Chapter 3
POV: Maeve?
To say Ireland was not beautiful would be a lie. It was beyond beautiful, like something out of a travel book—long rolling green hills, not an ounce of brown in sight—the bluest sky I’ve ever seen—even a rainbow, and colorful houses—pinks, blues, yellows, greens with quaint Irish names for pubs, like the Fighting Lion, Pot of Gold, The Pint.
I couldn’t help but stare out the window in awe, as I drove a tiny vehicle, on the wrong side of the road and tried to navigate my way through one-lane roads and steep cliffs.
After a few more miles of driving and seeing nothing but cows and sheep, I finally took a roadway that led to another narrow roadway and into town.
The town was as you’d imagined—quaint, picturesque, the typical Irish vibes with colorful homes and storefronts and classic pubs, people wore rainboats as part of their daily attire it seemed due to the unpredictable Irish weather, and strolled as if they had all the time in the world.
I guess this trip could do me some good—give me some new inspiration for my novels, even for my blog. Unlike the typical concrete jungle that was American and the hustle that was engrained in our bones.
This could be a good way to reset—start anew for a while, until I went back to the hustle and bustle that was a part of being an American.
As I slowly drove down what looked like the city center and passed a wooden sign that said, “Lisdoonvarna Match Making Festival check in on your first right at The Matchmaker Bar!” I glanced at the building it was referring to—a pink colored building with window stickers of hearts and couples dancing. Screams rom-com.
I laughed to myself as I took the next turn and happened upon another bar, The Crow’s Nest. This bar looked like the usual type of Irish pub you’d picture when you googled ‘town pubs’. It was weathered with a sign that could use a painting over, but screamed traditional.
That one seemed more up my alley, maybe I’d even get to mingle with some locals there.
I turned down another winding road, passing a few more locals chattering in the town square, then went another half mile before I made it to my Airbnb.
It was just like the picture—actually it was even more beautiful than the pictures were. The cottage had ivy along its stones, long bay windows, a terracotta rooftop, and had wildflowers growing around the landscape. It looked like a place to write the next best-selling novel, and as I stepped out of the car and breathed in the fresh air, it felt like it too.
As I typed in the security code and hauled my luggage inside, I almost let out a gasp. The inside was perfect.
A cute coffee nook, stocked with coffee cups and keurig pods and even a traditional tea kettle for the stove, there was a writing area with an old wooden desk, velvet yellow chair that outlook the backyard of the property—which was more of a national park than a backyard, it even came with furry little friends in the distance, an open fenceline with sheep and cows grazing. The living room had a cozy fireplace, colorful velvet couches and a basket with what looked like handsewn blankets.
I wheeled my suitcases to the bedroom in a rush, dying to see the rest of the property and gazed upon the large kingsize bed, probably a best seller to tourists frequenting the festival, as I’m sure they’re eager to get it on. But knowing my luck, I’ll be sleeping alone, even during a worldwide matchmaker festival.
I slumped down on the bed and let out a sigh.
I cannot believe I was actually doing this.
Well believe it, Maeve. You’ve made it this far, and there’s no backing down, you might as well start enjoying yourself, maybe even go out into town, get some inspiration, maybe even write out a plotline tonight.
Now to find something to wear, because the juicy couture sweatsuit wouldn’t cut it for traditional Irish pub attire.
Hey, don’t judge a girl by her choice of comfiness, they don’t make proper sweatwear like they used to.
I rifled through my luggage until I found something that screamed, “I’m a tourist but at least I’m not flashy.” A light cream colored sweater, black skinny jeans and white converse sneakers. I combed out some knotted strands of my wavy dirty blonde hair then put a goop of dark mascara on my lashes.
There, I looked—well, still like I hadn’t slept properly, but at least I smelled like jasmine.
Before I ran out the door I decided to grab my raincoat for good measure.
The walk was peaceful—fresh air, beautiful sights and smiles and nods from others that crossed my pass on the worn sidewalk of Lisdoonvarna. When I finally found my way back to the Crows Bar, the pub that had piqued my curiosity from earlier, I stared up at the sign like it was the beginning of something.
The next bestseller, I told myself.
I had already imagined the plotline in my head earlier.
It even sounded like a punchline.
A girl walks into a bar and meets an Irishman, who is ruggedly handsome, 6 foot 3, all muscled up, has a breathtaking smile, and maybe is a—fisherman? Pub owner? Owns a farm? That part needs a little working out, but anything overly Irish for a profession will do just fine.
As I pushed the door open, the echo of banter and lively music found its way to my ears. The pub smelled just as you’d expect it to, like Guinness and fish and chips.
No one even budged when I entered, they were too busy clapping away to the live music, eating their fish and chips, and drinking their Guinness like it was water.
This was the place. The place of inspiration for my novel, I told myself as I stepped inside.
As I made my way to the bar through the crowd of Irish folk, I found an open stool at the far right end of the weathered wooden bar. There were no drink menus or stylish curated decor. Just tradition—police patches decorating the wall by the liquor, a faded mirror with the decals of “The Crows Nest” on it, half filled liquor bottles lining the back of the bar and a tap full of—well, of all Guinness.
My gaze tracked around as I began to people watch.
An older group of men sat in the corner wearing wool scallie caps, there was a family taking shots of Jamison at the other end, a group of women, probably in their early twenties inhabited the other bar seats next to me, laughing and giggling amongst each other. Among the noticeable ones, there must have been at least forty other people, all laughing, eating, and drinking.
Then I saw him.
And my jaw nearly dropped.
6 foot 3, all muscle, the sleeve of his green colored t-shirt nearly contoured to his arm as he moved, full beard, brown slicked back hair, a little gray in it, maybe probably mid-thirities with tattoos down his forearms, triceps, a glimpse of one peeking out of his shirt by shoulder and collarbone. I couldn’t see his eyes yet, but I didn’t need to.
The moment I looked at him, I knew. I knew he would be the inspiration of the main character from my book.
I mean c’mon—it should be illegal to be that attractive. He could probably lift me over one shoulder with ease.
That’s what women want to imagine in their main characters—-can he pick me up and throw me over his shoulders—can he hold me up by my waist (without even the wall) as he fucks me? And most certainly, this man checked those boxes.
I must have been drooling or something because the girl next to me, the 20-something year old redhead laughed.
I stirred, straightening my shoulders. “Hi.”
“That’s Liam,” she replied, as if she knew.
I guess I was drooling.
“Who?” I pretended like I hadn’t noticed.
She laughed again, sipping her beer. “He’s the bar owner. And he’s trouble. He doesn’t like locals, so I don’t think he’ll be keen on tourists either.”
“I’m not interested,” I shrugged, trying to hide my preoccupation.
“Sure,” she winked, waving him down towards us and pointing to her drink.
I went completely silent.
“Good luck,” she whispered.
Shit, shit, shit, he was walking towards me and I looked like a deer in headlights.
I must’ve gone stiff and mute.
The girl rambled off her order, grabbed her beers and left me to my embarrassment.
He was staring at me now and I wasn’t responding, in fact I was just staring at him back.
“What will you have then?” His voice was smooth and rough at the same time.
“I—” I cleared my throat, regaining my self awareness. “I will take a Guinness.”
“An American,” he replied, less than enthralled.
“Yes, an American. Is there a problem?” I barked out, out of habit.
His demeanor changed from tough bartender to surprised Irishman in a moment’s time. I guess he didn’t expect sass from me.
“Not at all. Welcome to Lisdoovarna, Ms. America.” Then he turned away from me and went off to pour my Guinness.
I rolled my eyes, hoping he’d see my distaste in him and his attitude.
But the truth is—enemies to lovers was my favorite trope.
And I was dying for him to challenge me some more.