Page 16 of Irish Fire and Forbidden Love
Rory said, “That sounds great?—”
“Yeah, it was. Then his wife died and something broke in him. He let an American real estate company talk him into selling some of his shares. I mean, it was only a few, right? But then it was more and more and then he was doing a fundraiser tobuy back all the shares. It didn’t work out, and then the company bought the whole business.”
What was worse was how the new owners of Old Bills still boasted about the three-hundred-year legacy, but everyone knew it wasn’t the same. The drinks were flat, the food uninspired, and all the love that once gave the place its charm had vanished. In its place was an empty shell— a tourist trap masquerading as history.
“Whatever happened to Bill, anyway?”
“He left the country. Staying with a son or something in Patagonia, I think. That’s probably what will happen to me. I’ll get kicked out of here, and then I’ll be back with my family.”
“Just because they want to sell doesn’t mean it’s over.”
“It does.”
Rory was quiet, and I didn’t blame him. In the silence, I created a chasm of unease, and he could fall within, if only he wasn’t careful.
“I promise you, you’re wrong in this. You won’t get kicked out or forced to leave your business. That just isn’t going to happen.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because I…” he trailed off.
I didn’t like how desperate he looked. Trepidation creased around his eyes, his lips. Looking at him made me want to turn and run away. Made me want to go back to the cliffs. Back to when we were happy. Back to before this moment because I suddenly very much knew what he was going to say.
But I needed him to say it.
“What?” I snapped.
He continued, “My brother and I work together in real estate. We come up to Galway a lot. We buy up places, including your family’s shares.”
Something broke in me. Hope that I had for a life that never could be mine. A life like Lilly Smalls in Dylan Thomas’ story. Anunfulfilled life. An unsatisfying one. That was mine. Of course the one man I liked— the one I finally meshed with wasn’t really here for me. He’d come to get close. To trick me into selling my shares.
“Please say something,” he said.
“I think you should leave,” I said. It was low, barely audible, but he stepped back just the same.
“Maeve…”
“I said go!” My words were harsh, burning inside me like liquefied iron.
I fled to my office. It was a coward’s way out, but it did the trick. Pretty soon I heard the bar entrance open and shut, and then Eliza knocked on my door. When she came in, I burst into tears.
Chapter 6
Rory
Well,that could have gone a little better. I stared up at Maeve’s pub. I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. I knew this moment was coming, but I still wished it never had to happen.
I wanted to race back inside, plead forgiveness. I wanted to feel her hot breath on me, like it had less than two hours ago. I wanted to feel her little body curl around me. Beg for me as I worshipped her. I didn’t move because I knew if I did that then any possibility of repairing this damage would be destroyed, so I remained frozen in indecision, and I would have stayed that way for the rest of the day —the rest of my life— but a teenage boy broke this trance.
He was a skinny thing, only a blur of limbs and ragged clothes barreling toward me. Before I could react, he collided with me, the sharp jab of his bony shoulder throwing me off balance. I felt a tug at my pocket. Then, he was gone, laughing as he darted away.
The entire exchange was so swift and chaotic that it left me stunned. I stared dumbly for a beat, watching his wiry frame shrink into the distance. Then it clicked: my wallet was gone.Adrenaline surged through me, and I bolted after him, my sneakers slapping against the cobblestones.
He had a head start, but I had something he hadn’t counted on— endurance. I’d run track back in high school, my legs conditioned to sprint and my lungs trained to take the burn. Though I was older now, running was still my solace and a way to escape the grind of daily life.
I followed the kid through streets narrow and uneven, and out into a farmer’s market. The kid zigzagged, darting around carts laden with fruits and wares. I stayed on his tail, weaving through a growing throng of afternoon shoppers at the farmer’s market. Vendors called out greetings and arranged piles of colorful produce or freshly baked bread.
“Stop that kid!” I shouted, but the crowd barely parted for me, too preoccupied with their weekend routines. Some glanced up, but no one moved to intervene.
