Chapter Nine
Sam
“Right. Try this one.”
I just about hide my grimace as Ronan places another glass before me, this one filled with two inches of cloudy amber liquid. Not as murky as the last one, but not exactly appetizing either.
“Your honest opinion, now,” he says, folding his arms. “I can take it.”
“All right.”
“Seriously. Whatever you think. First words that spring to mind.”
“I—”
“Your gut reaction.”
I turn my book over to keep the page and clear my throat like it might clear me of my taste buds.
Deep breath. Knock it back.
Immediately cough.
“Not bad, right?” He seems encouraged. “Packs a punch?”
“It’s…” Like vinegar. “Something,” I say. “Not as bitter as the last one. And should beer pack a punch?”
It turns out that Ronan is an amateur brewer as well as a bartender. One who’s made me his latest guinea pig.
“I suppose it’s a bit strong,” he says, sounding as if he doesn’t suppose that at all. “How’s the aftertaste?”
“Definitely there.”
“I’ll take that onboard,” he says, and swaps the empty glass for a fresh pint. “You’re a good lad, Sam. None of these gobshites will even try a sip anymore.”
Because they’re all smarter than me.
“Happy to help,” I say, and pick up my book as he welcomes in another customer.
I ended up staying in the pub for the rest of the afternoon, knowing I’d go stir-crazy in my room otherwise.
Ronan is easy company, and when the sun started to set and people trickled in, the place lost its gloomy, desolate feel.
It’s definitely basic. There’s no television or food or anything beyond a simple menu of ales, stouts, and spirits.
But I guess all you need is a chair and a drink, and everyone who stops by is offered both.
Their chatter is a pleasant hum in the background, as is the alcohol buzzing through my body, and it could be a pretty good Friday night if I didn’t feel the need to check my phone every five minutes for an email that never arrives.
Frustration gnaws at me, and I’m wondering if Amy was onto something with the whole rocking up to an author’s house with a “where’s my book?” idea when the door opens after ten and Ciara Sheridan strolls inside.
She’s alone and dressed in denim shorts and a T-shirt, a light-blue rain jacket slung over her arm.
Her hair looks freshly washed, and she must have spent time outside today because her nose is sunburned, the faint blush along the bridge giving her an otherworldly look as she glances around before spotting me.
For a moment we just stare at each other, and a flush of heat crawls up the back of my neck. Probably some kind of survival instinct.
“Ciara!”
We both jump, and Ciara tears her gaze away, focusing on Ronan.
“Where the feck have you been?” he says with more fondness than you’d expect to accompany those words.
Ciara shrugs. “I was doing Dry January.”
“It’s almost June.”
“I was really good at it.”
“Sit down,” he orders, mumbling, “dry fecking January,” as he continues pulling a pint for a man three stools down.
Still Ciara hesitates, her gaze drifting again around the room before swinging my way.
I don’t think a woman has ever looked so resigned while walking toward me.
“You’re in my seat,” she says when she reaches my side, and I realize I’m still staring at her.
“Sorry. I’m—”
“Kidding. That’s the bad seat. I never sit there.” Her eyes drop to the book, and I whip it back into my bag.
Then she looks at that. “Nice tote.”
“Thanks,” I say, shoving it in the space under my stool. “I have three hundred of them.”
“Sounds like overkill.”
“They’re like cocaine to publishing people.”
“So I’ve heard,” she says. “Tell me, do you usually read at the bar?”
“Actually, I—” I tense as she hops onto the stool beside mine. “Do. Sometimes.”
“And do you usually read alone at the bar on a Friday night?”
“No,” I admit.
“Then I hope you don’t mind my company.” She stares straight ahead, then swivels to face me so fast that our knees bump. “I talked to Casey,” she says abruptly. “He says you’re cool and not a con artist.”
“Casey Richardson said I’m cool?”
“Well, not in so many words, but that’s the vibe I got. Apparently you’re the best editor in the whole wide world, and you’re going to fix everything.” Her smile is quick. Forced. “But I’m not spending my Friday night talking about work.”
I want to spend my Friday night talking about work. I want her to tell me the exact cadence and tone in which my boss implied that I was good at my job. But I’ve got more important things to discuss right now.
“How did your writing go?”
It’s the wrong thing to ask. And her gaze slides from me once more as she turns back to the bar. “Fine.”
“Do you have anything to share?”
“I will Monday,” she says. “I promise.”
“You agreed to send me something this morning.”
“That was to make you leave.”
My patience snaps. “Are you usually this blunt?”
“Are you usually this anal?” she counters, matching my tone. “I can’t work the way you work, okay? I’m not a computer. I would have churned out the novel by now if it was that easy.”
“I didn’t say it was easy, but, at the pace you’re going, you’re not going to meet your deadline.”
“I’m trying,” she says tersely. “There’s no point in sending what I have if I’m just going to change it anyway. Monday morning, I swear.”
“But you—”
“Can we please not talk about the book?” she interrupts. “I just want a drink and I can sit back there if you want. We don’t have to chat. We don’t have to do anything.”
And she leans away as if she’s going to do just that.
“Wait,” I blurt out, visions of Casey taking this away from me making me panic. All it would need is one email from her asking to switch editors and then where would I be? Finished before I barely started. “Monday, then. Morning,” I add. “Seeing as how you work nights.”
A soft noise comes out of her, a little like a scoff. But she settles back down.
“Monday,” she echoes, and that’s that.
An awkward silence stretches between us, and Ciara shifts beside me, drawing one leg over the other before scratching her cheek. Her fingers are stacked with silver rings, each one glinting in the low light, and I’m momentarily distracted when she drums them against the polished wood.
“I’m staying in the room above the pub,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else.
She just hums in response, scooching her stool closer to the bar. Her entire body is angled away from me and I’m pretty sure anyone looking at us would think we were on the worst first date in the world.
Don’t be you, Lizzie told me. But the problem is, I don’t know how to be anyone else.
Restlessness fills me. I’ve always hated not knowing what to do. And, with this woman beside me, I feel completely lost. “Look—” I begin, scrambling to fix this, but that’s all I get to say before someone calls from behind.
“Well, now! He exists.”
The farmer I spoke with the other day, the one who directed me to her house, steps inside the pub. He’s still wearing the flat cap, and his dog trots in behind him, tail wagging as it heads to the spot in front of the unlit fireplace.
Ciara smiles warmly, twisting to face him. “Evening, Bernard.”
“Don’t evening, Bernard me. When were you going to introduce us?”
“To who?” she asks, startled as he shakes my hand. “Sam?”
“Is that your name, young man?” His grip is surprisingly firm. “The boyfriend.”
Ciara’s brow furrows. “The what?”
“How long have you been keeping him a secret?”
“Ah, you didn’t tell me you were seeing someone,” Ronan says, moving back our way. “I’m sorry, lad. You should have said something.”
“I’m not seeing anyone,” Ciara says firmly.
“We’ve barely seen her the past few weeks,” Ronan tells me. “We were starting to worry. Thought maybe she was getting into that whole—ah, what did you call it again, Bernard?”
“Cryptocurrency,” the ninety-year-old says grimly.
Ronan nods. “Wouldn’t know much about it myself now, but you hear things.”
Ciara looks as though she’s barely holding on to her patience. “I’m not trading cryptocurrency. And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“I’m not going to say anything,” Ronan says, holding up his hands. “I know you like your privacy.”
“But—”
“My lips are sealed.” And then he winks at her. Or at least he tries to. It’s more like he brings one side of his mouth up and half-closes his right eye.
“I hoped there might be someone when you disappeared on us,” Bernard says happily. “But you’re right to. Live your life while you’re young.”
“I was just busy.”
“Of course.” He pats me once on the shoulder. “Bring him up to the farm one day. Let me see what he’s made of.”
“I’m not going to—” She breaks off when he wanders away, and Ronan gives her one final smile before he does the same. She turns back to me, bewildered for half a second before she sees the look on my face.
“This is on you?”
My smile is nervous. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“No one would give me your address.”
“So you lied.”
“No, Bernard assumed.” I pause. “Then I lied.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Found it!” Ronan reappears, thumping an old cardboard box on the bar. “I knew I still had them. And to think you wanted me to throw everything out,” he says to Ciara.
She just looks at him warily. “What are you talking about?”
“Sam was looking for some photographs of Frank earlier,” he says, digging a bundle out.
“I’d put them away for safekeeping but turns out they were too safe.
Couldn’t find them for the life of me, but here we are.
Spick and span.” He taps the first one proudly.
“Well. Spickish. That’s me in my better years.
” He passes me a faded one of himself behind the bar, and then another of him and Frank outside.
“You’re in some of these too,” he adds to Ciara, who’s gone deathly silent.
Ronan doesn’t seem to notice. “I think Sam here knows even more than you do about your dad,” he continues.
“How many times did you say you read the series?”
“Uh, six,” I say as he delves back into the box. “You know, I can look at these another time.”
“Think I’ve got some bookmarks down here,” he mutters. “You all right, Ciara? You’re looking a little pale.”
“I’m…” A line appears on her forehead as she trails off. “You know, I’m not great.”
“Fancy some medicinal brandy?”
“Actually, I think I’d better go home.”
Ronan looks up in surprise. “But you didn’t even have a pint.”
“Sorry.” She slides off her stool with a wide, false smile. “I’ll swing by next week.”
“But—”
But nothing, as it turns out. She avoids my eye as she grabs her jacket and hurries to the door, nodding at the few people who call out hello to her.
“Must be something she ate,” Ronan says, sounding put out, but I don’t think that’s it. One by one, every tense interaction we’ve had speeds through my mind, and I glance back at the photos, knowing that if I let her go now, I might as well get on a plane tonight.
“Ah, here,” Ronan complains as I drain the last of my drink, “not you too.”
“I’ll be back,” I promise, leaving my bag on the bar. “Could you watch this? I’ve gotta—”
“Fine, fine,” he says as he waves me off. “This is why I stayed single,” he adds, and I don’t bother to correct him as I chase after her.