Never The Best (Savannah's Best #5)

1. Jax

CHAPTER 1

Jax

“ Y ou brought a Yank to my place, Paddy?” The gorgeous redhead who had her hands on her hips glared at my current companion and future auto-mechanic who was going to fix up the Porsche I’d borrowed from Nikolai, my friend who played soccer for Man U and had in no uncertain terms, told me that if I fucked up his custom car, I might as well die in that accident.

Nikolai wouldn’t give a shit about my excuse that driving in Ireland was a freaking nightmare, not just because they drove on the left…the wrong side of the road, but the roads were a disaster, and the incessant rain didn’t help. Dr. Doolittle could say all he wanted about how the rain in Spain mainly fell on the planes, but in Ireland, it was a vendetta against all mankind. The nagging showers and the full-blown attack that I was experiencing right now made me wonder if Mother Nature was holding a personal grudge against me.

But judging by the way the locals in rickety fucking vans were whistling as they drove without a care in the world, doing speeds I couldn’t imagine doing on these roads and in this weather, it was clear that I was the only one bothered by the storm that had turned County Clare into a lush, green drowning hazard.

“I’ll say this much,” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably in my seat as the rickety van I was in bounced over another pothole. “Irish rain doesn’t mess around.”

The driver chuckled, his hands lazy on the wheel as if he hadn’t just hydroplaned half a mile back. “Ah, you’ll get used to it. The trick is to stick ‘round long enough to make your peace with it.”

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen!

I tried to muster a smile, but I was soaked through, running on fumes after an already miserable day. I had thanked my lucky stars when a good Samaritan stopped to help me as I stood on the side of the road, looking like a drowned rat next to Nikolai’s sputtering (brand new) Porsche. At least, I hadn’t driven it into the ditch, which I’d for a moment there thought I would. This was a custom car made for Nikolai, so it wasn’t like I could just walk into the next Porsche dealer and replace the fucking car. I should’ve rented something and not lusted after this beauty that was now waiting to be towed as soon as I got to the next town…village. There were villages in this part of Ireland. Yeah, that’s how far off the beaten path I was.

The fault was mine. I’d played like shit at a charity golf tournament in Killarney at one of the best courses in the world. I’d borrowed Nikolai’s car (he was there for the tournament) as he was flying back to London and needed the vehicle transported, which I offered to do after I went on a long drive to clear my head.

My head was not clear—it was damp and dreary .

“Name’s Padraig, by the way,” the driver said. “But everyone calls me Paddy.”

“Paddy,” I murmured right as he navigated a sharp turn on what appeared to be more mudslide than the road. I braced myself against the dashboard, glancing down at my custom-made Balenciaga sneakers—one of a kind, designed just for me. They were so caked in dirt that even with a magnifying glass, you wouldn’t see my name or signature on the damn things.

“So, this place?—”

“The Banshee’s Rest,” Paddy supplied.

“Right. So?—"

“It’s the only pub and inn in Ballybeg,” he cut me off again. “You’ll be right as rain.”

Rain? Why the hell not?

It took another half an hour of sharp turns, potholes that made me think my liver and kidney had exchanged places when the van jolted to a stop in front of a weathered stone building. Its bright blue shutters and carved wooden sign stood out against the drab gray drizzle. Above the door, the words The Banshee’s Rest were painted in bold, slightly crooked lettering, and I could hear music and laughter spilling out onto the cobblestone street.

I was on an Irish movie set.

“Here we are.” Paddy slapped his thigh with an open palm like he was proud of his parking job. He had, in fact, taken up two spots, but who the hell was I to say anything when I’d almost driven a priceless car into a ditch?

“Dee’ll sort you out,” Paddy remarked cheerfully. “She runs the place. Fierce woman. Don’t cross her.”

“Noted.” I tried not to overthink what fierce might mean in this part of the world.

I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the rain, the sharp chill hitting me instantly.

The pub smelled like wood smoke and damp wool as I stepped inside, but it was warm—a far cry from the miserable weather outside.

What I wasn’t expecting was the shouting.

“…and I’ve told you a hundred bloody times, if you think you’re dropping off any more of this watered-down shite, you’ve got another thing coming! I’ve seen stronger piss in a toddler’s nappies!”

The voice came from the bar—or rather, from behind it.

A woman, barely five-five but somehow appearing larger (than life), stood with her hands planted on her hips, glaring at a red-faced delivery guy who looked about five seconds away from having a coronary incident. Her fiery auburn hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, stray curls sticking to her temple.

But even angry, anyone with eyes could see she was stunning . A beauty with a body to match. She had tits that had the pub’s logo on it, and her jeans were molded to her, making her ass look like it could take a pounding.

“Dee, I told him, but he wouldn’t listen, so—" The dude tried to plead his case but was brutally silenced.

“You can tell your boss he can shove the whole order where the sun doesn’t shine,” she added, jabbing a finger at the poor man’s chest. “And if I see you in here again trying to pass off that muck as Irish whiskey, you’ll wish you were dealing with someone half as patient as me. Understood ?”

The man nodded mutely, evidently embarrassed and terrorized, before he shuffled out of the pub, muttering something about how his boss was a feckin’ arsehole.

Oh yeah, she’d be one hell of a wild cat in bed.

I cringed at the thought. I wasn’t a horny teenager. I was a grown man of thirty-two, and I wasn’t supposed to look at women and indulge in locker room conversation, even inside my head. My Gran, may her soul rest in peace, would have my ass in a sling if she knew.

The wild cat…I meant Dee—exhaled sharply, grabbed a towel from the counter, and began wiping her hands like she hadn’t just verbally annihilated a grown man. And that was when she spotted me.

Her green eyes, sharp as broken glass, narrowed. “You’re in the wrong place,” she snapped, her accent rolling over each word like honey on a razor blade.

I raised my hands, palms up, because, for some reason, this felt like a hostage negotiation. “Uh…I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Paddy said?—”

Her gaze flicked to Paddy, who had just walked in behind me, rain dripping from his coat.

“You brought one of them Yanks to my place, Paddy?” She made it sound like it was a criminal offense. Then her eyes landed on the golf cap I was wearing, the one with the PGA logo embroidered across the front. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “You a big golf fan or something?”

I blinked. “Is that a problem?”

She crossed her arms, leaning one hip against the bar like she was gearing up for round two of a verbal sparring match.

“He’s not one of them, Dee.” Paddy pushed me toward a bar stool. “Sit your arse down before she throws something at you.”

I wasn’t sure if I should sit because standing would make it easy to run or dodge if she did indeed throw something at me. Ireland was turning out to be a lot more dangerous than the travel brochures indicated.

“You sure about that?” She arched an eyebrow, looking down her cute little nose at me.

She had porcelain white skin, delicate, in contrast with her demeanor. She wore no makeup, none that I could detect, and her lips were soft, pillowy, pink, swollen…Angelina Jolie lips. She looked like someone who gave good head.

I mentally smacked myself for going down that path again. Twice in a span of minutes? Get a grip, Jax.

“Excuse me, who’s them ?” I asked, looking from Paddy to Dee.

“You know exactly who they are.” She gestured vaguely toward my cap. “Here to shake hands with the developers and ruin my village? Build your shiny new golf resort and call it progress?”

Her voice dripped with disdain, and I had no clue why. I felt like I’d dropped into a movie midway and was missing a few plot points.

“I checked, Dee, and he’s not one of them,” Paddy tried again.

“He’s got the look of them. Yankee. Golf shirt. Entitled. Probably thinks he’s God’s gift.”

Okay, where the fuck was this attitude coming from? And why was it turning me on?

Oh, baby, give me a chance, and I’ll show you how much of a gift I can be.

For fuck’s sake, Jax, get your head out of the gutter, will you?

“I’m Jax Caldwell,” I drawled, holding my hand out, “I will, however, respond to Yankee if that’s what you prefer.”

Dee didn’t shake my hand. Instead, she snarled, and I judiciously pulled back.

She was fucking adorable.

Paddy chuckled softly. “Ah, Dee. Play nice. Poor fella’s stranded.” He then turned to me. “You a resort builder?”

“No.”

“What do you do for a living?” Paddy asked, bored.

“I…am a professional golfer.”

“See,” Dee accused.

“Hold it, lass.” Paddy raised his hands. “What does that mean? You spend your days playing golf?”

I grinned. It was a pleasure in some ways to be in a place where no one gave a fuck that I was a two-time PGA golf champion.

“Yeah, you can say that. I play golf professionally…you know, like people who play soccer professionally.” I faced Dee and put on my panty-melting smile that had worked time and again.

“Golf isn’t even a sport, and there’s a professional league?” Paddy was both disgusted and surprised. “You any good?”

This was the kind of place where there was no chance of me getting a big, arrogant head.

“I am.”

“How would you know?” Dee challenged.

“I may have won a championship or two.”

Fuck me! Could she at least get me a beer while she drilled my ass?

She saw my eyes go to the beer glasses, and she sighed. “You want a pint?”

“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you have on tap?”

“The name is Dee. Ma’am is the feckin’ Queen.”

She drew a pint for Paddy and me. “It’s a local—Clare’s Own Lager from Western Herd Brewery. Brewed just down the road in Kilmaley. You won’t find anything fresher.”

“Thanks,” I said gratefully, taking a sip. It tasted like crisp, golden sunshine with just the right bite of bitterness. Damn near perfect. They might have shit weather here, but they made good beer.

“Thanks, love.” Paddy downed about half his glass and grinned at me. “It’s like mother’s milk to me. You know, babies in Ireland are given beer?”

I raised both eyebrows. That sounded like child abuse.

“Ah, Jesus, would you stop scarin’ the Yank,” Dee muttered, glancing at her watch. “Right then, what does your man here need, Paddy? I open in a half hour.”

“My car broke down, and Paddy here was kind enough to help me.” I pulled out my phone from my pocket. “And this thing stopped working. I have no clue why, so I couldn’t call for help.”

“Is it charged?” Dee asked.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, it’s charged.”

Dee sighed and yanked the phone away from me and, before I could protest, stuck a charger into it. A moment later, the white Apple logo showed up on the screen.

“It wasn’t charged.”

“I was charging it in the car,” I explained.

“The same one that broke down?” Dee said drolly.

“Yeah,” I grumbled. She had a point.

Paddy finished his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I’m gonna take his vehicle to the garage, Dee, and see what’s what. He needs a room for the night, and he’ll be outta your hair before ye can say feck off back to America.”

“I’d never say that!” Dee protested before her eyes lingered on me for a moment as if trying to figure out what to do with me. Then, with a dismissive shrug, added, “Room’s upstairs. Don’t expect much. The sheets are clean, but the walls are thin. And if you’re looking for tea service or room service or service of any kind, you’re about fifty miles too far west for that kind of craic. The room’s gonna cost you seventy-five euros a night, and you can pay when you leave.”

“Got it.” This woman was a riot, even if I did feel like I’d walked into the Irish version of Twin Peaks .

“Oh.” She was already halfway down the bar. “And if you touch my whiskey stash, I’ll know.”

Oh, Wild Cat, there are other things I’d like to touch….

“Is it any good? The whiskey, I mean?” I drawled cheekily.

“Oh, it’s the best you’ll never taste,” she shot back, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll be wastin’ it on the likes of you, Yank.”

We’ll see about that, Wild Cat.

Paddy slapped my shoulder. “Welcome to Ballybeg.”