Page 13 of Since We're Here
There’s been plenty to fill my time in the past five years. Saoirse’s girls are now eleven and seven, and I’ve tried to be the best uncle possible. And Saoirse and I help our parents now that they’re older.
But since I took over Slea Head two months ago, it’s been less about staffing issues there and more about coming up with a good plan and convincing Sean—the head brewer who’s been around for thirty years—to embrace change. He and my dad have been good friends for all of that time. I’ve known him since I was a kid. And while he’s great at his job, he’s highly resistant to change and outright hostile to anyone under the age of forty,including me and Cormac, the twenty-five-year-old assistant brewer.
Unfortunately for Sean, change is exactly what I’m going for.
I minimize my email, including a message from Oliver’s fiancée’s sister, and click through to the brewery management software I recently implemented. Sean hates it, but it makes our process so much smoother. I’m trying to ditch thebulletin board and pinned scraps of papersystem Dad and Sean had.
A text comes through. I glance down and see the first part of the message pop up in the preview screen.
Noreen
Your new tenant arrived last night! She signed a one-month lease. Her name is?—
And then it cuts off. I don’t tap the text to read more. I’ll deal with that later, as it doesn’t seem like there will be anything for me to do. I note the time on my mobile before flipping it screen-down.
I need to head over to the brewery to do a second check on Cormac’s job cleaning the fermenter yesterday. Monday’s a brew day for our amber ale and there’s a ton of prep work to do. I remind myself to swing by tomorrow and heat the water tank so it’s ready to go Monday morning.
And most importantly, I need to chase the Wellington Pubs people about setting a date for me to pitch Slea Head Brewery for distribution in their network of Irish pubs. It’s a huge victory that they’re even responding to my emails. If I could get our brews in their twenty-five locations in Ireland, then maybe they’d consider carrying us in their five hundred UK pubs.
It would change everything for me.
What Idon’thave time for is Oliver’s fiancée’s little sister to show up in Dingle. To plan his stag do road trip? There arecountless websites and travel agencies and random people on the street who could easily give her a list: Dublin, Belfast, Giant’s Causeway, Donegal, Galway, Dingle (obviously), and a few other stops between here and there. This is not rocket science. I cannot believe she flew all the way to Ireland and came here, of all places, to do what could have been done in front of a laptop or a mobile phone. I don’t have time to babysit. I’ll have to think of some way to satisfy her with minimal effort.
She’ll probably show up any second. I roll my shoulders back. I have to be nice to her. Cordial. I can’t swing friendly on a good day, and definitely can’t match the vibes of that annoying-as-shite sunshine-y email she’d sent.
The door to the pub swings open and I glance up, expecting the sister to walk in, or maybe one of our regulars.
But it’s not. Certainly not.
It’s the hot American tourist from last night, and my face heats at the memory of her pulling me in by my waist, tilting her head up to mine, asking me to make her forget her ex. Those pink, plump lips and the way they felt against mine. The top of her arse under my fingers, the line of her underwear begging me to slide lower.
I swallow hard. Those dark hallways are made for making out. I’d never realized it before.
She’s wearing another dress today, long and covering up those sexy boots I fantasized about last night. She stops in the doorway and wiggles out of her puffy jacket, not yet looking at me, and the front neckline of her dress dips down to show a hint of the swell of her breasts.
Maybe this is a second chance. I can book a room at the hotel Saoirse works at down the road and see what this woman looks like withoutthat dress.
I groan softly.I’m an eejit.And I’m committed to being single. I’ve got everything I need in life. I’m not looking to startanything with a woman, even and especially one who is just passing through Dingle, probably looking for a bit of adventure.
That word—adventure—makes my skin crawl. All because of Cara.
The American tourist finally looks up and meets my gaze, and I raise my eyebrows and lean back in the wooden chair, crossing my arms and cocking my head. Instead of heading to the bar and Beth, who looks confused counting the taps (the feck, Beth?), the woman walks slowly toward me, her long dress moving with each step. She’s got a strained smile on her face. Her shoulders are raised and she’s gnawing on her bottom lip. I pull the screen of my laptop halfway down.
“Patrick?” she says and stops a meter from me.
“Yes.” But a beat later, I narrow my eyes. How does she know my name?
“Hey. Nice to, uh, meet you. Again. Sort of meet you.” She breathes out loudly. “I guess we didn’t actually meet, not officially. I was tired and probably not making the best life decisions, and you were working, so there wasn’t much time for formal introductions...”
My eyes widen as she speaks, twisting her hands together. Nothing like the flirt she was last night. She’s nervous? To be around me? I guess it might make sense after what we did in the hallway.
“I don’t think I caught your name last night,” I say. Did we introduce ourselves and I completely forgot?
But she had been the one drinking, not me, and I only remember some brief banter before we kissed.
“We didn’t exchange names.” She sighs and stands there, a tentative smile on her face.
I blink at her.
