Chapter Four

Norah

"So, tell me more about your night out," Layla demands. "Charlie gave me the Cliffs Notes, but I want your version."

News certainly travels fast in this group. I'm rarely the source of excitement, so all this extra attention is putting me on edge. Hello, anxiety. I take a sip of my coffee in an attempt to stall the conversation. God, I love coffee. It's always there for me when I need it.

"I know you're stalling, Norah. Spill." Layla levels me with a look I know she inherited from her mama.

"Ugh, Layla. I don't know what came over me. Honestly, I'm just ready to forget about it and never do it again," I confess.

"So don't. Move on. It was just one mistake. You never do anything fun or adventurous, so consider this your rebellion era and shake it off." Sage advice. She's probably the most levelheaded in our entire group.

"You're right," I say, then backtrack. "But I do have fun, thank you very much! I'm not an old maid. I'll be twenty-five in a month. I'd like to think I still have some life in me. Even if I'm not like Myra and Amie."

"You know what I mean. You have your own definition of fun, and it usually includes a bottle of wine, sweatpants, and Netflix."

I glare at her.

"Now, don't give me that look. You know as well as I do that I'm all for that kind of night, but sometimes we need to let our hair down, you know?"

"I guess," I concede with a shrug.

"Now, what I really want to know is who the guy is. You can blame this on My and Amie all you want, but you wouldn't have done that without proper provocation. Out with it."

This is exactly what I didn't want to talk about.

"There's nothing to tell," I hedge. "He accused me of not being able to hold my own, and it just triggered something in me. An Irish guy thought I was just another stupid girl at a bar trying to look cool. I couldn't stand it. Next thing I know, I'm three sheets to the wind."

"That red hair of yours certainly doesn't help, Norie. The girls told me he was good-looking…" Layla wags her eyebrows.

If she only knew. As stupid as my actions were, I can't say I regretted staring at his face all night.

"For the sake of honesty, yes. Yes, he was. He was tragically handsome. Built just right and had eyes that could suck out my soul." I tell her dreamily.

Layla cocks her head to the side. "You know, it probably wouldn't hurt to go out with a good-looking guy every now and then. Now, before you get up in arms," she holds up her hands in defense as I bristle. "Just hear me out. You have a bad history with men, I know. I'm not saying go out and have a one-night stand or find the man you'll marry. I'm not even saying to date. But maybe, just maybe, get to know a guy on a friend level."

"Pot, meet kettle," I say. Layla is almost as shy around guys as I am.

"Rude. I have male friends." She scoffs.

"Your brothers? "

"Shush. They're not my only male friends. Plus, they're my brothers, so they don't count anyway. But we're not talking about me!" she says hurriedly.

I know she's right, but I have no idea how to be friends with a guy. I'm polite to the ones in my classes and the drama department. I tolerate the guys at the pub, but I can't say that I've ever actually taken the time to befriend one of them. I don't see the point, honestly. With my history, there's no way I will ever be relationship material. That requires trust with your heart and your body, and I don't trust any guy with either.

"I don't know if I can do it. Where would I even begin?"

"Well, we all know how much you love Pat O'Nelly. Start there. Maybe he can give you some tips or something. You trust him, right?" Layla asks.

"Absolutely, I do. But he's older, like a grandfather. Nothing is threatening about him—though he did scold me pretty good today and put me on dish duty." I shrug.

"Are you serious? For how long?" She laughs.

"I don't know. He told me to come in tomorrow night at seven. I hope it's just one night!"

* * *

Sunday night has arrived, and I'm running late. It shouldn't be a big deal, though. Sunday nights are usually pretty slow, so there can't be that many dishes, right? And surely Pat was just messing with me. He'll probably pour me a pint as we gab the night away. It's ten after seven when I walk through the door and come to a screeching stop. The place is absolutely packed. With senior citizens. What the hell? I glance at the bulletin board to my left, where various groups and organizations post their fliers. Sure enough, tonight is Seniors' Night. When did Pat start that? I shake my head and walk up to the bar, catching Paddy's eye.

"It's about time, lass! You're late! I'll have to make you work a second night now," he says, winking at me.

I laugh and hop onto the bar stool across from him .

"Oh no, you don't, Miss Grady. You promised dishwashing, and that's exactly what you're going to do tonight. I didn't expect so many people to turn up, and they all drink like fish. We need glasses. Now, get back there!" he orders me.

I'm stunned. He was serious! I hesitantly walk back behind the bar and through the swinging door. To my right is the kitchen, complete with an industrial-type stove and fridge against the far wall and a stainless steel island in the center of the room with a pot rack hanging overhead. Pat doesn't offer much in the way of food, but he always has stew and fish and chips. The dishes are piled high in the sink, the large dishwasher already running a load. I don't even know where to begin.

"Norah! Glad to see ya! Grab that apron over there and get to washing! Pat said I wasn't supposed to let you two do any slacking tonight!" Alicia yells through the door.

"Two of us?" I start to say, just as the door from the pantry opens and Eamon Kennedy walks through carrying an armload of fresh vegetables. He looks just as good as I remember.

He slams to a stop with a baffled look on his face. "If you've come for round two, forget it. I won't be doing dishes for Paddy again after this," he says as he walks around me to the island and begins sorting the veggies into piles.

"What? I thought I was doing the dishes. What are you doing here?" I ask stupidly.

Eamon lifts his blue eyes to mine and smirks. "Looks like he's punishing us both for bad behavior the other night. I blame you, you know. Now, if you really are here to wash, then hop to it. I've been put on stew duty until Paddy gets things calmed down out there."

Seething, I say, "Me? You're the one that started the whole damn conversation! If anyone should be washing dishes, it's you!"

"Easy, lass. That temper of yours will get you into trouble again." He chuckles darkly. "And, like I said, I won't be doing any more dishes."

Pat chooses that moment to walk through the door. "What's the raucous back here? Why aren't those tubers chopped, Eamon? You should have been halfway through them by now."

"Sorry, Paddy. Ginger over here is arguing over who's supposed to be doing the dishes. Looks like you forgot to mention you had us both on duty," Eamon says accusingly.

"My name is not Ginger," I snap at him. He's infuriating.

"Norah, darling, would you be so kind as to start on those dishes? I'll be serving stew from my boot before the night's over. I'll be holding you to your promise now." Pat says mischievously.

I look back at the sink. It's going to be a long night.

An hour into dish duty, Pat comes back to relieve Eamon of making stew. It smells heavenly, but I'm not going to admit it to him. The B&B I stayed in at Clifden was run by an older lady who made the best stew I have ever had. I still have vivid dreams about it on rainy nights. This stew smells similar.

I'm completely lost in memories of Ireland when Eamon's deep voice says, "I'll rinse now".

"Shit!" I screech, jumping sky-high while the dish I was washing falls from my hands.

Eamon's hand darts forward, catching it before it hits the ground. "Sorry, lass. I didn't mean to frighten you again."

"Again?"

"Aye. The other night I had you choking on your beer, if I remember correctly," he teases, eyes wrinkling at the corners in amusement.

I narrow my own eyes at him, "From what I recall, lad , I was choking because I couldn't handle a pint of Guinness . I'm not sure which accusation is more insulting."

I turn back to the dishes and start scrubbing furiously at a bowl. He chuckles softly and begins rinsing the plates I've already washed. I try to keep my eyes from darting over to look at his strong hands and forearms, but I fail miserably. Our elbows brush every so often as we go about our duty, and my heart beats wildly at every point of contact. But it's not the typical fear of a man's touch that has my nerves frayed and thoughts muddled.

Several quiet minutes pass as we continue to wash and rinse the dishes. I choose to remain silent because I honestly have no idea what to say, but Layla's words keep coming back to me. M ake friends with a guy . Learn that they aren't all dangerous. I know nothing about Eamon Kennedy other than the fact that he's the forward for the UNCW Seahawks, one hundred percent Irish, and gorgeous.

Steeling myself, I clear my throat and ask nervously, "So. Have you known Pat long?"

Eamon pauses and looks over at me. "Aye. He's the first fellow Irishman I met when I came over. It's been about four years now."

I mull this over. "I also met him about four years ago. He was the first person I actually talked to when I got here."

"Where are you from, then?" he asks politely.

"Just a horrible small town in the Midwest. But I had just gotten back from Ireland when I met him," I tell him.

"Oh yeah? On holiday?"

"Yeah. After my Mom died, I decided to just pack up and go. I stayed for a month, and it was the best time of my life," I say sadly, thinking back to how broken I was before that trip.

"I'm sorry about your mam," he says quietly. "Who went with you on your trip?"

"No one. I don't have any close family. Mom and I had always talked about going, so I booked my ticket and a couple of AirBnBs across the country and just left. I didn't have a plan, but I knew I was going. I wouldn't have left if I could have helped it," I confess, and when he doesn't respond, I ask, "Why did you leave Ireland? Scholarship?"

"Yeah, that's part of it," he replies.

"What's the other part?" I ask boldly.

"I just needed to get away. The scholarship was as good of an excuse as any."

"You're nuts," I scoff. "Why on earth would you want to escape Ireland? It's magical and vibrant and peaceful."

"It's beautiful alright, but it's not all rainbows and leprechauns, lass," Eamon says sarcastically.

Feeling embarrassed at my sudden outburst about a country I've never lived in, I mumble an apology and go back to washing dishes.

I hear him sigh next to me before he says, "Tell me more about your trip. Where did you visit?"

"No, it's okay," I tell him. "Let's talk about something else. How long have you played soccer?"

After a brief pause, he says, "I've played all of my life. As a kid, I played in the streets and the fields with my mates and cousins. But in school, I joined a team and have always been a part of one. I thought someday I'd play professionally, but that's unlikely."

"Why?" I ask incredulously.

It's been a while since I've been to a game, but I might have done some internet stalking in the last twenty-four hours.

Eamon laughs. "I enjoy the game, but I'd like more from life than traveling all over and kicking around a ball with a group of sweaty guys."

I'm immediately imagining said group of sweaty guys on the UNCW field…shirtless. Is there such a thing as an overweight soccer player? With all that running and sweating…

"Do you play?" he asks, pulling me from my very inappropriate thoughts.

I snort out a laugh. "No. Does it look like I play soccer? Does it look like I play any sport?" I gesture to myself, slinging water everywhere.

He looks me up and down appreciatively. "I'm not sure what you mean by that, but I'd appreciate it if you'd hold off on the showers."

"Oh my god!" I squeal, flailing my wet hands around. "I'm so sorry! Here, take my towel!" I mindlessly start trying to wipe the water off of his jeans with my towel, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

Eamon begins chuckling just as Paddy and Alicia walk through the door. I bolt upright, my face flaming in embarrassment.

"What exactly is happening back here, you two?" Pat asks, laughing. "I think I asked you to wash dishes, Miss Grady, not Mr. Kennedy's pants."

"No," I splutter, "I accidentally splashed water on him. I was just…"

God, this is humiliating. Eamon grins wickedly and goes back to rinsing the dishes. Jackass.