Chapter 5

5

MADDIE

Tuesday, March 4

Boyfriend Disaster #2 : Brent the Traitorous Waiter

Job Location I’ve blocked it out. I haven’t left a voicemail in a decade. Or... ever, maybe. I might’ve screamed in one of them. Did I cry? I dunno.

I’m not sure if it was the reality of losing Blue, or the realization that I’d done it again. I’d let myself fall too hard, too fast. Obviously, I’m still a terrible judge of character.

But I’ve closed that chapter of my life. Things will be different from now on.

The rain drips down my face, coming down harder than it has all day, and I stare out at the colorful ships with tall masts tied up along the water. The skies are gray, the wind is whipping around, and I basically want to die, despite the beautiful scenery. I might, actually, because I didn’t get a helmet when I rented this contraption, and my biking muscle memory hasn’t quite kicked in. Plus, my eyes were bothering me this morning so I’m wearing glasses instead of contacts, which means my visibility while riding the bike sucks.

Yup. Gonna die.

I’m probably the first human being to ever visit Ireland and absolutely hate it. And I hardly ever hate anything.

My phone buzzes and I fish it out of my pocket, hunched over it like a cave goblin to keep it dry.

Reese

How’s it going in Saint Lucia, Mads? I’m so envious. It’s freezing today, and all the snow that fell the other day is still on the ground

Stella

Send more pictures, please! It’s actually sunny in London, but still cold. I would kill for a Caribbean beach right now. You guys have no idea

I half-scream into the harbor. Oh, but I do have an idea, Stella.

After returning the dodgy bike, I trudge back up Main Street and duck into O’Brien’s. I need something to warm my belly, but more so, I need to see a familiar—if not friendly—face. Even if it’s the man who is avoiding me with every bit of his soul. Yesterday, I spotted him from five storefronts away and he ran from me. Literally ran.

The pub is warm and dry and I’m so happy I could cry. It’s a Tuesday at two o’clock in the afternoon, so there’s no one here, just Patrick perched at the end of the bar staring at his laptop.

He glances up and appears to sigh deeply at my very existence.

“Christ. What happened to you?” His eyes rake over my dripping hair, spotted glasses, soaked hoodie, soggy leggings, and squelchy sneakers.

“I went for a bike ride.” I blow a breath up my face and water droplets scatter.

“You’re dripping wet. Onto my floor.” He nods toward the little puddle at my feet and grimaces with distaste, but I swear one corner of his mouth twitches up. “You’re a mess.”

“Those are facts.” This man does not pretend to be friendly at all, but I kinda like that about him. I get the impression he just says what’s on his mind. He comes off as standoffish and grumpy. Maybe it’s just a front.

I’m gonna assume that’s right and not let him scare me away.

“Can you even see out of those glasses?”

“No. I cannot.” I get distracted by a giant drop of water dripping from the end of my nose and go cross-eyed watching it slide down.

“Jaysus. Come here, then.” He slides off his stool and reaches behind the bar for a dry towel, seems to consider approaching me, then holds it out. “It’s clean. Dry off and try to stop flooding my pub.”

That accent. I’m not one to swoon over accents—wait, that’s a lie, yes I am, as my ninth boyfriend, who I desperately try not to think about, is proof of that—but the way he says Jay-sus causes a flutter in my belly.

Or maybe I’m just hungry.

I reach for the towel, drying my face first, then attempt to clear my glasses. It does not work. He sighs again and holds his hand out. I hesitate for just a second before passing the glasses over.

“To summarize: you went for a bike ride, in the pouring rain...” He grabs a tissue from the box next to the stack of iPads. “...with glasses on and completely inappropriate clothing?”

“Affirmative.”

“Were you wearing a helmet?”

I scrunch my face. “...at least I’m not wearing a dress?”

He scoffs and hands me clear, dry glasses. “At least. You need to wear a helmet when riding a bike.”

“Next time.” My eyes flicker longingly to the beer taps. “Can I have a pint, please?”

“Yes.” Patrick slips behind the bar and expertly pours a pint of Slea Head Golden Amber.

I pull out a moist credit card and hand it to him.

“No,” he simply says, watching as I reach for the pint. A tiny fluttering disturbs my chest.

“Thanks.” Friends let friends drink for free, don’t they? Maybe there’s hope for us yet.

I lean against the bar and take a giant gulp of the ale, sighing with pleasure. “So good. Do you have an IPA?”

“Not yet.” He walks back around and pauses next to the barstool he occupied when I walked in. “We have three—Golden Amber, Slea Head Stout, and a dark brew called Devil’s Dark.” Patrick gestures to the Slea Head taps lining the bar, next to handles of Guinness, Smithwick’s, Kilkenny, and New Dingle.

“What brewery doesn’t have an IPA these days?”

He glares at me. “It’s coming. Soon.”

“IPAs are my favorite.”

“Wonderful. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Hmm.” I drop it for now, although I’m very tempted to find out why his jaw is suddenly clenched. “Where’s everyone else?” I look around the quiet pub. No one is behind the bar, and there are no customers.

“Beth—one of my managers—just quit to go work for New Dingle Brewing.” His face darkens. “So now I’m short-staffed.” He leans one elbow on the bar and watches me drink. “You need to take that soaking wet sweatshirt off. You’re going to get sick.”

“You don’t actually get sick from being cold. That’s an old wives’ tale. Are you an old wife?”

“Are you always such a pain in the arse?”

“Yes.” It’s so easy to get him to roll his eyes at me, I kind of love it. I slide the beer on the bar and struggle to strip the wet hoodie from my body, leaving me wearing a thin t-shirt, my dark sports bra clearly visible through the moist fabric. But it’s a sports bra and a plain t-shirt. There’s nothing less sexy.

I hop up on the barstool, some warmth returning to my frozen fingers. I don’t miss the way Patrick’s eyes dart down to my soaking shirt.

“Keeping staff is hard. I was a restaurant manager in my old life.”

He doesn’t respond, but keeps his eyes locked on me. My cheeks burn under his assessment. I let myself check him out in return.

He’s still hot as hell. Even with (especially with) that grumpy-ass look on his face. He must only own tight black t-shirts. I would, too, if I were him, because the way the current one hugs his muscular shoulders and fits snugly along his waist, the same waist I got to grab last Friday night... I’m much warmer than I was when I walked in. I can only imagine what his abs look like. No! I can’t. Shouldn’t. I drag my gaze up to his face, where he’s watching me with a hint of amusement in his golden hazel eyes. He’s got the same five o’clock shadow he had the other night. I bet it’s impossible to keep it away. And now I get why our kiss was so disarming. His lips are plump and red and oh my god, I need to stop.

Patrick’s the only person I know in this town—besides Noreen, and I hardly think the real estate agent counts—and we have connections. I’m not some random. I can appreciate his attractiveness without turning it into something more. Even if he’s just the kind of guy I would fall for and then have to get a new job to avoid. Each time it happens, I think I’ve learned some important lesson, but then the next time I think I’m in love or some other bullshit, I make the same kind of mistakes.

I’m done with that part of my life. Kissing him won’t happen again, now that we kind of know each other.

“Madison.”

His deep voice snaps me back to reality, and I realize he’s looking at me like I’m nuts. Got it. Probably am.

“Sorry, zoned out there.” Not thinking about how hot he is. Of course not. “And it’s Maddie, not Madison, which I know I’ve told you before. Can we talk about the road trip? Or are you too busy?” I look pointedly around the empty bar.

“This again? I’ll send you a link and it’ll be done, okay?”

I sigh. “I really want to make this special. I’ll do it with or without you.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them.

“Without me. I choose that option,” he says.

“I take it back.”

“Does this have to do with why you’re hiding out in Dingle and I’m not allowed to tell Oliver you’re here?”

“Yes.”

Patrick narrows his eyes.

“Oh, no, you didn’t tell him, did you?” My heart pounds faster in my chest.

“No, no, of course not.”

“Phew.” I’m guessing I’d already know if he had. Reese doesn’t exactly hold her opinions to herself.

“Not yet, anyway. I don’t really appreciate having to lie to one of my oldest friends.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not like you’re actively lying to him. I bet he’s not asked you anything like do you ken where Maddie is these days ?” I attempt Oliver’s Scottish accent and fail miserably.

But Patrick chuckles and I almost fall off the barstool. I chug my beer and warmth prickles my skin under his gaze.

“Aye. He has not asked me that specific question. Why all the secrecy, though?”

There’s no way I’m telling him my whole sob story. I shrug it off.

I want to get my shit together without my big sister watching. I recognize that as a thirty-three-year-old, maybe I shouldn’t worry about her judgment, especially as she’s only been kind to me since our dad died. I was nine, and Reese stepped in as the mini-mom. Weighed down by grief, our mother withdrew into herself for a time, and Reese, who was six years older than me and four years older than Stella, took care of us. Aunt Evelyn helped, too. It worked until Reese left for college and I started partying, drinking, getting bad grades, dating shitty boys. I pulled it together enough to get into college but dropped out sophomore year.

And Reese’s never stopped being my mini-mom.

“Reasons. My turn: why the super serious face all the time? You work in a pub.”

“I own a pub.”

“Right. And a brewery.”

He nods.

“Sounds like a dream.”

“It is.” His face clouds over. “My parents wanted to sell the brewery, but I convinced them to let me take over. I’ve only been in charge a few months, and I’m trying to change some things to grow Slea Head into something bigger.” He sighs and runs his hand over his chin, making a scratchy sound. “But O’Brien’s requires so much micromanaging that it’s hard to find the time to focus on the brewery. Especially when people seem to quit every other day.”

People like me. I’m basically the exact opposite of the kind of person Patrick would want, in his personal life or in his pub. I’m flighty, undependable, and quit jobs at the drop of a hat, just like his day manager had.

“It’s hard to find people really committed to the job.” And it went the other way, too. There were always people waiting to take the jobs I quit. I know I’m incredibly replaceable.

He nods, staring at my face in an intense way that makes me want to make him laugh again.

“Well. I’m just in town for an adventure, but I can see how much you care about this place.”

I don’t tell him that the last thing I want is an adventure. I’m tired of quitting things and falling for the wrong people. This is my life interlude, my time to reflect. For example, Patrick and I would be a train wreck if we dated. He’s got his feet firmly on the ground. I’d be a nightmare to him. Not that I’m thinking of dating him. Or that he’d ever date someone like me.

And anything that happened in Ireland wouldn’t be serious anyway.

I finish my pint with one last huge gulp. Patrick’s watching me with narrowed hazel eyes as I gently place the empty glass on the bar.

“I feel so much better, thanks.”

“Another?” He grabs my empty glass.

“Nah, I’m good. I don’t want to get trashed on a Tuesday afternoon.” I shake my head, although that doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea.

Patrick starts wiping the perfectly clean bar. I pull my wet shirt away from my stomach and squeeze it out, dripping water onto the floor. He sighs at me and stares at the small puddle. I bite back a grin.

“What are you trying to change about the brewery?”

Patrick meets my gaze, seeming to consider his response.