Page 8 of Twist of Fate
A very familiar-looking young man.
“Him.”
“Yes,” my mom says, clearly unable to see where my attention has turned. “Go on.”
When I don’t respond, and she finally notices my wide eyes fixed on the opposite side of the room, she turns. A sharp inhale escapes her lungs, and I see her excited expression meet mine. “Him, as inhim?”
I manage a quick nod.
It really is him.
I know it was dark last night, and we only talked for maybe a minute tops, but it was one hell of a memorable minute.
My mystery man gives a polite nod to the group gathered around him, then they scatter, each finding a seat at the tables surrounding us. He scans the room, and I take that moment to suddenly become very interested in my half-empty glass of cider. I can feel my mom’s eyes on me.
Ugh, I should have never told her.
I risk a glance in his direction and see him take a confident step into the room. He’s somehow even hotter in the daytime, if that’s possible. Tall, with dark brown hair cut razor short on the sides that he’s left purposely longer up top. It gives him an edgy look that contradicts the easy smile and soft green eyes. His long sleeves are pushed up, revealing muscled forearms that are covered in ink. Must have missed those last night due to the cold and the need for layering.
He completes his grand sweep around the room without noticing me, and I’ve never been more grateful for that because a moment later, he clears his throat and addresses everyone by saying, “Hello. Everyone. My name is Finn Larkin, and I work for O’Connell Tours. I will be your host and guide for the next week as we journey across Ireland together.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
* * *
Finn
If there’s one thing that could make me break out in a cold sweat faster than an Irishman at confession, it’s being late.
Growing up, my father considered being punctual not just a common courtesy but a reflection of one’s character. If you showed up late to something, you might as well not show up at all.
For that reason alone, I was purposely late to nearly everything in my life—from school to meetings. Everything except rugby, that is. You don’t fuck with rugby.
But that was then.
Now, during the weeks I’m touring, every minute is planned out, and the clock is my best friend. I run my tours like a well-oiled machine.
Because when things run smoothly, people are happy.
And when people are happy, they tend to tip well.
I needed those tips.
Thanks to a faulty alarm clock, however, all of that was in jeopardy, and I am now running tragically late. Last night, I stayed out far too late at the pubs, enjoying a pint or two while listening to a local band.
More than once, my thoughts drifted back to the girl I met.
She was American. I picked that up right away. I’ve been doing this tour guide gig long enough that I could tell the minute difference between a Canadian and an American accent.
Was she here by herself? With family? Or a boyfriend?
That last thought sent a surge of jealousy through me that I didn’t expect. Yeah, it was definitely time to hit the pubs if I was getting jealous over a girl I talked to for all of one minute.
Clearly, it was just a physical itch that needed to be scratched.
When I got back from this tour, Rian would be back in town, and we’d go out to blow off some steam, and I’d probably never think about her again. But I have more important shite to worry about—like getting my ass to that hotel.
Not wanting to leave my car at the hotel for a week, I take a cab, knowing I’ll be reimbursed later. The job did come with a few perks.
