Chapter 2

2

PATRICK

T he gorgeous woman in an inappropriate sundress goes to sit at Liam Smith’s table. That fecking eejit. In my pub, ordering his own family’s beer. Isn’t that tacky? Come on. Sure, New Dingle is one of my biggest selling beers, which annoys the hell out of me. As does my parents’ positive relationship with the Smith family, who run New Dingle. In my opinion, Mam and Dad shouldn’t fraternize with the local rival to Slea Head Brewery, the business they started over three decades ago.

There are other reasons to stay away from the Smiths, but I won’t think about her right now.

Dad’s stroke last autumn was terrifying, and we’re lucky he’s doing well these days. It was the motivation my parents needed to let me take over our family’s brewery—in addition to running my pub—so they can slow down.

Unlike New Dingle Brewing under Liam’s leadership, Slea Head Brewery hasn’t kept up with the trends in brewing. That’s going to change now that I’m in charge. But it might take a while, especially with a head brewer stuck in the way we did things thirty years ago.

I was there back then, too.

I spent my childhood on the brew floor, tagging along with my father on sales visits to local pubs, curled up in a corner of the brewery office with toys or eventually a book or homework. Summer meant helping with the brewing process from end-to-end until soccer took over my life.

Slea Head Brewery is part of who I am. So is Dingle.

And that woman is definitely not from around here. I pull the tap handle and let Guinness flow into a pint glass, careful to keep the foam low until I get to the top. It’s before tourist season, so I know ninety percent of the people who walk in that door. I slide the full pint next to another one and accept a credit card from the patron.

That new woman’s wearing a short dress. In Ireland. In February. With no jacket, no hat, and tall boots that revealed a strip of her thighs when the wind from the chilly evening blew in with her.

I swipe the customer’s card on the iPad and half listen to the next person order a pair of New Dingle Amber Ale pints.

She has to be a tourist, which means she might be my perfect next one-night stand. It’s been six long months since the last one. Tourists are my best option: no commitment, no second date, no awkward conversations in the light of day. They have a quick night with an Irishman and then move on with their lives. I don’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing or see that bewildered look on their faces as they try to figure out if I’m being sarcastic, or an arsehole, or both.

Relationships just don’t work for me. I tried with Cara, Liam’s older sister and my fiancée. For seven years. Feck. I’m thinking about her. That ended after I retired from soccer and followed Cara to Dublin. It was a disaster.

As soon as Cara and I broke up, Liam became my nemesis instead of a mate.

Because even though she’s the one who cheated on me, I know it was my fault. I ruin all my relationships.

Which is probably why my parents never seem to take my side against that family.

I have three goals: get Slea Head beers distributed in behemoth Irish pub chain Wellington Pubs, help my sister Saoirse with my nieces, and be there for Mam and Dad. That’s it.

Women who aren’t my sister or my mother or my nieces don’t fit in those priorities. At least, not for more than a night.

Liam leans in and says something to make the woman laugh, then he stands and heads this way. Maybe she’s not a tourist. Walking in alone and sitting with locals doesn’t exactly point in that direction.

“Two flights of New Dingle. And a cheese toastie.” Liam frowns, waiting for me to serve him.

I don’t respond verbally, just prepare the popular flights. Not only do I carry New Dingle’s five-brew lineup, I’ve got them all on tap. I’ve been carefully watching which beers sell the best since I returned to Dingle and bought O’Brien’s—and the flat above it—five years ago. I’d always wanted to take over Slea Head. And now that the brewery is mine, I want our own five-beer flight by autumn. That means adding two more: an IPA and an autumn brew.

“Playing tomorrow?” I ask as I fill the final small flight glass.

“Yeah. You know I am.”

“Good luck.” Is it fair that, as an ex-professional goalkeeper, I’m on one of the town’s soccer teams? Probably not. But it feels damn good when we play against Liam and he fails miserably at scoring against me.

Liam examines my face. He used to be able to tell if I was being sarcastic, serious, or just plain awkward, but not anymore.

“Piss off.” Liam walks back toward the table.

“Don’t forget the toastie,” I call, satisfied that I annoyed him.

But the feeling disappears when I watch the tourist smile at his approach.

O’Brien’s gets crowded, and I’m not able to keep an eye on the cute woman, not until she shows up right in front of me at the bar, arms crossed loosely, a relaxed look on her face.

She’s even more gorgeous close up. Her dark hair is long and wild, her cheeks pink from the alcohol, and her eyes a deep chocolate brown, like the color of a fresh Guinness.

“What can I get you?” I lean my hands on the bar.

“A water would be best at this point.” She gives me an easy smile.

“You’re American.” I state the most obvious thing ever. It’s amazing I get women, given how bad I am at flirting.

“Yes. I arrived in Ireland today.” Her hair falls in a long curtain next to her cheek.

I curse myself for letting Noreen talk me into renting out the flat. I’ve had my cottage for almost a year now, but I’ve been fixing it up, and it’s been useful to also have the flat for nights I work late or have a few drinks. Or have someone to take back there. But I’m in my cottage full-time now, so it didn’t make sense to leave it empty.

I’ve never taken a woman back to my cottage. It’s too personal. Not with the room decorated for my nieces when they come for a sleepover, my work-in-progress furniture that’s been on hold since taking over the brewery, and my pet sheep. It doesn’t feel right for a one-night stand.

“What are you in town for?” I fill a small glass with water.

She blinks at me and accepts the water, chugging the entire glass and keeping her eyes locked with mine. She breathes out deeply when she’s done.

“Actually, can I also get a pint?”

“What would you like?” I expect she’ll ask for a pint of New Dingle, maybe the IPA that even I admit is excellent.

“What do you recommend?” She leans forward over the bar, resting her elbows on the counter and unintentionally giving me a generous view of the valley between her breasts.

“Do you like dark beer?”

She shakes her head. “Amber ales are my favorite. And IPAs.”

I lean closer to her again and there’s a stirring inside of me at the sight of her plump pink lips and the smooth skin of her neck, leading to the swooping neckline of her dress. I impulsively reach out and tuck a thick strand of hair behind her ear, sparks shooting up my fingers when I make contact with her skin.

She breathes in sharply, her nostrils flaring. But she doesn’t pull away.

What is wrong with me? Who reaches out to touch someone like that? Me. Awkward-as-feck me.

I clear my throat and lean back. “How about a Golden Amber, Slea Head’s amber ale? It’s similar to the New Dingle Amber Ale that was in the flight, but better, in my opinion.” I leave out the part that I’m the one who runs Slea Head Brewery, because that would sound like I’m trying to impress her. I’ve weirded her out enough for one night.

“If you recommend it, sure.”

There are a few regulars waiting patiently behind her, but I take my time pouring the ale from the tap.

“You passing through town? Backpacking around Ireland?”

She laughs. “Definitely not a backpacker. You won’t catch me at a hostel.”

“Where are you staying?” The question slips out before I can stop it. I’ve definitely moved into creepy territory, but I’m just trying to make small talk.

“So many questions.” She tilts her head and I’m surprised she doesn’t turn around and run.

I push the full pint over and hold her gaze as she sips the top two inches from the glass.

“This is good. Thanks for the recommendation.”

I take an order from another customer, but when I turn back from the refrigerator with two bottles, she’s gone, and there’s some cash left on the bar. She’s not back at the table with Liam, either.

“We need a bottle of Merlot,” calls the other bartender, Declan.

“I’ll get it.”

“And a Chardonnay.”

“On it.” I wipe my hands on my jeans and head down the dim hallway next to the bar which leads to the small pub office, restrooms, and two other doors. One goes to the basement storage room, and one to my old flat, a locked door here and at the top of the stairs leading into the living area. It used to be super convenient.

And right next to that door stands the American tourist, leaning against the wall and staring down at her mobile. She doesn’t see me but runs her hand around the back of her neck, rolling her head around and pulling a heap of hair over her shoulder.

I approach her, because how can I not?

“Lost?”

She glances up, and for a second I catch a sad expression on her face.

“Oh, hey.” It’s replaced with a bright smile. “The bartender.”

I stop about a meter from her. “You okay?”

“If you must know, I’m jet-lagged, exhausted, and kinda tipsy.” She pushes back from the wall, sliding her mobile into a hidden pocket in her dress.

“And kinda cold, maybe?” My eyes flick to her bare thighs, lingering for a second too long.

She huffs a laugh, and when I meet her gaze again, her cheeks are pink.

Feck . Don’t be creepy.

“A bit. I was supposed to be on a warm island, not Ireland. Also an island. But not the same.”

“Is that why you’re wearing... that?” I gesture to her sundress.

She blinks at me. Uh-oh. I play back what I said and yeah, even I hear that it sounds offensive.

“That came out wrong. It’s a nice dress, but not for winter.”

She breathes out. “Yeah. I have some regrets on the wardrobe I packed. And...” She rubs the back of her neck again. “Since you’re a total stranger, I can be honest. I’m kinda wondering what the hell I’m doing here.”

“In this pub? Or in Dingle?”

“Yes, all of that, but also in Ireland.”

“Well, if you thought you were heading to an island with sunshine and warm beaches, I can see your confusion.”

The bright smile on her face fades.

“What are you doing here?” I take a step closer, towering over her. My height was key in my successful goalkeeper career.

She tilts her head up to mine and swallows. I follow the length of her throat.

“You’re, like, incredibly hot,” she says.

I laugh, which is not something I do all the time. Her eyes widen.

“Did I say that out loud?” She bites her bottom lip.

“You did.”

“Fuck. I told you I’m drunk.”

“If it makes you feel better, I say inappropriate things out loud all the time.”

And sometimes I can’t even tell until people give me offended looks. But why am I saying that to this girl? She’ll have figured it out on her own by now, even though she’s smiling at me.

“I’m also getting over someone, so struggling a little with that.”

I raise my eyebrows and wait for her to continue. She bites her lip and takes a deep breath.

“What would really help, like, distract me, is to kiss someone else.”

Like the traitor it is, my cock twitches. I know in the head on my shoulders I shouldn’t play along with this, but the head pushing against my jeans highly disagrees.

“The Irish are a hospitable people.” My voice is low and my hands tingle with the need to touch her.

“How hospitable?”

“If it’d help you... how can I say no?”

“It would.” She licks her lips, and with that movement of her tongue, I lose the battle to be good.

I slide my hands on either side of her jaw and lower my lips to hers. They are soft and sweet, and she tastes like peppermint gum. Desire shoots through my whole body and I can’t help but gently press myself against her.

She moans softly and slides her hands around my waist, leaning into our touch. She flicks her tongue against my bottom lip. My heart’s pounding so hard in my chest, I might have a cardiac event. I must be losing my fecking mind.

Footsteps sound in the hallway but instead of pulling back, I lean in even more and press the tourist against the wall. She intakes a breath sharply through her nose but pulls me harder against her.

I should stop. This is wildly inappropriate. And yet...

I push her arms up and around my neck so I can slide my hands between the wall and the back of her dress, low enough that I can feel the curve of her, the bump of the top line of her underwear, which makes my already hard cock freak the fuck out. I lower my hands ever-so-slightly, and she makes a hot squeak.

What I would give to pull up her dress and feel her arse in my hands. Have her wrap her legs around my waist so I could press against her center.

Two women enter the hallway on the way to the restroom chatting and laughing, then go silent. I pull back when they are gone, their fresh giggles fading.

“Feck,” I say, my voice husky with need. “Did that help?”

My hands are still on the top curve of her behind, my body pressed against hers. She’s breathing hard and staring up at me with hooded eyes.

“Yeah. Yeah, it did, actually.” She sucks in her top lip and doesn’t move her gaze from mine.

I reluctantly remove my hands from her body and step back, releasing her from where she’s pinned against the wall. The tourist stands up straight and attempts to smooth her dress. She’s still close enough that I feel the heat radiating off her.

“Thanks for your, uh, hospitality.”

“Anytime.” I reach out to stroke her bottom lip just once with my thumb. “I need to get back to work.” I dash down the basement stairs to get the wine, the whole reason I was even in that dark hallway.

Anytime? I’m a dick.

Maybe I’ll see if we can meet up when my shift is over. Maybe she’d wait for me, and we can go back to her lodgings together. Or we can just hang out. Why couldn’t I have just kissed her like she asked? Why did I have to make it so fecking horny?

Maybe I should apologize to her instead.

But when I get back up with the bottles of wine, the American tourist is nowhere to be found.