Page 46 of Since We're Here
Fuuuuck. Sometimes I forget that I’m not where I’m supposed to be. What if something happened and my family couldn’t find me? What if it were really important and they tried to reach me in Saint Lucia?
Shit. I’m the worst.
“Hello.” Patrick’s deep voice cuts through my negative spiral as he settles in the chair next to me. “What’s wrong?”
Saoirse and Ian are still whispering together, and she lifts a hand to her brother.
I lock my gaze with Patrick’s. Those intense hazel eyes drill into me like he can see every bit of what’s swirling around inside.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” My voice is slightly unsteady. The whole room fades away. He’s a force of nature, impossible for me to resist. I don’t understand why everyone around us isn’t staring. He’s like gravity, and I’m some dumb rock being sucked into his orbit. He’s sitting close. So close. Close enough that if I reached my hand out, I could slide it up over the stubble of his cheek and to the back of his neck, then into his thick, dark hair.
“Madison.”
I chug my pint and let the liquid warm my belly before taking a deep breath.
“You know, the usual. Just figuring out which lies to text to my sisters.”
One side of Patrick’s mouth turns up. “Just say you’re busy. Or don’t respond now, and later say you were napping. Or... cycling.”
“Very funny. They want a proof-of-life picture. I’ve been googling beach images of the Caribbean.”
“I’ve never been, but I can safely say that besides the ocean part, Dingle is about as far from the Caribbean as you can get.”
“I know. They think I’m going to this made-up internship at a resort and hanging out on the beach. Damn, but the beach sounds amazing right now.” I was still so frozen from this morning’s wet soccer game, I’d even worn pants to work this afternoon. But it’s always hot in here, just like it is in my flat, so I paired the leggings with a black tank top.
“Hmm.” Patrick rubs his thumb and pointer finger over his chin, the five o’clock shadow on his face creating a sound like sandpaper on wood. “There must be Irish pubs in Saint Lucia. Just snap a picture in here and say you’re out for drinks with the locals.”
“I mean, it’s not a terrible idea.” I quirk an eyebrow at him.
“You’re wearing a tank top, so you could be on a hot island.” His eyes flick down to my torso and linger for a second longer than necessary to make his point.
Heat rises from my neck under his gaze. “That’s because it’s hot as hell in here. Just like in the flat.”
Patrick chuckles. “Yes, sorry about that. The heating system is not well-controlled in this building.” He pulls out his phone and types. “Let’s take a look. Here.” He holds it up to me and makes a face. “O’Grady’s Irish Pub. They even sell margaritas, which means it’s one hundred percent authentic Irish.”
“It could work.”
“But you are very much not tanned.”
“Hey, look who’s talking. You’re the palest man I’ve ever met.”
Patrick laughs, head back and neck exposed, drawing my attention to the muscles in his shoulders. Visible, naturally, through his tight black t-shirt.
Saoirse looks up from her conversation with Ian, watching her brother with wide eyes.
“Wait—” Patrick grabs my arm as I lift my hand to take a selfie. “Make sure it’s a plain background.” He gestures to the side wall, which only has a simple Irish flag secured to the wall. “Oliver knows this pub, but that wall is not identifiable.”
“Good catch.” I carefully take the selfie, show it to Patrick for approval, and send it to my sisters.
“Glad you could join us, Pat,” Saoirse says.
“I didn’t think it was optional.” His voice is gruff, but he’s got a smile hiding underneath.
“Right. It wasn’t.” Saoirse winks at me.
“Cheers to a night out,” Ian says.
Saoirse and Ian clink pints, then turn to us, expecting the same.
