Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
“ Y ou came!” Sinead exclaims and envelops me in a tight hug that almost knocks the breath out of me.
“Of course I did. You gave me a job, remember?” I smile, reserved.
She laughs and immediately takes her place behind the counter. “To be honest, I didn’t expect you would come. It’s beyond me why someone from the States, with your experience, would want to work in my little café. But if that’s what you want, who am I to stop you?”
The question is there again, lingering between us. I don’t want to point out that where I’m from is not the grand place she makes it out to be, nor does my experience place me above working in her little café.
“Thanks for hiring me,” I say. “I really appreciate the chance.”
Sinead raises her brows at that, then beams at me. “Sure. Let me show you around.”
For strangers who have barely spent an hour in each other’s presence, she’s surprisingly bubbly and welcoming as she goes over her daily routine.
Irish hospitality.
Duncan’s phrase jumps to mind. It must be that because there is no other explanation as to why Sinead eases me into my new job with a hot cup of delicious coffee and a big slice of pie, instructing me to take all the time I need to “familiarize” myself with everything while she’s busy serving the first customers of the day.
I sit at one of the tables and gulp down my coffee but barely touch the pie, then head into the small staff area marked as “private”. There’s no resemblance to the luxury communal recreation room I took for granted while working for Hathaway Investments. The place is so small, it barely fits a camping table and two chairs, a kitchen block with an old microwave, and a small fridge that makes a loud humming sound. I peer through the door to my right and find a small restroom in the retro design of the sixties. Clearly Sinead values cleanness and functionality over décor. The door to the left opens onto a staircase. Based on the fact that the café has an upper floor I assume that’s where Sinead lives. She seems to trust me enough not to lock the door. If she knew about the mess that’s waiting for me back in New York, she might feel differently.
“Everything good so far?” Her voice calls from the café a moment before her head pops in, startling me.
I press a hand over my racing heart to get rid of the sudden anxiety pouring through my body. “Yes. I’d love to get started.”
“Sounds good to me.”
I follow her to the serving area and force my attention on her chatter. Before I know it, hours have passed. My head’s swimming from so much talk and my feet are on fire from all the standing, but for the first time in months I feel happy, as though serving countless coffees while listening to old ladies talking about people I’ve never heard of is an achievement. Life here feels easy and simple, and the people seem so happy and content it’s almost contagious.
Sinead seems to be a fan of closing up on time because as soon as the clock strikes six, she’s basically ushering everyone out the door while smiling through what anywhere else would be considered bad customer service.
“How was your first day?” She locks up and turns to face me. Her skin is flushed, her hair is slightly in disarray, but even after a long shift and the sweat that comes with running a business, she looks radiant. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window and realize I can’t say the same thing about myself.
“I enjoyed it. Thanks for giving me the opportunity. I hope I proved myself.”
“Of course you did, like I knew you would. I wouldn’t have hired you if I had any doubts to begin with.” She heads over to the serving area to toss a few baked goodies into a bag, then hands it to me. “Enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you first thing Monday morning.”
By the time I leave the café, night has fallen. The air is crisp and pregnant with the scent of oncoming rain, but there’s also that salty scent of the ocean, which Sinead claims is only a “stone’s throw” away. I stop to look up for a moment.
The sky seems to hover low over my head. The heavy, dark clouds are parted in places, offering a stunning display of the crescent moon and countless sparkling stars. The view must be spectacular in the warmer months, when the sky is clear of clouds, a dark canvas dotted with millions of stars.
Too bad I’m not planning on being here long enough to see such a spectacle.
My chest tightens a little at the thought. I’m not going to get attached to this place, but even I have to admit it’s beautiful and serene. In spite of the chilly breeze, there’s a certain warmth about it.
Whatever’s in the bag smells delicious, reminding me I haven’t eaten much all day. If it weren’t so late I’d go in search of a bench, preferably one on the shore, sit down and devour my dinner while enjoying the solitude. But the pain in my legs is slowly starting to feel unbearable. I can’t wait to get home and put my feet up, maybe soak in the hot tub for an hour, then watch some TV.
The place is slowly growing on me. It’s starting to feel a bit like home, though I’m not sure that’s a good thing.
The climb up the steady incline is grueling and I make a mental note to ask Duncan whether the late Ms. Walsh had a car I can borrow. By the time I reach the driveway leading up the estate, a soft drizzle has started to fall, matting my hair to my forehead. The gravel is wet and the soles of my shoes sink in a little, reminding me of quicksand. The walk feels like I’m scaling a mountain, and the strong gust of wind that’s joined in the rain isn’t helping. When the front door finally comes into view, I hasten my steps, eager to escape the bad weather and physical torture.
A thumping noise registers somewhere at the back of my mind. I stop to listen for a moment, unable to place it at first. It can’t be the spattering rain or the whipping wind; it’s too loud for that. I take a few tentative steps, realizing it sounds like drums or bass, and it’s coming from the house. It vaguely resembles music, but there are no other instruments.
That’s when it dawns on me.
It must be Patrick. He’s probably playing his obnoxious music again. If he thinks he can keep me up all night, he has no idea what’s going to hit him.
The pain in my legs instantly forgotten, I dash for the door. It’s locked, but this time he can’t keep me out because I have a key.
Ha!
The moment I open the door, I’m immediately hit by the full blast of noise. That bass reminds me of a grenade going off over and over again, reverberating off the walls. The house is probably shaking in its foundation. It’s so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if my eardrums ruptured. I’m actually glad I’m not working tomorrow because I doubt Sinead would be happy if her customers were yelling down the café so I could hear their orders.
I drop my handbag onto the floor, and head down the corridor, following the trail of the ear-splitting noise. It’s coming from the basement. I haven’t been down there yet. Basements are usually reserved for either clutter or man caves. Somehow, the Walsh residence didn’t strike me as the kind of house that would have one of the latter. Now I realize I was wrong. It comes with its own hot, grumpy guy so it makes sense that he would have his own cave.
I mentally prepare myself for yet another locked door and possibly having to kick it in, but to my surprise it’s wide open. There’s also an open window, which explains why I could hear whatever this monstrosity is all the way around the house and down the long driveway.
Not only does the guy not have good taste in music, he also has no regard for the safety of other people’s hearing.
I don’t bother knocking; it would be futile anyway. I barge in, one hand balled into a fist, the other still clutching Sinead’s goody bag. In all the frenzy, I must have forgotten I was carrying it.
Patrick’s sitting on a stool, with what looks like drums arranged in front of him. He’s beating on them with two sticks like his life depends on it. He’s also wearing headphones, which I assume is the reason why he can’t hear how bad he actually is at the whole thing.
“Turn down the bass!” I yell.
His gaze lifts to brush over me, then turns back to the metal cauldrons he apparently deems in dire need of more beating.
He’s ignoring me. I can tell from the annoying smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
The cheek!
“Dude!” I yell.
No reaction.
I throw my hand up in exasperation when I spy the cables connecting the concoction of drums to a computer and a huge box I think could be an amplifier. Figuring where there are cables there must also be a power cord, I crawl on all fours beneath the table with the computer. I pull at the cord with a vengeance, almost ripping the socket out of the wall, as I yell, “I said turn down the bass!”
The noise instantly dies down.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Silence has never felt so serene. Crawling back from under the table, I rise to my feet and find myself inches from Patrick’s hard chest. My mouth goes dry and my breath hitches in my throat. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt that emphasizes his broad shoulders and clings to his muscles. Drops of sweat are glistening on his skin. As he shifts a little, the neck opening of his T-shirt offers a little glimpse of his tribal tattoo and for a moment I think I literally forget to breathe.
My body starts to tingle all over and heat gathers in all the places I’d rather not pay attention to in his presence. I want to see more of him; more of everything .
I grimace, both disappointed and annoyed.
What’s wrong with me?
I don’t get my ridiculous reaction to him. I wouldn’t be surprised to find myself salivating. My attraction to him is annoying the hell out of me.
“My face is up here,” Patrick says, jerking me back to reality.
I look up into his eyes and instantly regret it.
The guy is drop-dead sexy, but it’s his eyes that would sway any woman beyond the bedroom and onto swooning territory. That blue-gray reminds me of heavy clouds gathering over an ocean. Deep, dark, dangerous. There’s something about them that I can’t quite pinpoint. A hidden layer of mystery and allure, both enigmatic yet strangely familiar. I’m sure we haven’t met before; I never forget a face and surely not one as striking as Patrick’s, and yet?—
“For your interest, they’re percussion instruments.” His voice cuts through my thoughts, and I realize my mind must have drifted away. It seems to do that a lot around him.
I frown. “What?”
He motions around him, speaking slowly. “You requested that I turn off the bass . They’re percussion instruments. There’s a big difference.”
“Semantics. You call those whatever. I call them noise pollution.”
His lips twitch with arrogance. “Clearly, you have no idea who played on them.”
“Even if it were the Queen of Ireland, I couldn’t care less.”
“If it were Northern Ireland, that would be a king, love. We have neither a queen nor a king, because the Republic of Ireland is a republic . Off-topic, as far as I remember the deceased British Queen used to play the piano,” Patrick says. “Not sure about the king’s wife as I haven’t met her yet.”
No idea whether he’s making fun of me or he just so happens to know useless tidbits of information no grown-up person needs to know. But the man’s so irritating I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Whatever you say, dude. Just make it stop and keep it that way. I prefer my house free of noise and anything irritating. That includes men.”
His brows shoot up. “You don’t do men?”
I sigh.
Patrick Walsh seems to be a big fan of endless discussions and mindless chatter. I’m not.
“Honestly, I can’t deal with you right now. Just don’t do whatever you were doing in there for as long as we’re living under the same roof.” I dash past him, eager to get away. I’ve barely squeezed through the open door when I realize he’s following close behind me. Obviously, he’s clueless to the usual end of discussion signs and doesn’t get the “leave me alone” signals. I sense that’s going to be one of the many things I’ll have to teach him. It’s only been a few days, but I’m slowly starting to feel like I could write a whole thesis about this man’s personality, and it wouldn’t be a pretty read.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Patrick says.
I stop mid-stride and turn around to face him, instantly harboring the ridiculous belief he’s talking about not being able to live in the same house with me. My spirits both rise and fall at the same time. I want him gone for obvious reasons. Yet the thought he might not be around for much longer is also strangely upsetting.
Women are probably tripping over their feet to get his attention. But as long as I’m around I entertain the ridiculous notion that my presence might keep them away.
“I sound like an insect repellent,” I mumble and let my gaze sweep over him.
Big mistake!
He screams eye candy, the kind you take to bed and don’t bother asking for his number in the morning. Because, let’s face it, men of his ego caliber know how good-looking they are; they know the effect they have on women. Why would they stay faithful to one when they can have a whole harem?
That’s when I notice his pensive expression and I realize his mind’s still preoccupied with the whole “banging on defenseless objects” thing.
“You can’t stop your noise pollution? Why’s that?” I narrow my eyes at him, annoyed. Men are such a weird species, it would make sense if they were from Mars.
“Because I have a convention coming up next month and everyone’s going to be there.”
“Wait! Did you just say a ‘convention’? Like Star Wars and UFOs and the like?”
He nods, serious, not catching on the sarcasm dripping from my tone. “Yes. And it’s only once a year. People expect me to be good, which means I need to hone my skills.” He winks and his lips curve up a little. “I’ve always been a fan of practicing. Lots and lots of it. That’s why I’m good at everything .”
Why does that sound like a dirty insinuation?
I need to get my mind out of the gutter, and fast, preferably before the Irish guy realizes I haven’t been with anyone in so long I’m slowly starting to fall for his charm—or lack thereof—without him even trying.
“Let’s not find out whether that’s true.” I take a deep, steadying breath. “Dude, I get this is your hobby, and it’s fine. I have a few of those myself.”
“It’s not my hobby. It’s?—”
I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “Sorry. Your passion. Childhood dream. Whatever. The thing with fantasies is that they’re just that. Growing up, I wanted to be a princess, marry the prince, live in a castle. It’s probably the fairy tale dream of every little girl. My point is, you don’t see me married to the prince now, do you?” I pause for effect. He’s just staring at me, lost for words. I can see I’m finally getting through to him. I’m helping him. “I understand you wanted to be a rock star, but now that you’re almost what—thirty?—you need to tune into the real world, get a job that pays the bills, and move out of your parents’ home. It’s time to grow up. ”
Patrick’s still staring at me, mouth slightly open. With a gentle smile, I pat his shoulder, and instantly wish I hadn’t touched him. Under that T-shirt, he is ripped.
And because I’m on a roll, I keep going. “It might sound a little scary at first, but once you give it a try you’ll realize being independent feels great. It’s such an achievement; you’ll be so proud of yourself.” I shoot him a reassuring smile and head back up the stairs, calling over my shoulder, “Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
Once I’m in my bedroom, I don’t bother to change out of my clothes. I sink onto my bed and relish the sensation of comfort. I’m so tired I close my eyes for a moment, slowly slipping into sweet oblivion. I’m on the verge of falling asleep when a rap at the door jerks me back to reality.
I jump up, startled, and yell, “What?”
The door opens and Patrick peers in, holding something in his hands. But I can’t focus on that. He’s taken his shirt off. All I see is his naked upper body, and hot damn! It’s even better than I remember. Suddenly all I want is to take my time ogling him.
Strong muscles ripple beneath taut, bronze skin, drawing my attention to the defined V. I want to see more but he’s holding a brown box that blocks the view farther below.
Dammit!
I frown, annoyed with the box. If looks could make it disappear, it would have pulverized into dust by now.
“For you,” Patrick says. “Looks like you have a secret admirer.”
I look up, confused. “What?”
“The package. It’s a big one.” He holds the box out to me, offering an unobstructed view of what I’ve been dying to see. I don’t want to stare and yet I can’t help myself.
My gaze lingers on the bulge in his pants, and my eyes widen in disbelief. For once, he’s being modest. That is one big package, and I’m not referring to the box. Unless he’s hiding a pair of socks in there, there’s no way any woman could take that and be able to walk the next morning.
“You want it or not?” Patrick asks.
The box, I remind myself. He’s talking about the box.
I force my gaze away from his crotch, all the way up to his face. His brows shoot up, amused, and my cheeks catch fire. Even though I’m aware I haven’t done anything wrong, I feel caught out. Unless the guy can read minds there’s no way he could have picked up on the direction of my thoughts, but the glint in his eyes and the double entendre suggest otherwise. Maybe he’s so used to the female population staring at whatever he’s hiding in his pants that he immediately assumes every woman wants a piece of it.
Well, I don’t.
Okay, maybe a little.
“Just leave it over there.” I gesture in the direction of the dresser. “What’s inside?”
“Why don’t you have a look? You seem to be good at checking things out.” His eyes shimmer with challenge and the hint of a smile from before turns into a lopsided grin.
Oh, for crying out loud!
He’s downright gorgeous when he does that. I open my mouth to retaliate, but my brain seems unable to come up with a retort to put him in his place as mortification washes over me.
He noticed me looking! Worse yet, his ego has just turned so big you can probably spy it from outer space.
“I—” I shake my head grimly.
Laughing, he places the box on the dresser and heads out. That’s when my wits finally return. I hurry out the door, calling after him, “I wasn’t checking out anything in particular.”
“You were and you know it,” he yells back from around the corner.
His arrogance infuriates me so much there’s no way in hell I’d ever admit to anything. “There wasn’t anything worth checking out,” I yell back. “And next time you decide to take a stroll around my house, wear some clothes for fuck’s sake!”
Silence.
That shut him up big time.
I take a deep breath, proud of myself. Patrick might be a head taller than me and twice my size, but I have the upper hand. A moment later, his laughing face pops around the corner, his eyes twinkling. “Why? Can’t take your eyes off me?”
“What?” I shake my head, confused. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t get it?” Patrick asks, waiting for the penny to drop. That’s supposed to tell me something, but for the life of me I can’t figure it out. He’s looking at me like I’m an alien who’s just landed on earth. I stare back, still clueless. He frowns. “Nothing? Doesn’t ring any bells? It’s the title of a popular song. Can’t Take My Eyes Off You by Frankie Valli, a famous musician covered to death by various artists.”
“Who?”
He heaves an exasperated sigh. “You can’t be serious, woman. How can you not know that ?”
“I’m not into music,” I say dryly.
He gapes at me. “Everyone likes music.”
“I don’t,” I say.
“None whatsoever?”
I shake my head in response.
“How can you not be into music?” Patrick asks.
“I’m just not. I told you I value peace and quiet. I like silence. Let’s leave it at that.” I’m not going to open my heart to a stranger and reveal the sad story behind my dislike of music when I haven’t even shared it with Mia. He wouldn’t understand. No one would.
Patrick looks at me like I’ve mortally offended him and mutters, “This isn’t going to work out. I can’t be roommate with that. ”
“I wasn’t offering. Don’t let the door bite you in the ass on your way out.” I head back to my bedroom, making sure to slam the door behind me. For some reason, the fact he would snub me for not liking music hurts but I can’t change it.