Chapter 2
Chapter Two
W ithout uttering a word, the stranger reaches out his hand to help me up. I peer at his strong fingers, hesitating.
“You want help or not?” the guy grumbles in an Irish rumble, his voice deep and low and sexy as hell. “As much as I love picking up strangers to chauffeur around, I haven’t got all night. I have places to be and things to do.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief.
He does not strike me as the friendliest person on earth, but at this point I’ll take grumpy and sarcastic over killer any time.
“Thanks.” I almost choke on the word and struggle to my feet, avoiding his outstretched hand.
“Suit yourself.” He reaches his truck in a few long strides and plops down in the driver’s seat. I hurry after him to make sure he doesn’t desert me. I might not know the guy but, from what I’ve gathered so far, first impressions and all that, I wouldn’t put it past him.
“Wait. I need to get my baggage.” I look at him, almost expecting him to offer his help, but fat chance. I frown. His face is turned away from me. Either he hasn’t heard me or he’s deliberately ignoring me.
“Please don’t inconvenience yourself on my behalf,” I mumble and proceed to gather my baggage off the road.
“Throw it in the boot,” he calls out.
“What?”
“The cargo area of a car,” the guy says. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t speak English?”
“Oh, you mean the trunk ? My English skills are just fine.” I shoot him a venomous look, which I hope he can see, as I’m slowly beginning to realize Irish English in addition to that accent of his is a completely foreign language to me, ranking right up there with Chinese and German.
Stifling a groan, I lift my suitcase and haul it into the trunk, mumbling, “Chivalry isn’t dead after all. Who would have guessed?”
“Done?” he asks as soon as I hop into the passenger seat.
“Yes. I’m glad you didn’t inconvenience yourself on my behalf.” I throw him another look but his face is turned away from me again and it’s too dark to make out much. “Do you know the fastest way to—” I fish for the letter inside my handbag when he cuts me short.
“You’re the strainséir who’s waiting for a pickup?”
I raise my eyebrows, wondering what the heck he just said.
“The stranger ,” he clarifies. “The stranger who needs to be picked up.” He says the last part like I have the intelligence of a toddler and might get lost on the way from the kitchen to the bathroom.
“Yes,” I say calmly, imitating his tone. “I am the stranger who’s not familiar with this place because she’s never been here before.”
“Good. I was just making sure I have the right person. Can’t risk picking up a murderer, you know.”
“Yes, because I absolutely look like one. I also just so happen to carry heavy suitcases with me everywhere,” I mutter under my breath, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.
He starts the engine and makes a U-turn, which sends my insides into painful knots every time he hits the brakes with more fervor than necessary.
“So, you know where Gleann Searúill is? You do know where to take me?” I ask.
He lets out a breath that sounds like a mixture between a scoff and a sigh, which makes me assume he knows exactly where to go and finds it offensive that I even dared question his knowledge of local directions. “There’s only one way and it goes in the right direction.”
“Of course. That makes perfect sense.”
“You really need to work on your pronunciation,” the guy says. “No wonder the driver didn’t understand a word.”
Huh!
I bite my tongue hard before something offensive does slip out. It’s not like me to offend people, but there’s something about this guy that really pushes my buttons.
Time to change the subject, and what better way to suck up to the locals than by proclaiming Ireland is an impressive place? It’s not even a lie. From what I’ve seen so far, the scenery is both unusual and stunning.
I wait until my stomach has settled a little before I resume the conversation.
“It’s very quiet here. Almost tranquil. Reminds me a bit of yoga without the physical exertion.” I laugh at my own attempt to infuse some much-needed humor into the situation.
He mumbles something indefinable and turns on the music.
So much for making small talk. That about sums up all of his interest in pursuing any sort of conversation.
I fold my hands in my lap and stare at them for a good five minutes. One song turns into three. At some point, the radio host begins to chatter about…sheep? Or maybe sleep? I honestly can’t tell.
We drive for what feels like an eternity, during which I make several more attempts at starting a conversation, yelling over the blaring music, while the guy ignores me. In the end, I just give up. Obviously, small talk (or any kind of talk, for that matter) isn’t his forte so I’m not going to waste my breath.
I kill time staring out of the window, even though I can barely make out more than the silhouettes of trees blurring into the night surrounding them. Every now and then I think I spy a house, the white-washed walls providing enough of a contrast to stand out in the darkness, but even these are few and far between.
I don’t know how long we’ve been driving for when the truck comes to an abrupt halt that sends me forward in my seat. Thank goodness I’m wearing my seatbelt. I peer into the deep darkness surrounding us, wondering why the sudden stop.
“This is it,” the guy says and kills the engine.
“You mean like?—”
I turn from the darkness to him, unsure what to do now. But his face is turned away again. All I can see is his profile, what with the dim moonlight and the lack of streetlamps. Back in NYC, a deserted street is not the kind of place one would want to frequent after nightfall. Probably not even during the day. He doesn’t seem particularly concerned though.
“Your destination,” the guy says. “Need me to roll out the red carpet?”
Do I detect undertones of annoyance? Sarcasm? I bite my lip hard as I fight the urge to call him out on his rudeness. He was kind enough to pick me up when he didn’t really have to. The least I can do is be the better person and return whatever bit him this morning with a big pile of friendliness. Because friendliness, showering your enemy with hugs and kisses and all that, is my thing.
Heck, I might even throw in a mean batch of cookies. The chocolate chip kind. Bought, because I couldn’t bake if my life depended on it.
“Thank you. My name is Lori. And you are?” I smile and reach out my hand, waiting for the big introductions. Obviously, we’ll never be best friends. We simply don’t click for that. But at least we’ll be able to exchange pleasantries without throwing in an offense or two in the process.
I’d settle for that because I simply can’t have people not liking me. Everyone likes me. That’s my thing, too.
To my utter disbelief, he simply opens the door and steps out of the truck, ignoring my outstretched hand.
I stare at his broad shoulders as he heads down the path toward what looks like a huge house shrouded in yet more darkness.
What just happened?
Did he just snub me? Brush me off? Kick my friendly attempt at making peace right in my face?
“Oh, no, he didn’t.” I shake my head, flummoxed. Maybe he didn’t see my outstretched hand. Maybe there’s a certain way to introduce yourself in Ireland, and I got it wrong.
I should have done my research.
“Wait!” I jump out of the truck and run down the stony path toward the house, ignoring the fact that, in the moonlight, it looks huge and menacing, a bit like a castle.
I stumble up what seems to be a gazillion steps just in time to have the heavy door slam in my face. The wood comes dangerously close to my nose and I jump back a step. Thank goodness I won’t need to spend the night in the local hospital…if there is one.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” I yell and start knocking. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
I hold my breath, almost expecting the door to open and the guy to peer out, maybe even with a smile on his face, calling his grumpiness all a big misunderstanding or a joke, or simply the result of having been on his feet all day.
Fat chance.
The door stays closed.
I inch closer and press my ear against the cool wood to listen. There is no sound. Just a big, looming silence.
“Is there a hotel nearby?” I ask, even though I don’t know if anyone can hear me.
Sighing, I turn on my heels and scan the dark, empty street, pondering my options. Where there’s a house, there have to be neighbors. I could try my luck down the street, knock on strangers’ doors and ask for directions to any nearby accommodation. I could spend the night in the guy’s car. Given that he left without a word, or locking up, he might not mind. Or I could?—
“There’s a barn around the house,” the guy calls out.
I turn sharply, almost expecting the door to open, his grumpy face accommodating a hesitant but friendly smile.
The door remains closed.
“A barn?” I repeat, hopeful. It sure beats a car or aimlessly walking down a dark street in search of anyone eager to help.
I really should have planned this better but the lawyer’s letter said someone would pick me up from the airport and drive me to the house. That person never turned up, which in turn forced me to fork out money I don’t have for a taxi that left me stranded in the middle of nowhere. That about sums up how I got here in the first place.
“Yes, a barn,” the voice interrupts my train of thoughts. “It has four walls and a roof. You can’t miss it. You can sleep there…for now. Good night.”
And with that, I assume the conversation is over because footsteps thud off and silence resumes.
“Sounds great. Thank you. I’ll definitely take you up on your generous offer.”
I return to the truck to get my backpack and suitcase. I’m not even being sarcastic. Coming from a stranger, it is generous of him to let me sleep in his barn. I’m grateful because roaming the streets at night is never a good idea. I might be in the middle of nowhere but living in NYC for most of my adult life has taught me a thing or two. One being, never leave your baggage out of sight. Second, don’t jump into a stranger’s car. (Well, I sort of blew that one.) Third, don’t spend the night outside. I survived in that city for years; I’m pretty sure I can survive a night in the village of Gleann Searúill.
Tugging at my luggage, it takes me forever to round the house before I reach a patch of greenery which I assume is a backyard. I can’t really tell, what with all the lights switched off and no streetlamp. I follow the path blindly until I find myself in front of another building, this one smaller than the house, and try the door.
It’s unlocked.
I push it open and enter, brushing my hand over the wall to my right where anyone would expect to find a light switch. It’s right there and I flick it on. The barn is instantly bathed in a soft, golden light. I shield my eyes until my vision has adjusted and scan my surroundings.
The guy must be joking calling this place a barn. It looks like no shed I’ve ever seen.
The place is spacious, modern, tastefully decorated with an old flair about it that instantly makes me feel at home. There’s a sofa with lots of cream and white cushions set up in front of an old fireplace. Colorful artwork adorns the walls, standing in contrast to the otherwise muted tone of the furniture. I open the first door to my left and find myself in a vast bedroom the size of my apartment back home, with a king-size bed and an en-suite bathroom. Everything looks spotless and barely lived in.
I squeal with delight and kick off my shoes, dropping onto the bed. I’m beat after the long flight and I really can’t believe my luck. This is so much better than I anticipated. This is?—
Before I can even form the thought, I’ve drifted off to sleep.