Chapter 5
POV: Maeve:?
God, he was even more attractive up close.
Muscles—muscles for days, and tattoos that looked impeccable on his skin, and brown eyes with a hint of green in them—and a hairline that was so full there was no way he could bald anytime soon. Yes, my kryptonite—a man with perfect hair and built like a God. An Irish pagan god.
I did a shitty job at hiding my interest, though the local’s words replayed in my mind, I knew he was bad news and I was falling for his trap already.
Though, I doubt he was even interested in me.
Every feature on his face was composed—perfectly composed—until I made that comment, then I saw a flicker of surprise, maybe even a spark of interest, though I’m probably getting ahead of myself.
But did I actually come here for love?
No I did not.
I came here because my grandma bought me a ticket and forced me to go, in hopes I would find love.
I had my reservations, in fact I had more than just mere reservations. I had no hope at all that I would find love at a matchmaking festival in the middle of nowhere in Ireland.
So, just maybe I could have some fun here instead. With him—the brooding bar owner who wasn’t looking for anything serious. And considering we lived across oceans from each other, maybe this could work out temporarily.
You’re being delusional, Maeve, I told myself, shaking my head as I watched him out of the corner of my eye leaning against the end of the bar, talking to another bartender.
He wasn’t looking at me but I couldn’t keep from looking at him.
God, I’m a stalker. A foreign stalker.
He’s going to think I’m psychotic, then most certainly not want anything to do with me—or sleeping with me.
Most guys didn’t like stage five clingers and I assume that’s how I look now.
Stage. Five. Clinger.
Stop admiring his ass and stop admiring his legs and absolutely stop admiring his broad shoulders. Stop admiring everything.
I’m sure he gets the look all the time, and you look just like the others, including that girl who warned you against him, who I’m sure if presented with the opportunity, would let him ravish her, too.
Oh god, now he’s walking towards me again.
Act confident. Act like you weren’t just thinking about sex with him or his muscles or anything about him really. Act like you’re not interested.
Look at your phone. Do anything but literally look at him.
So I glanced down at my phone and began typing out a message to absolutely no one. Then I saw it—he was literally standing right in front of me holding a plate of fish and chips in hand.
I took a deep breath before looking up and meeting his gaze, awkwardly at that, and pushed my glass over to make room for the incoming plate. “Thank you.”
Smile, Maeve, do something but awkwardly just sit here.
So, I smiled, probably awkwardly but I still smiled.
“So, are you here for the festival?” he asked, surprising us both.
I nodded, sort of amazed he continued the conversation. “Yes, but not by choice.”
“Not by choice?” he cocked an eyebrow.
“No,” I replied, pausing. “It was my grandmother’s idea.”
“Your grandma?” he laughed. His hand was propped against the bar, and I was busy being preoccupied with the curve of his tricep.
Stop. Looking. At. Him. Like. That. Maeve.
But I couldn’t help myself.
I sipped on my beer. “Yes, my grandma. She’s from here. Galway.”
But he never broke eye contact. “So you’re Irish?”
I shrugged. “More or less. American-Irish.”
“American-Irish,” he laughed, teasing me with another smile. “And you’re here to find yourself the perfect Irishman and move to Ireland, I take it?”
“Like I said that’s what my grandma wants,” I replied, nearly rolling my eyes at his comment. “I’m here for research purposes.”
“Research?” His tone held interest.
“For my book. I’m a writer. I’m hoping that after this convoluted experience, I can at least get a bestseller out of it,” I laughed.
His expression changed and dare I say it, he looked even more attractive, even though he still seemed grumpy beneath the small smirk. “A writer? So you’re here to write a story about a tourist who is looking for love? Are you here to make fun of our old traditions?” There was humor beneath his tone, but I still wasn’t sure what he was playing at.
“Hey, some traditions need to be capitalized on,” I shrugged, teasing.
He stared at me for a moment, studying me, unnerving me.
“So, are you from here?” I finally asked.
He began wiping down the bar with a towel, looking at the wooden bar top and not me. “Born and raised.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Oh, since I was five years old,” he joked, pointing to the collage of photos behind the bar.
I knew instantly which one he was referring to. A photo of a cute little boy in scallie cap sitting on top of the bar.
“You’re the owner?” I asked in surprise.
“You sound disappointed that I’m not just some sleazy bartender,” he teased, looking up at me with that legendary smile of his again.
God, was he dreamy—literally a man who I would write about in a book.
“It’s not that—it’s just—”
He interrupted me before I could finish. “My grandparents opened the pub—-my father took over and after he passed and I inherited it.”
I nodded, understanding.
“What did your parents do?” he asked.
“My father was a journalist and I guess that’s why I decided to become a writer,” I said, almost finishing my Guinness out of nerves.
Just as if he realized he gave away a bit too much, he withdrew, taking a step back. “Your food’s getting cold.”
But I guess I was feeling a bit ballsy, because even though he was sarcastic, cold, and even potentially a man-whore, he was the first person here who made me feel comfortable.
“I’m Maeve,” I extended my hand, my heart pounding inside my chest as I waited for him to take it.
“Liam,” he replied.
His hand—there’s no way to describe the way it felt, er, well appropriately.
Rough. Commanding. Intoxicating.
I wanted his hand wrapped around every part of me.
He let go suddenly, offering a soft nod before walking towards the opposite end of the bar as quickly as he could and not looking back.