Page 69 of One Bride for Three Single Dads

So instead of saying, “You asshole! You told me I was going to Mexico! How could you leave without even telling me? If I didn’t come home, were you going to even leave a note? What the fuck is wrong with you? I got a passport and everything!”

I don’t say that. I say: “Am I going with you?”

And he of course says: “No, babe. But I would like that ride to the airport, if you’re free.”

But because dignity is a complicated thing, somehow I found a little bit, and I just turned around and left the bedroom. I didn’t give him a ride to the airport. I didn’t see him for a week. When he came back, we never talked about it.

And that is why I have a passport.

So it all worked out in the end?

Because here I am, in Ireland, drinking a truly disgusting beer between the most handsome men in the country, aside from the one that we had to leave at home because he hurt himself.

That’s a pretty good turnaround, I think.

“What are you smiling about?” Ambrose asks me suspiciously, licking a stripe of beige foam from his upper lip.

He seems to really like this beer. Maybe I will get used to it.

I lean forward, trying to control my excitement.

“It’s just great, isn’t it?” I ask them both. “I mean… it’s different? But isn’t it great? Just listen to the television. The same but different, right?”

Boone pauses, apparently listening to the television like I asked him to.

“I don’t even know what sport that is,” he chuckles.

“It’s rugby, lad,” a man announces as he walks over.

Boone and Ambrose straighten and twist around in their chairs. Five rather large fellows in long-sleeve shirts and jeans and work boots come over, each holding out a hand to shake.

“Rugby, yeah, that makes sense,” Boone smiles.

“Patrick,” says the big one, introducing himself. “This is my crew, Jimmy, Ronnie, Mickey, and Mickey. Two Mickeys.”

I try to suppress a giggle. This is also perfect!

Ambrose introduces them, and I sit up straight, waiting for my turn. But apparently, men just talk with men here. How quaint. Okay.

Still, I see their eyes on me. I tug the back of my T-shirt down to make sure it’s not riding up over the waistband of my yoga pants.

Yoga pants? What was I thinking?

I bet they have rules for what women are supposed to wear here, too.

They start talking in construction terms, explaining the size of the job and so on. I don’t entirely know what they are talking about, but I get the impression that, in fact, the walk-through didn’t go very well. Ambrose is basically begging for help. These guys know they have the upper hand.

Now it is like they are doing a sort of arm wrestling competition, to see who will come out on top. The workers want the money, but they also want to win. Ambrose wants a crew, but he also wants to win.

Boys. So dumb.

Eventually they seem to reach an understanding. The Irish men back away, each bowing their heads at me politely before they go. So that’s something.

“Did you do it? They’re gonna help?”

“Of course, babe,” Ambrose smiles, reaching out to brush the back of my hand with his fingertips.

Boone leans close to me, “Having you here probably helped the negotiation,” he whispers in my ear. “I think you’re probably the prettiest girl on the island.”

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