Chapter 1

1

MADDIE

Friday, February 28

T en jobs. Ten men who—together with my own dreadful decision-making—have led me to this depressing moment in rainy Ireland.

Boyfriend Disaster #1 : Jonathan the Sketchy Line Cook

Job Location & Length : Chili’s, 1 year

My Age : 20

After dropping out of college, I decided to waitress while I figured my life out. Jonathan was a line cook. He wore t-shirts that declared edgy bands like The Killers and Snow Patrol. He was thirty, an entire decade older than me, and I thought it was so cool that I could attract a real man.

In hindsight, it was a big fucking red flag.

He groped my ass in the dingy breakroom that crunched with chip crumbs on every surface, and after having extremely fast (on his part) and extremely lackluster (on mine) sex with him in a car that smelled like fajitas, I quit with no notice.

Breakup Reason : bad sex, inappropriate age gap

My Distress Level (on a scale of 1-10) : 1

Lesson Learned : There’s absolutely no reason for a thirty-year-old man to be hitting on a woman barely in her twenties.

My oversized suitcase bounces along the narrow cobblestone sidewalk in Dingle, and I shiver in my rose-pink puffy jacket and mid-thigh sundress amidst the darkening gray winter sky. Severely underdressed and underprepared.

I blame Aunt Evelyn for my situation, at least partially. Our late great-aunt used her twisted sense of humor to send me and my sisters each on a crazy bucket list journey last year, which is part of the reason I’m in Ireland now. In a very roundabout way.

Go on a vacation. Volunteer. Help your sisters. Change your life. Aunt Evelyn said all these things in her will.

My sisters seemed to have no problem with their lists—everything’s worked out perfectly for both of them. Stella fell in love with her ex-boyfriend’s best friend in London. Reese started her own website design business in New Jersey after fake dating her daughter’s Scottish soccer coach.

But me? I seemed to mess up my life even further, not make it better. And somehow in the process, I volunteered to plan Reese and her fiancé’s combined bachelorette and bachelor party. A twelve-day-long Irish road trip.

There’s a guy I need to find in Dingle—Reese’s fiancé’s Irish best friend—who is supposed to be helping me plan but hasn’t returned my emails. I think it’s reasonable that I now escalate the situation and show up at his doorstep.

In Ireland.

Not that I know where his doorstep is.

Or have his phone number.

This is probably not what my great-aunt had in mind.

I moan and shift the backpack on my shoulders. I’m achy and exhausted. And freaking freezing. Admittedly, the picture my brief research painted of Ireland at the end of February was about as far as possible from what I’d originally planned—a trip to visit my (now ex) boyfriend in Saint Lucia, disguised as an internship for my hospitality program.

I’m filled with rage at the thought of that cheating asshole, and the anger warms me just a tad. I should’ve left it as a holiday fling, like Reese had begged me to, instead of falling head over heels, like I always do.

I stop on the sidewalk to glance at my phone screen. There are no new texts from the estate agent who rented me an apartment—I guess I should say flat —for the month. I continue to follow her earlier directions from the bus station, wishing I had on jeans and a chunky sweatshirt.

But when I left New Jersey yesterday morning, dressing like that felt like giving up. So I shoved the pile of sundresses meant for an island vacation into my suitcase and slipped on a green flowy one for the flight over.

The estate agent seemed doubtful I’d make it to Dingle by evening, and after the journey I just took, I understand why. I flew overnight from Newark to Dublin, then lugged my giant suitcase onto a bus from the airport to Dublin Heuston train station. I thought maybe it’d be smooth sailing from there, as the four-hour train ride through the Irish countryside was delightful, showing off rolling green hills, small towns in the distance, and a whole lot of sheep peppered throughout.

But no. It wasn’t smooth sailing.

I arrived in a tiny town called Killarney and had to wait around to catch the bus for a three-hour ride to Dingle. Including a transfer. My stalwart cheery facade crumbled somewhere in Tralee, the town where I switched buses.

Pausing before a bend in the road, I roll my neck. I need a bed, or a drink, or a massage. Ideally all three. But as miserable as the weather is, Dingle has a small-town charm, with colorful storefronts, narrow cobblestone streets, and well-kept signs. If I was wearing pants, maybe I’d be enjoying myself. Or if a feeling akin to regret for making the choice to come to Ireland wasn’t gripping my insides.

Spontaneous is the nice word for it. Impulsive is the negative one.

A scattering of people wanders up and down the street. It’s a Friday night, after all.

My phone finally vibrates in my hand.

Noreen

I’m here, just outside the pub. Flat is next door. Follow the sound of music!

Thank god. I turn the corner and she’s about ten doors down, waiting under a red, well-lit awning with upbeat Irish music drifting onto the sidewalk from inside.

She walks a few steps toward me, and within a minute I’ve stopped in front of a broadly smiling woman who is probably around my age, so early thirties. She’s got her curly brown hair in a messy bun and is dressed in warm-looking jeans, a v-neck sweater, an unzipped lined jacket, and a wool hat clutched in her hand. She looks worlds warmer than me.

“You must be Madison.”

I nod. “Maddie, please.”

“I’m Noreen. Lord almighty, you must be freezing!” She looks me up and down, her eyes lingering on my bare knees showing between knee-high black boots and the hem of my dress.

“I’m okay. I’m happy to finally be here.” I shrug and smile. So what if I can’t feel my thighs?

Even frigid and wet, this remote Irish town is the perfect place for me to hide out and get my shit together. During this little life interlude, I’ll show my sisters that I can plan an epic road trip. Then I’ll go home and start over.

“The flat is right here.” Noreen gestures next door to the pub entrance.

The Irish skies open and dump buckets of cold rain on us. I groan and a violent shiver shakes my body. Noreen pulls her hood up and waves for me to follow her.

“Jaysus. Let’s get inside the flat and warm up.” She unlocks the door that opens to a small entry area, just big enough for a bike, leading to a steep set of stairs. Noreen doesn’t hesitate before trotting up in her sensible lined boots, and I struggle to follow, dragging my suitcase behind me.

There’s another door at the top of the stairway. Noreen unlocks it with a different key and pushes it open to a dark room, which illuminates when she flicks a switch.

“You’re the first tenant since the owner moved out. It’s a wonderful flat. Two bedrooms, although one is quite tiny. Just store your suitcase there. I made up the bigger room for you.”

I slowly spin around the flat. It’s warm and cozy.

“There’s another locked entrance over there.” Noreen gestures to a door off the living room. A wooden carving in the shape of Ireland is on the wall next to it. “That door goes to the pub, but it’s locked. Just use the main entrance.”

I nod.

Could I have just kept the airline credit when I canceled my flight to Saint Lucia? Yup, sure could’ve. But I was desperate to get out of New Jersey. Out of my sister’s house. Away from reminders of my bad decision-making. Planning the Irish road trip will be far easier to do while in Ireland. I’m gonna make it special, not just use some cut-and-paste itinerary.

But I need more than a quick break. More than to plan a road trip. I need to reprogram myself. Learn from all my failures.

Impulsively flying to Ireland is just like me—the old me. I didn’t tell Reese that it ended with my ex, Blue. She tried so hard to convince me that what happened with him in Saint Lucia was a holiday fling and that I should move on. We had literal screaming matches about it.

She was right.

I’ve been disappointing Reese since I was twelve years old. Another item for the list: dropping out of my hospitality program before coming to Ireland. I only started it because Aunt Evelyn told me in the bucket list to go change my life, and that’s what I came up with. Getting away from restaurants and into something else.

But turns out, I hated the program.

Stella, my other sister, wouldn’t be as judgmental about it... but she is so successful and bold and confident, I feel like a meek little mouse compared to her.

“What are you up to in town this month?” Noreen tilts her head.

“Oh, ah...” I consider what to admit. Because telling her I’m here to find the random Irish guy who’s supposed to be helping me plan a road trip sounds unhinged.

Patrick McNulty is Reese’s fiancé’s best friend and former professional soccer teammate. He was a goalkeeper, apparently, not that it’s important what position he played. Reese promised he’d help me but, save a curt answer from my first email in January, he hasn’t responded.

“I’m meeting an old friend.”

“An old friend?” Noreen raises her eyebrows. “Here in Dingle? Who?”

“I mean, it’s a friend of a friend. I need to look up their name.” I glance at the door to try to dismiss her before she can ask any follow-up questions.

“Lovely,” she says, but looks confused. “Anyway, I bought you some bread and butter so you don’t starve. If you need coffee in the morning, Dingle Brew is just a few doors down.” She turns to leave, then looks back at me. “If you’re up for it, come on down to O’Brien’s. Tourists aren’t around yet, so it’s not so crowded. You could get a pint and listen to some live music.”

“Thanks. That, uh, sounds great.” I nod and she drops the keys on the coffee table before disappearing down the stairs.

“Okay,” I say to the empty apartment when the door clicks shut. Apartment, flat, whatever. I collapse on the couch, jacket still on, and lean forward, elbows on my knees.

What do I do now? Go to sleep? Get that drink? Cry into a pillow?

I fish out my phone and slide it next to the keys. The sturdy, thick wooden coffee table is really nice—a nonsymmetrical oval shape with dark swirls of wood under the finished surface. I glance around the room. The kitchen wall showcases three artsy sheep photos. They all have varied solid color backgrounds, like the old elementary school pictures I have a stack of somewhere. One sheep is against a gray background, posing with its head tilted. Another is a sideview of a sheep looking over its shoulder—yup that’s possible—against a bright green background. The third is against blue and is a sheep butt. Seriously. The butt of a sheep.

Above the couch behind me, there’s a striking photograph of an entire flock of sheep blocking a narrow road between two rolling hills. Looks dangerous.

A sheep-themed flat? Not sure the description I read offered that detail, but it’s charming.

I drag my suitcase down the hall to the bigger of the two bedrooms. I pause in the doorway. Unsurprisingly, there’s a large, framed watercolor of a sheep above the bed. I snort.

The bed has a proper fluffy duvet, and I consider diving into the soft comforter and dealing with everything else tomorrow. But I’m not going to sleep at seven o’clock in the evening on my first night in Ireland. Besides, I can hear the music from the pub drifting up through the floorboards. This room must be directly on top of the bar.

I unzip my suitcase and strip off the clothes and boots I traveled in, choosing another short dress (this one with long sleeves, at least) and my favorite gray thigh-high boots. Much warmer. After running a brush through my too-long, tangled hair and slapping on some fresh eyeliner and a generous amount of blush, I don’t look awful.

I shove the keys to the flat—there’s a sheep keychain that says I KNOW YOU HERD ME so I’m sure not to lose it—my wallet, and my phone in a small purse and practically bound down the stairs with a second wind, finally not weighed down by luggage. Or my jacket, given the pub is literally a twenty-second walk away.

I hesitate for just a second under the bright red awning, O’Brien’s written in swooping Celtic letters on the matching red building. I’m freezing my ass off, not to mention my legs, and cheeks (both sets), and neck, and entire body.

Jumping nerves flit around in my belly like tiny green grasshoppers. I’m starving, but I could’ve eaten buttered bread upstairs. And honestly, I’m so exhausted, I probably should’ve cranked up my white noise app and collapsed on that cozy bed.

“Alright, love?” An older gentleman is standing behind me. “Go on. I’m freezing my arse out here.”

“Same. Sorry.” I pull the heavy wooden door open, and my senses are overwhelmed by the scene in front of me.

To the right of the door there’s a band playing upbeat Irish folk music on a small stage. A man with a fiddle, another with a guitar, an accordion player, and a woman with a flute are bouncing up and down as they play. Luckily, the music drowns out the small talk the older man is trying to make with me, and after a few seconds, he gives up and heads to the bar.

Round tables are scattered throughout the room, filled with people drinking and talking. Where should I sit? What am I doing here? Where is Noreen?

But then I meet the gaze of the bartender.

And he is smoking hot.

Tall, broad shoulders, thick dark hair a striking contrast to his pale skin, a shadow of a beard, and intense eyes which lock on mine like a vice. He’s wearing a black t-shirt that’s tight around his thick biceps, O’Brien’s in large white writing across the front. Heat floods my cheeks and I know I should look away, but just cannot.

With no acknowledgment, the bartender turns his attention to the older man in front of him, the one who practically pushed me through the doorway. The doorway, where I’m still standing, probably looking like a lost puppy.

A newly familiar voice shouts my name.

Noreen waves me over to where she’s sitting with a pair of guys. She gestures to the empty chair across from her, and I head her way, relief washing over me.

“You made it!” Noreen smiles broadly. “Sit! I got you a pint, just in case.”

“Thank you. I think I fell asleep on my feet for a second by the door.” It had nothing to do with the incredibly hot bartender, who I sneak another look at now. I was hoping he’d be staring longingly at me, but he’s doing his job serving drinks. I slide into the seat and take a deep swig of the amber beer. The liquid warms me from my mouth to my belly and I sigh contentedly.

“I’m Gray,” one guy says. He has red hair and green eyes, but only briefly glances at me, then returns his gaze to Noreen, linking his hand with hers on the table.

“And I’m Liam,” the other man says. “What do you think of the beer?”

Noreen rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, that’s his family’s brewery, so please act impressed.”

I chuckle and smile at the good-looking brown-haired, blue-eyed man fake scowling at her.

“It’s delicious.”

He makes an exaggerated victory pump with his fist.

“What is it?”

“New Dingle Brewing Amber Ale.” Liam runs a hand through his floppy hair, pushing it off his forehead.

“I’m not sure why you’re so surprised she likes it. Everyone drinks New Dingle.” Noreen presses her lips together, a smile hiding behind them.

“Did you know the brewery is now on a tour bus stop?” Liam asks earnestly, looking between me and Noreen.

Noreen groans and Gray laughs.

“Yes, everyone knows that, too. Mostly because you tell anyone who will listen,” Gray says.

“I’m gonna go get a flight so she can try the rest.” Liam grins widely and stands.

“That’s unnecessary, really.” But I’m smiling, because his enthusiasm is contagious.

“My god, you’re obsessed with yourself.” Noreen shakes her head.

“I’m committed to my business, you mean?”

The table laughs, but Noreen nods to me. “Are you hungry after your long journey? Do you want a cheese toastie?”

“Oh, no, well, I mean, I am ravenous, actually. But I can get something myself.”

“I’ll get it. I insist.” Liam’s gaze remains on my face a beat longer than necessary.

Maybe this impulsive trip to Ireland was one of the best ideas I’ve ever had.

Maybe it’s just the thing to allow me to escape the judgmental voices of my sisters.

I don’t want to get involved with anyone. Not for real, anyway. No more falling in love, getting in over my head, and ruining my life.

The Blue drama was the final straw.

But a little fun in Ireland might be just what I need.