Page 31 of Trying Sophie

“So, umm, I was wondering … about this charity thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Is that something you do a lot?”

“Yeah, here and there. It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a really big deal,” I said, sliding my hand across the table before realizing what I was doing and diverting it toward my glass. Cupping my hand around my beer, I added, “I’ve been surrounded by professional athletes my entire life and most don’t ever lift a finger to help others.”

I downed the remainder of my Guinness to give me a bit of liquid courage. I didn’t know if I’d offend Declan by asking for a favor, but his shifty responses made me think he wasn’t entirely comfortable with people knowing he was a secret do-gooder.

“So,” I said, draining the last of the foam.

“So,” he echoed.

“So, I was wondering if you’d, umm, be interested in, err, could possibly do, wouldn’t mind …”

Declan reached across the table and put his large, warm hand on my wrist to stop my fidgeting.

“Sophie.” His voice dropped, my name sounding incredibly sexy in his South Dublin accent. I could listen to him read the phone book and be a happy camper. “What is it you want to ask me?”

He squeezed my arm and pulled away.

Right. What did I want to ask him?

My mind had gone blank and my arm tingled from where he’d touched it.

Something about a charity and the pub. Maybe beer was involved, I thought.

Shaking my head, I forced my thoughts back to the matter at hand.

“So, I’ve been trying to come up with a way to raise money for the repairs the pub needs but every idea I put forth, they shoot down. Cost cutting measures, ways to increase overall revenue, ideas to use space that’s otherwise going to waste … nothing is good enough.”

I felt disloyal for framing my grandparents’ responses in such a way, but I needed him to see how dire the situation had become.

“That’s not entirely true. It’s not that nothing’s good enough; it’s just that they’re from a different generation and they’ve run this place successfully for decades and are stuck in their ways. They can’t fathom change.”

“Go on,” he said, his shoulders rigid, eyes hard.

Tilting my head, I considered the change in him for a few beats when it suddenly hit me.

“Oh shit!” I blurted. “You think I’m going to ask you for money.”

His jaw ticked.

“I’m not, I swear. At least not directly.”

“Uh huh,” he answered, crossing his muscular arms over his equally muscular chest, drawing my eyes to his … bounty.

My eyes lingered for a few moments before I brought them to his face. I expected him to be smirking over my staring, but he wasn’t. He was looking at me with a hint of disgust.

“I’m not asking you to pay for the repairs or to give me a loan or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Thankfully, his posture relaxed.

“What I was thinking was you doing a signing or something with the proceeds going to a rebuilding fund. I don’t know the exact logistics of how it’d work because I’ve never done anything like this, but I could ask my cousin who runs marketing for our grandparents’ team. My Grandparents Newport, not Fitzgerald. Obviously.”

Raising his glass, Declan eyed me over the rim for several long, uncomfortable seconds. Swallowing down the Guinness, he finally answered. “Yeah, sure.”

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