Page 34 of Promise Me This

I grab the last scone, runt of the litter if I’ve ever seen one, and a couple cold rashers of bacon, both the only meager bits left of the hours-old breakfast spread.

“What are you talking about?” I ask around a mouthful of bread and jam. She scrunches her nose up at me in disgust, so I cover my mouth after the fact, although it’s too little too late.

Her silver curls sway when she shakes her head at me. “First he was avoiding you, and now you’re the one avoiding him.” She clucks her tongue in disappointment before adding, “You two are going to put me in an early grave.”

“I’m not avoiding him…” I start to say, but I don’t even sound convincing to myself.

“Sure, you’re not.”

The only way to win this debate is not to engage, so I decide to change the subject. “Where’s Niamh?”

She glares at me pointedly, letting me know she’s onto me, but she still takes the bait. “She’s next door at the Sullivan’s. One of their cats is after having kittens, and they said she’d be welcome to come see them.”

“Did she ever decide what to name them?”

“Not yet!” a familiar voice calls, drawing our attention to the doorway. Niamh kicks out of her boots and drops her raincoat where she’s standing, letting it splat on the floor as she skips over to us. “They were so cute, Leona! You’ve got to come see them.”

Just as I open my mouth to answer, my stomach lets out a startling growl so loud I’m certain the whole town has heard it.

“Now, hon, you can’t be living off a few old rashers and a prayer. I’m off to the shops with this one soon as I fix her hair, but in the meantime there’s a pub just up the street that has nice food. Get you a bite to eat and put some meat on those bones.” Siobhan pokes my ribs, making Niamh giggle. “They have a sticky toffee pudding that’s to die for.”

“Oh, bring me some, please!” Niamh pleads. Siobhan hoists her onto the countertop with a grunt and begins unraveling Callum’s attempt at double French braids. And I thought his singles were sloppy.

“I’ve got three rooms to clean upstairs,” I say, trying to catch Siobhan’s eye. She’s already doing so much for me by letting me work in exchange for boarding and a bit of spending money. I don’t want to take advantage by leaving the rooms till late.

“Nonsense,” she scoffs, waving a hand at me. “We aren’t full up tonight, and this one’s spending the night while her dad goes off hunting with Podge. It’ll be grand. Bring us back a toffee pudding to share and all will be forgiven.”

“And then we can go see the kittens!” Niamh says.

I smile at her as warmly as I can, though my heart is still feeling a bit fragile. I’m about to turn around and leave when Niamh gives me the world’s most earth-shattering grin as she adds, “Granny’s gotta fix my plaits cause Daddy’s no good at doubles. But he keeps practicing ’cause I told him I wanna look just like you!”

The tops of my ears grow hot, and my nose burns like I’m going to cry. All I can manage is a nod and a pinch of Niamh’s arm. When I finally squeak out, “Just like me,” it sounds like someone else’s voice.

Niamh is blinded with pride, but Siobhan notices something is off. Before she can enter a new line of questioning, I pivot on my heel and head for the door and the much-needed walk in fresh air that awaits me.

The Bridge Street Bed-and-Breakfast is not far off the main strip. I’ve barely been walking five minutes before a black awning with gold lettering appears through the mist. I duck inside McDonough’s, and I’m welcomed by a dimly lit pub occupied by exactly one person: the bartender. He’s my age, possibly a little younger. With close-cropped dark hair and bright blue eyes, he’s more than pleasant to look at.

Not that it matters.

He glances up from the glass he’s polishing and does a quick once-over of my body. “Take a seat wherever you’d like,” he says warmly, gesturing only to the barstools directly in front of him rather than the many tables and booths spread throughout the restaurant.

I’m halfway tempted to choose the farthest corner booth anyway, simply to have the alone time, but then he’d have to cross the entire restaurant to serve me, which feels a bit rude. I select the leather-topped barstool directly across from him instead, climbing on as he settles a laminated menu on the glossy wooden counter in front of me.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asks, his voice surprisingly raspy considering his clean-cut look. He’s wearing a black vest over a white button-down, and he’s rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing the pale skin of his forearms.

I glance back down at the menu, though I can still feel his eyes on me. “Just a Coke to start, please. And could I have a Caesar salad?”

He nods, retrieving a glass bottle of Coke from the mini fridge behind him and popping its top off before placing it in front of me. It’s quickly joined by a small glass containing two ice cubes and a slice of lemon adorning the rim.

“Could I get some more ice?”

“Right, yeah, forgot you Americans love your ice.” He uses the metal scoop to collect a few extra cubes and plops them into the glass.

I pour the soda while he types my order into the touch screen at the other end of the bar.

“So what brings you all the way to Cahersiveen by yourself?” he asks, retrieving the rag from his back pocket and twirling it absentmindedly in circles. The sinew of muscle on his exposed forearm flexes with the movement.

“Just trying to get away for a little while.” It’s the closest to blasé that I’m capable of sounding, and I hope it doesn’t sound as flimsy to his ears as it does to mine.

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