Page 16 of Trying Sophie

Mentally, I went through the list of players on my grandpa’s team and couldn’t help comparing Declan to them. Each and every one of them would have bragged endlessly if they’d been trying to impress a girl.

Then again, maybe Declan wasn’t trying to impress me.

* * *

“We’ll be cominginto the village in a minute or two. I’ll take you around back so we can lug your bags upstairs without having to go through the pub. If we’re quiet, you can sneak in and get settled before your gran hears you.”

“Oh, it’s okay. You don’t need to come up. You’ve already done enough, what with driving me out here and all.”

Declan raised his eyebrow. “Do you really think I’m going to let you cart all that upstairs by yourself?”

I raised my own eyebrow in challenge. “Who do you think lugged it down to the cab this morning?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not questioning your ability to do it. I just don’t think it’s polite for me to let you.”

“Because I’m a woman?”

“Well … yes.”

Before I could explain what sexist bullshit that was, he forged on. “You see, my mam taught me lads are supposed to show respect to the ladies and since you fall squarely in that category—” his quick, heated glance told me he very much appreciated that about me “—it’s my sworn duty to help you take your bags up the stairs. Whether it offends your feminist sensibilities or not.”

When he flashed another of his gorgeous, devilish smiles, I sighed in defeat.

“Fine. You win,” I conceded.

“When was the last time you were here?” Declan asked, as the first of Ballycurra’s buildings came into view.

“About five years ago, but I only stayed two nights. I was on my way to London just after I graduated from college.”

I leaned forward and craned my neck to take it all in. A small handful of the storefronts looked exactly as I remembered, but many others had been updated in the past couple of years.

“To be honest though,” I continued while he navigated us down the busy road, “I’m not even sure I left the pub that time. I mean, I probably did, but I don’t really remember the village all that well. In my mind it’s still the same as it was in 1999.”

“Some things are the same, but there’s been a lot of changes as well. For one, there’s a lot more money here now,” he remarked, pointing out a shop with a gleaming window that was decorated in a hip gold and black font across the front.

“Old man Donahue—that’d be the butcher—he’s still a fixture in his shop, and will probably work right up to the day he dies, but he’s getting on so his nephew Patrick runs the place now. With him taking over it’s a bit more upscale with fancier cuts of meat and imported sauces and spices and what not. Thank god for it too. I remember growing up you only had a few choices from the old man and dinner every night was pretty much something stewed or roasted. ‘Declan,’ my mom would say, ‘run down to Donahue’s and get me a leg o’lamb.’” He mock shuddered. “God I hate lamb.”

“Oh yeah, I totally remember.” I laughed, recalling how my grandma would send me to pick up lamb for the pub’s stew practically every day. “One day I had to wait as he broke down an entire lamb carcass. I was traumatized. Up until then I’d never really thought of meat in its natural form, but seeing a lamb hacked into pieces put me off it for good.”

“I know exactly what you mean. I won’t eat black pudding for the same reason. I once watched my grandda make it and you do not want to know what goes in that stuff.”

“Confession?” I asked conspiratorially.

“Of course.”

His eyes twinkled and I wondered what he thought I was going to reveal.

“I’ve never eaten lamb after leaving here. I absolutely refuse. When I explained why to a friend from Morocco who pretty much only cooks with the stuff she called me a hypocrite and said if that’s how I really felt I shouldn’t eat meat at all. I can’t say she’s wrong, but damn I love bacon.”

“Then you’re going to love what Patrick’s doing with pork. Have him package up some of his whiskey smoked rashers for you and I swear you’ll never want to go back to that thin, stringy stuff you guys call bacon.”

“Um, I doubt it,” I responded, giving him a look to indicate I thought he’d lost his damn mind.

“Trust me. What have you got to lose?” He smiled and his dimple came out to play. “Unless you know I’m right and can’t stand the idea of me saying ‘I told you so?’”

“Fine. I’ll give it a try,” I promised to avoid an argument about the merits of Irish versus American bacon.

What Declan didn’t know was that my grandma had tried many times to convert me to rashers, but I’d dug in my heels and refused to eat anything but American-style bacon. As far as I was concerned, rashers were just thinner slices of ham.

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