Chapter 6

Lucy

Farida's high-pitched screams pierce the air, a sharp, relentless sound that goes straight to my temples. Kayla's feet pound against the linoleum floor as she gives chase, her laughter mingling with Farida's mock shrieks, but there's no joy in it for me. This headache is splitting my skull in two.

"Girls! Enough!" I call, my voice lost in the cacophony of their play. I rub at my forehead, willing the pain to subside.

Across the room, Aleksander and Mohammad are tangled up in some rough-and-tumble game that's bound to end in tears if I don't intervene. "Boys, we're not wrestling in class," I warn, but they don't seem to hear me. They're in their own world, where the only rule is the one who's strongest wins.

I close my eyes, trying to steady myself. The weekend has left me ragged, sleepless nights filled with the constant growl of Harleys driving past my apartment. And every time I close my eyes, I see him—the man in the black leather coat. He's been haunting my father's bar, a storm cloud of trouble ready to burst.

If he isn't an enforcer with the Irish mob, then who is he? Though he's magnetic to look at, my gut tells me he's bad news. And he seems a permanent fixture at Barney's…

"Miss Sheridan?" Farida's voice cuts through my musings, and I force my eyes open to see her standing before me, Kayla skidding to a halt behind her. They both look momentarily chastened.

"Can we go outside?" Kayla asks, her cheeks flushed.

I nod, letting out a breath. "Yes, let's get our coats." Anything to get out of this classroom, if only for a little while.

As the kids scramble to follow instructions, I worry again about what awaits me after school. I'm headed to Barneys', as I need to talk to Dad, get some real answers this time. Fear twists in my chest.

I shepherd the children toward the door, my head still pounding. The crisp air greets us as we step outside. Farida and Kayla immediately dart toward the swings, while Aleksander and Mohammad make a beeline for the soccer field, already squabbling over who gets to be the striker.

"All right, everyone, let's play nice!" My words are half-hearted at best; right now, I'm just grateful for the relative quiet of the playground. It's always like this on Mondays, like they've bottled their energy all weekend only to uncork it the moment they see me.

I spot Tiffany corralling her own group of rambunctious grade fives onto the adjacent play structure. She catches my eye and comes over to the bench where I've taken a seat, my gaze following the children's movements.

"Rough morning?" she asks.

"Something like that," I reply. "It's been…a long weekend."

"Something come up since Friday that you want to talk about?" Her concern is genuine, a lifeline thrown across the tumultuous sea of my thoughts.

I hesitate, then decide to confide in her. "It's my dad," I explain, watching as a boy from her class dangles precariously from the monkey bars. "There's this guy hanging around his bar—black leather coat, all-seeing eyes. He's got trouble written all over him." I shudder, the image of the man too easily conjured in my mind.

"Sounds ominous," Tiffany says. "You think he's bad news?"

"I do. I can't figure out why he keeps coming around." But then I sigh. "I don't actually know," I admit. "But he drives a loud Harley, and there's been one driving by my apartment at all hours. I hardly slept a wink all weekend because of the damn noise."

"Have you talked to your dad about it?"

"Not that part of it," I say, tracking a soccer ball that flies dangerously close to the street. "But I asked him about the guy, and he dismissed it out of hand. I still have a bad feeling. He could be Irish mob."

Tiffany nods. "Let me know if there's anything I can do. You shouldn't have to deal with this on your own."

"Thanks, Tiff." As much as I appreciate her support, I know this is something I'll have to face myself. I watch the children scatter across the playground, their laughter mixing with the distant sound of traffic.

"But what makes you think he's Irish mob?" Tiffany asks after a moment, casting a sidelong glance at me.

"Barney's is a pit stop for Mercy Hospital staff after shifts," I explain, keeping one eye on Kayla, who's now drawing in the sand with a stick. "We get a few regulars from the neighborhood, and they're coming in for the beer and the medical staff eye-candy. He's different from all of them. There's a vibe about him that doesn't sit right. And he keeps coming back, even after I gave him not so great service and questionable food."

Tiffany's eyes widen. "Well, if he wasn't a problem already, you're going to make him one!" She laughs.

I feel my cheeks heat. That was rather unprofessional, but in that moment, I was so sure…

Tiffany chews on her lower lip. "Want me to come by and take a look? Sometimes, a fresh pair of eyes…"

I look up at her. "Would you? I'd appreciate an outside perspective."

"Consider it done." She gives me a resolute nod. "Just let me know when."

"Thanks, Tiff." I kick at a stray pebble, sending it skittering across the concrete. "I'm just crossing my fingers that Beatrice shows up tonight. I want to talk to my dad for a few minutes and go home. I could really use a full night off for once."

"Beatrice still pulling her disappearing acts on Mondays?" Tiffany's voice holds a note of amusement.

"Like clockwork." I sigh, watching as Mohammad releases Aleksander from a headlock. "Every Monday, without fail, something comes up, and I'm the one covering her shift. It's like she has an allergy to the start of the week."

"Sounds like you need a break." Tiffany pats my shoulder. "Let's hope for your sake she makes an appearance tonight."

"From your lips to God's ears," I murmur, returning my focus to the kids.

The rest of the day is wild but it's manageable. I distract myself with thoughts of my pajamas and binge-watching old episodes of Game of Thrones . That's my plan for tonight.

The final bell rings, and the last of my students scampers out the door, their laughter trailing behind them. I'm bending over to straighten a row of overturned chairs when my phone buzzes in my pocket. The screen lights up with Dad's name, and my heart sinks before I even read the message.

Dad: Can you cover for Beatrice tonight ?

I want to type back a two-letter reply—No—but my thumbs hover indecisively over the keyboard. Images of the mysterious man in black leather flash through my mind, and despite my exhaustion, anxiety edges out my desire for rest. With a resigned sigh, I tap an affirmative response and slide the phone back into my pocket.

Dad's behind the bar, wiping down the counter with a rag that's seen better days, when I arrive at the pub. He smiles when he sees me.

"Lucy, thanks for covering," he says as I approach.

"Sure thing." I nod, planting my hands on the polished wood. "But, Dad, we need to talk about Beatrice. This is the fourth Monday in a row that she's bailed."

"Fourth?" He looks genuinely surprised, the furrows in his forehead deepening. "That can't be right."

"It is," I insist. "Something's keeping her from working Mondays, and we need to figure it out. Maybe shuffle the schedule around or something."

He shakes his head. "I'll talk to her. But, Lucy, are you sure? Four Mondays?"

"Positive." I let out a breath. "I love you, Dad, you know I do, but these Monday-night shifts are rough on me. It's the start of my workweek, and without proper rest…"

My voice trails off as the door swings open, ushering in a cool draft and a figure that commands immediate attention. The man in black leather strides in, his presence filling the room. Dad follows my line of sight and gives a subtle nod of acknowledgment.

"You really don't know that guy?" I ask.

He looks at me strangely and shakes his head. "He's a customer. I know that."

With my heart thumping against my ribs, I watch as the enigmatic stranger settles into a booth, which is unmistakably in my area. His jacket creaks softly as he slides onto the padded seat, and I steel myself for what comes next.

"Looks like your section just got its first customer for the evening," Dad says, giving my hand a pat before returning to his bartender duties.

I grab a menu and smooth down my apron, my mind churning with unasked questions as I approach the table. This man's presence in the pub is like a pebble in my shoe—uncomfortably noticeable and impossible to ignore. My intuition gnaws at me; I need to unravel why he's become a fixture here.

"You're back," I say, words casual, tone light, but everything within me on guard.

He greets me with a smile. "Yes," he replies, the single word laden with an accent that could melt butter. "I've developed quite the taste for your fish and chips. And a Granville Island IPA, please."

"Coming right up," I manage to say without betraying the inner turmoil his charm ignites. I jot down his order, forcing my hand to stay steady, though my pulse races. This is no time for swooning.

"Fish and chips and an IPA," I repeat back to him, more for my own benefit than his confirmation. He nods, and I turn away before I lose any more of my composure.

I need to stay focused. I'll get to the bottom of this, one way or another. Despite my serving this guy bad food, he keeps coming back. That only confirms that he's here for some other reason. And I can't think of one that's anything good.

I slip into the kitchen, my voice low as I relay the order to the cook. "Make sure it's burned, would you? That's how he likes it." The cook raises an eyebrow, but nods, knowing better than to question a customer's peculiar preference.

I grab the IPA from the bar and pour it sloppy, the foam cresting over the edge of the glass. But then my feet slow and my heart quickens as I return to his table, hesitation creeping in as I spot two familiar faces—Dr. Griffin Martin and Dr. Kent Johns—seated with him. They're regulars here, Mercy Hospital's finest. Their presence with this enigmatic stranger throws everything my mind has conjured out of focused.

"Griffin, Kent," I greet them, though my eyes remain fixed on the third at their table. "Didn't expect to see you with this gombeen." The word slips out, a reflexive snap of suspicion. Griffin's eyebrows shoot up in amusement, and the silence that follows is heavy with awkwardness.

"Lucy," Griffin says after a moment, "meet Dr. Chance Devereaux. He's the new chief of emergency at Mercy."

I look between them, searching for any hint of jest. The idea of someone like him—a leather-clad mystery with a smile that could turn saints to sinners—running an ED is almost laughable. But there's no trace of humor in Griffin's steady gaze, only the truth. I must have heard wrong.

"Chance, huh?" My voice is skeptical as I finally address the interloper directly. "You don't exactly scream doctor to me."

He leans back. "And what should a doctor look like?"

My arm stretches out toward Griffin and Kent—mirror images of medical professionalism with their pressed shirts and clean-cut charm. "Like them," I say. "Not…whatever you've got going on."

He laughs heartily, and the sound catches me off guard. It resonates with a sincerity that nudges at the walls I've built around myself since he first walked in. Despite everything, I crack a reluctant smile.

A wave of embarrassment crashes over me as I realize how wrong I've been about Chance Devereaux. I painted him as some sort of nefarious character, and now, here he is, just another professional trying to make a difference. I reach for the beer I set in front of him. "I'm going to get you a fresh one."

"Thank you," he replies with an easy grin that makes my insides twist.

I return to the bar and catch Janelle's attention. "Can you pour him another IPA? Less head this time."

She nods, taking the glass from me as I return to face the table where Griffin and Kent await.

"Griffin, Kent, what can I get for you this evening?" I ask.

"Black and tan," Griffin says. "And I'd like the lamb stew."

"I'll have the lamb stew too, but make mine a lager," Kent adds, folding his menu.

"Got it," I confirm, scribbling the orders before returning to the kitchen to rectify the fish and chips situation. With a quick word to the chef, I place a fresh order for Chance's meal, making sure it's prepared just right this time, along with two lamb stews. Then I grab the charred plate meant for Chance and tip its contents into the trash.

My father, always vigilant, catches the action and strides over. "Lucy, what are you doing? Liam, watch what you're doing. We can't afford to waste food around here," he scolds.

"It's my fault," I admit, unable to meet his eyes. "I got an order wrong."

He sighs, shaking his head, but doesn't press further, instead turning back to supervise the bustling kitchen. I escape back to the floor, the weight of my earlier judgments pressing heavily on my shoulders.

If only the ground would open and offer me an escape. But it doesn't, so I steel myself to face Chance and the doctors again, ready to atone for my mistakes and serve them as best I can.

I weave through the scattered tables, balancing a tray of drinks as my mind still reels from the revelation—Chance Devereaux, not some mob enforcer but a doctor. And here I was, thinking he spelled trouble for Dad.

My panic had me on edge , I tell myself, depositing the tray at an empty table to free up my hands. She's convinced the handsome stranger is bad news. In hindsight, I can't believe I fell for it. But then again, caution isn't unwarranted; Dad's past in the rough neighborhoods of Dublin taught him to be wary, and he's instilled the same watchfulness in me. We've both seen enough to know trouble doesn't announce itself. It sidles up quietly and strikes when you least expect it.

Approaching their table once more, I catch snippets of conversation, the cadence of medical jargon mingling with casual banter. As much as I try to focus on the task at hand, my ears tune in to the dialogue unfolding before me.

"…the new policies are one thing, but staffing is the real issue," Chance says. "We need more nurses, plain and simple."

Griffin nods. "It's the same story all over Mercy. Everyone's stretched thin. Patients are already suffering."

Kent leans forward. "What's the hospital doing to recruit?"

"Nurses have so many options and running around an emergency department is usually a calling, not just a job," Chance suggests, swirling the beer in his glass. "We need to figure out how to fill the gap we have without nurses, and residents are not the answer. They don't have enough experience."

Their voices fade into the background as I retreat into my own thoughts. It's an echo of so many conversations I've overheard while serving—the struggles and triumphs within the hospital walls spilling over into the pub. I'm just the server, the invisible eavesdropper, but each story leaves its imprint on me.

I hover at the edge of their table, waiting for the right moment to interject. The conversation ebbs, and I seize the opportunity. "Kent, my class is working on a unit about the heart. Would you consider coming in to talk about being a doctor and about the heart and how it works?" It's a long shot but worth the ask.

"Ah, I'd love to," he replies with an apologetic grimace, "but Griffin and I are swamped with night shifts this month."

I nod. I appreciate the honesty and am about to turn away when Chance's voice stops me in my tracks.

"Lucy, what kind of class do you have?" he asks.

I pause, caught off guard by the interest in his eyes, the same eyes I so wrongly judged earlier. "My dad owns the pub," I explain, feeling a strange need to account for myself. "But my real job is teaching at an elementary school. Most of my grade-five students are from low-income families, and many are migrants from war-torn countries." I glance down, a little embarrassed to admit the next part. "They often can't afford school supplies, so whatever I earn here at Barney's… Well, it goes to helping them."

"Really?" He sounds intrigued, not just making idle pub conversation.

"Yeah." I nod, looking back up at him. "It's not much, but it helps."

Chance appears to consider this for a moment, then surprises me once again. "I'll come speak to your class," he says decisively.

My mouth opens slightly, shock rendering me speechless for a beat before I manage a nod. "That would be great, thank you."

"Here." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. "Type in your number. You can text me the details, and I'll make it happen."

As he hands me his phone, I feel a twinge of guilt for my earlier assumptions. This man, whom I had pegged as nothing but trouble, is offering to help my students—kids he's never met. It's humbling, and I feel like a real heel for the way I've treated him.

"Thank you, Dr. Devereaux," I tell him. "This means a lot to us."

"Call me Chance," he says with a sparkle in his eyes.

Oh, I'm in trouble now.