met an American who’d actually known Ireland and Northern Ireland were two separate countries. “Do you speak—oh, what is it called—” “Gaelic?” I said gently. “Irish is fine, too.” Reagan lit up. “Yes! Like Jamie from Outlander. If you speak it, I’ll probably burst into flames. It’s so hot. Oh my God, do you ever wear a kilt?” I couldn’t help myself. She was so earnestly stupid. My Gaelic was rusty and had never been great, but I leaned down and whispered, “Is cuma sa toll feisithe liomsa.”

Siri shows me two leather pouches. When the fire is roaring, we all step up to it and Siri opens one of the pouches, handing it to Marta. "The first handful of herbs we throw to clean our mind. Your worries will disappear and you are present in the moment. Just do as we do". Marta reaches inside, pulling out some herbs, before leaning over the fire, throwing them into the flames. A wave of blue/grey smoke hit her in the face. "Nam bithinn a ’coiseachd ann an gleann sgàil a’ bhàis, chan eil eagal orm ro olc. Amen". She speaks gaelic or at least I think she does. She breathes in the smoke and hands the herbs to Gudrun.

' 'Faolan,' he answered simply and fixed his pale eyes onto Iris's. Iris shivered, a remnant of her earlier exposure to the elements, or was it something deeper, something primal that Faolan's stare had stirred in her guts? 'Interesting name,' Iris said eventually, breaking the spell. 'Gaelic,' Faolan explained, 'Irish,' he elaborated slightly. 'Speaking of Irish,' he said and clapped his hands together. 'How about something to warm you up? You must think I'm a terrible host.' 'Not at all,' Iris replied. 'You've been more than kind. I... I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't found me.'

The forty-year-old lovely stepmom waved a hand at her with a broad smile in her caramel-colored lips. “How’s the day?” “I’m totally fine. Psychology has been gradually teaching me manners, I guess,” she responded as she lay down her sea-green school bag. The waitress, dressed in Ireland’s colors, then arrived with their food and slowly set them down. Rozelyn muttered her thanks in Gaelic.

The panda mutters something in a language I'm familiar with. Irish. “Banna nua, an bhfeicim? Truamhéalach. Teipfidh oraibh cosúil leis na cinn eile.” I reply, their jaws dropping in surprise. A new gang I see? Pathethic. You'll fail like the others. “How'd you hear that?!” They both ask at once. I smirk, sizing both men up with my eyes, “The question should be how dare you say that?”

He winked at me, "The Irish are a boring group of people who live their lives overly paranoid. The only time they seemed at ease is when they were sloshed in a pub." I heard a slight huff come from the direction of Ava and it made me smile. He was trying to rile her, and I found it comical. Liam chuckled, "They say the best part of Ireland is the brew. I never had a taste for it myself. Too bitter for my liking." I couldn't stifle the laugh building in my gut. They were getting to her. She must really love Ireland. "Are we going to just sit around all day or are we going to work on getting you ready to defend yourself?" Ava snarled.

His gaze darted around the dimly lit room before settling on me, his expression shifting from confusion to something softer—something raw. “Stór,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. I frowned, tilting my head as I made him glop down a glass of water. “What’s that?” I asked after he drank. His lips twitched faintly. “It means my love in Irish.” My heart clenched. His eyes lit up slightly when I smiled, and for a moment, it was just us. No war. No abandonment. No past. Just us.

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you – what does Cosantóirí stand for?” “It’s a nod to my ancestry,” he explains with a proud smile as he sits down again. “My great-great-grandmother was full blood Irish. Cosantóirí means ‘defenders’ in Gaelic.” We finish breakfast, the mood lighter than before, and stand side-by-side at my double sinks to wash, dry, and put away our plates and silverware. “We’ve got about an hour to kill,” I tell him when I glance at the oven’s built-in clock.

"It's Liam speaking. Guess my real name is no stranger to your damn mind." Irish, startled by the man calling, sat up on her ass on the bed, her body turning rigid and alert... Her mind traveled back to her last encounter with Liam. He had said he would find her no matter how hard she tried to run or his.e Was that what he was doing now? But Irish wasn't about to let her feeling of apprehension show - not now and not ever. "Hey. Good morning would suit you. Care to tell me how the fuck you got my number?"