Page 51 of Trying Sophie

“Not a chance,” he said, winking and walking backward into the crowd, somehow managing not to bump into anyone or spill the precious brew.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked when he came around the bar and began pulling pints for a table full of people dressed in the opposing team’s colors.

He wouldn’t meet my eyes when he answered, “Had some things to take care of.”

“That’s what my grandma said.”

Giving me whiplash with his vacillating moods, he turned on the charm. “Did you miss me?”

“I did,” I answered cautiously because yes, I had missed him, but I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

“I get that a lot.”

“I’m sure you do.”

I laughed and shook my head because the man was a shameless flirt. But he needed to stop flirting with me.

“Not like that though,” I added kindly.

“No?”

Sighing, I said, “I hoped we were past this.”

“Past what, exactly?”

“This,” I responded, waving my hand between us. “I like you, Cian, but I’m interested in Declan. I just need to be really clear about that.”

For several tense heartbeats he glared at me, then bit out, “Understood,” as he watched the nitrous work its way up the liquid to form a deep chocolate-colored porter with a creamy white top.

“Let me ask you something, though,” he whispered, drawing his eyes from the glass to look at me. “Why not me?”

My breath hitched when I saw real pain there and I inhaled before answering.

“I met him first,” I began, although that wasn’t it at all I realized.

I didn’t know what would or wouldn’t have happened between Cian and me if I’d never seen Declan, but the point was moot.

“One look at him and I was done for,” I admitted, saying the words out loud for the first time.

He groaned, but I continued. “If my grandparents had sent you to pick me up instead of him, who’s to say what would have happened? My grandma’s right; you are a handsome devil. But I don’t think we’re meant for each other, Cian. I just don’t feel that same spark with you. I’m sorry.”

Around us the pub went about its business, groups growing in size as the minutes ticked by, laughter echoing off the walls, and the hum of conversations carrying from one side of the room to the next.

“Fuck Declan,” he spat. “Why him?” he asked belligerently, his arms akimbo.

“I’m sorry?”

“You know, your former enemy and my best friend. Declan O’Shaughnessy?”

“I heard you, I just don’t understand the question.”

“Of course you do,” he said, waving Siobhan over and putting a set of perfectly poured pints of a tray to be delivered to waiting customers. When she walked away, he continued. “You’ve hated him since that first day at St. Anthony’s and now you’ve magically forgiven him because he smiled at you and tossed you a charming apology?”

“It wasn’t like that,” I protested, all the while thinking from an outsider’s perspective it had looked exactly like that.

But who could have predicted I’d respond to Declan the way I had?

You know who, that voice in my head answered. You grandparents knew exactly what they were doing.

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