Page 4 of Shamrock Kisses

Working out in the Dubois lake house gym is like working out at the most exclusive high-end private gym in the city. It’s perfect and has every piece of equipment imaginable. Between squat sets, I search “High Five Lake Geneva,” curious to know more about the place.

Fifty-thousand followers!I’m surprised that a bar in a small town is internet famous. I begin watching their TikTok videos. The most recent ones are all about their St. Paddy’s party. The doors open at 11:00 a.m.That's in a couple of hours. I chew on my lower lip, already debating whether to go.

I’d really like to talk with her …

She did invite us, but maybe she was just being polite. Showing up alone … would that seem too forward? Maybe she'd think I’m weird. Or desperate.

Deciding to end my workout with a cardio blast, I step onto the manual treadmill. Running for thirty-seconds, then resting for fifteen, I repeat that a few times before I’m panting and dripping sweat.Examining my body through the mirrored wall, I wonder if maybe I’ve been too hard on myself. The pump from this session is making me feel a little more confident. Maybe I can pull this off.

No pressure. Just go, talk to her. If the vibe isn’t right, I’ll head back. No big deal.

After a shower, I empty out my backpack onto the bed in the guest room I picked out. There were so many to choose from, but I like that this bedroom has near panoramic views of Geneva Lake. I hadn’t exactly planned on celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, and my wardrobe reflects that. A pile of clothes stares back at me—none remotely festive. A white t-shirt and jeans seem like the best option, so I throw them on with a denim jacket. I glance down at the plain white tee and scrunch my nose. Should I stop by a store for something green?

I check High Five’s social media again, scrolling through their posts. They’re promising an authentic Irish experience with communal games and live music. I don’t think actual Irish people go all out with green, right? A quick Google search doesn’t clear things up. One article says it’s a myth; another has leprechauns plastered all over it. I groan and give up the search, deciding against buying a one-time-use shirt.

Replaying our interaction, why am I assuming she won’t be there with someone else? She said she would be there with her friends. If she had a boyfriend, she would’ve mentioned it, right?Right?!The anxiety twists tighter in my chest. What if I show up and she’s with someone else? Or worse—what if she doesn’t even remember me?

Why am I so fucking anxious?I know the answer before I finish asking the question. Because she’s exactly what I’d describe as my dream woman,that’s why.

I push the thought away as I head downstairs, searching for Brandon. This house is huge—like, absurdly huge—forty rooms, easy. I finally find him in what I think people call a “sitting room.” He’s lounging on a leather chair, reading some motivational book. The room has a cozy, tucked-away feel, like a miniature library.

“The St. Paddy’s thing starts soon. I’m thinking about heading over. You sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“Very.” Brandon laughs softly, not even looking up from his book.

“I think I’m going to swing by for a beer and then come back.”

“Dude, don’t rush back because of me,” Brandon says, finally glancing up with a smirk. “I didn’t expect us to hang out the entire time. Go, have fun.”

“You sure you’re cool with it?”

“Of course. See where the day takes you,” he encourages, closing his book. “Oh, and use the car service. Let me call them.”

“Car service?” I raise an eyebrow. “Can’t I just Uber?”

“Uber?” He shakes his head. “Not out here, Patch. Especially not in the off-season. There’s this local guy—he’s cool. We always use him to drive us around. Trust me. Let me call him.”

4

“Let’s get a few things straight,” I announce, leaning forward at our unofficially official table at High Five. “I am not, under any circumstances, going to fuck a leprechaun.”

The girls burst into laughter, nearly spitting out their drinks.

“Who’s asking you to?” Emily gasps, still laughing, her drink sloshing dangerously close to the table’s edge.

“You got Santa,” I remind her, smirking. “Sarah got Cupid. And next up is a leprechaun, which is a firm no from me.”

“What if he has a pot of gold?” Emily teases, raising an eyebrow.

“Or can grant three wishes,” Sarah adds, her chuckle joining Emily’s.

I shake my head, deadpan. “Not even if he could give me a billion wishes and a private island.”

Sarah leans in, smirking. “Well, a short king would still be tall compared to you.”

“This short girl likes tall guys,” I remind them, giving Sarah a playful nudge.

My eyes scan the bar hoping Mr. Rawr—definitely not a short king or a leprechaun—makes an appearance. Green streamers and shamrocks decorate the ceiling and walls, making the placelook as cheesy and festive as always for these themed events. Not as over-the-top as the last couple of holiday pop-ups, but still enough to remind you it’s St. Paddy’s. The music’s loud, the drinks are flowing, and Mr. Rawr is on my mind.

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