Page 11 of Since We're Here
And me, some random tourist, in a dress and insufficiently warm jacket.
Reese’s fiancé used to play professional soccer in the UK, and actually, Patrick McNulty did, too. They were on the same team, and before Reese met Oliver in Scotland, he’d spent a year here in Dingle with his old teammate. That’s why we’re doing an Irishroad trip, and that’s why it has to include Dingle and Oliver’s best friend. Patrick.
No one looks cold as they run around the field. My eyes land on the goalkeeper. He’s incredibly tall and dark and muscular, a shadow of a beard on his face. He’s standing in the goal with his arms crossed, watching the game, calm, calculating. Not sweaty. Goalie gloves cover his hands, and he starts pacing back and forth in front of the net, and OH MY GOD.
It’s the bartender from last night.
Fuck, this is a small town!
My body physically reacts to seeing him again, my knees softening like putty, heartbeat accelerating, and my hand rising to touch my lips where he kissed me.
Damn, he’s even hotter in a soccer jersey and shorts, his muscular, thick thighs straining against the fabric. That moment last night when he pushed my hair behind my ear at the bar... It was surprising, but I thought I was going to melt into a puddle on the pub floor. So when I saw him in the hallway, I said fuck it. Why am I here, if not to kiss a few hot men with accents?
Sound reasoning last night. But not as much this morning. What have I done?
I’ve had so many disasters with men. So many times, I was impulsive and let myself fall too hard, too fast. I’d get too involved, and always end up unemployed and with a broken heart.
A player from the other team breaks through the bartender’s team’s defenses and races toward the goal. The hot bartender is completely unperturbed, and when the player takes a shot, the bartender easily plucks the ball from the air.
And,oh shit, the striker is Liam, the New Dingle Brewing guy from last night. He also looks extra hot in soccer gear.
I giggle and sip my coffee. This morning just got a lot more interesting. And ridiculous. Maybe I shouldn’t spend a wholemonth here, considering what a mess I’ve already made. I just need to get Patrick to respond to my emails first.
But... wait. My brain whirls and makes a distant connection.
Then a closer connection.
Reese told me Patrick was a goalkeeper when he was playing professionally.
And... didn’t she also tell me he worked in a pub or at a brewery or something? I only vaguely paid attention because it didn’t matter. Patrick was my sister’s fiancé’s friend who lived in Ireland, so he was so distant to anything that mattered to me, there was no need to keep facts about him in my brain.
But I have a sinking suspicion that the bartender from last night is the same person as this goalkeeper who is the same person I emailed this morning about meeting up to plan an Irish road trip.
Fuck. Me.
The referee blows a whistle, and the bartender’s team—Patrick McNulty’steam—lets out a cheer.
So it’s not just that I made out with a man who bartends below the place I’m staying. It’s that I made out with mysister’s fiancé’s best friend.
Someone I don’t have the luxury of never seeing again.
Someone who I sent an email to this very morning.
I hold back a hysterical laugh, covering my mouth and backing away from the field before spinning around toward Main Street.
Patrick McNulty is the hot bartender I demanded a kiss from in the dark hallway. I wanted more from him. So much more. But now?
Out of sight of the field, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Reese
Beautiful picture! Have the best time!
Oh, I am, sister, I am.
I’m going to have to face Patrick, and he’s going to realize who I am. That’s definitely happening.
A grunt sounds in my throat, and I finish the rest of the coffee, now cold and bitter. Have I already fucked up my sister’s pre-wedding road trip by kissing her fiancé’s best friend?
