4
S tanding in front of the Moorings—a white building with its name in black lettering, its red door like a bright beacon drawing people inside—Maeve doesn’t just need a drink. She needs a bottle. Because when nothing in life makes sense, there is only one thing to do.
Get drunk.
She catches very little of what Eoin tells her. Something about the Moorings having been owned by the Dohertys for generations. Something about it being a sort of destination for people when they visit the island. It’s kind of what Ireland is known for, among other things like ... green hills ... and leprechauns. Maeve shakes her head, feeling sorely undereducated. That’s what happens when you spend so much energy actively ignoring a place.
“Liam inherited the Moorings from his father, and he passed it to you,” Eoin says.
Maeve is dumbstruck. Eoin keeps talking as if she knows Liam. Like they have a relationship. Like this place is her family history. But her family is from Chicago. And Polish! Maeve doesn’t know how to make bangers and mash. Her babcia taught her to make pierogi. They celebrate Dyngus Day! Hell, her grandpa’s favorite shirt says YOU BET YOUR DUPA I’M POLISH! And now she’s supposed to start saying “Kiss me! I’m Irish!” just like that?
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Liam gave up his parental rights. He chose not to have Maeve or Maryann in his life. But apparently, in death, he changed his mind.
“Now do you understand why you needed to come?” Eoin asks.
Maeve nods, but all she’s thinking about is how desperately she needs vodka. She starts toward the red door, but Eoin grabs her arm.
“What are you doing, Kaminski?”
“Going inside.”
“The pub’s closed.”
She turns to face him. “Who’s going to stop me? It’s mine, right?”
“Maybe sleep on the news. Come back in the morning.”
Like Maeve could sleep right now. Her jet lag has dissipated, replaced by adrenaline. “I just want to see the place,” she says. And then adds, “Alone.” She doesn’t need anyone witnessing her meltdown, and now that Maeve is in the village, the island doesn’t feel so overwhelming. “You can go. I’ll be fine. I’m an adult who lives in one of the biggest cities in the United States. I’ll find my way. You can’t get lost on an island, right?”
Eoin groans but doesn’t fight her. “I have you booked at the Cabbage Patch. It’s just down the road a bit. Run by a woman called Ivy. She’s expecting you.”
“Great. Just send me the address, and I promise I’ll make it there.”
“You can’t trust reception on the island.” Evidently not happy with the situation, Eoin takes Maeve’s phone and types the directions, rental instructions, and key codes into her notes. “I’ll drop your bag off now and let Ivy know you’re ... taking a moment. It’ll be waiting for you.”
“Great.”
But he doesn’t leave. His jaw works like he’s chewing his words before speaking them. “Listen, Kaminski ...” He steps closer, words on the end of his tongue, and hands over the keys to the pub. “Just ... call me. We have things to discuss.”
And then Maeve is alone in front of the Moorings, the white building alight in the darkness. What she wouldn’t give for Sonya to be here. Or her mom. But there’s only one friend she’ll find here tonight. Booze.
She puts the key into the red door and makes her way into the pub. The air inside is stale and heavy with the smell of barley and hops. She searches the wall for a light switch and finally finds one, illuminating the room with a dull yellow glow.
The pub is the kind of old that doesn’t exist in the States. The floor is stone, each tile an earthy brown or black. Panels of dark wood cover the walls, decorated in alcohol advertisements and Irish paraphernalia. Heavy wood beams line the ceiling. In one corner is a fireplace with a stone facade. Next to it is a basket of firewood and peat. Wood tables line the walls, dining chairs with upholstered red cushions tucked underneath. A chalkboard rests next to the door, advertising “Daily Special: Seafood Chowder” and “Inishglass’s Finest Fish and Chips. Locally Sourced!”
And there’s the bar. Beer taps run along the front and in back. Shelves are covered in bottles of booze, including more than one vodka, exactly as Maeve had hoped. She pours a shot and drinks it straightaway, relishing the burn in the back of her throat. Then, for good measure, she takes two more.
The relief is almost instant. The tension in her neck loosens, just enough that she can breathe deeper. But the reprieve doesn’t last. The longer she stands in the empty pub, the harder it is to believe she’s here. In Ireland. On Inishglass. And she owns a goddamn pub! And can’t even call Sonya to tell her about it!
Another shot goes down swiftly, then Maeve pours herself a pint of Carlsberg. No more appropriate time to double-fist drinks than when a girl finds out her estranged Irish father left her his pub, and she can’t ask him why, because he’s dead.
Maeve chugs half the pint. She should stop. A hangover tomorrow will not help her mental state. But she’s standing behind a bar, with no cell reception, in an eerily quiet pub where Liam Doherty, a man who has only ever been an idea to her, stood, night after night, slinging pints and chatting up customers. The only way to melt herself is with alcohol. Lots of it.
And then Maeve remembers her downloaded playlist. She digs in her backpack for wireless earbuds. Sonya started the “Girl in a Room” playlist for Maeve years ago. Sonya is the kind of person who can sing at the top of her lungs, in a packed car with the windows rolled down, completely off tune, not caring what anyone thinks. Maeve prefers to do embarrassing things alone.
“That stick up your ass is going to collect barnacles. It’s not good for you, Mae,” Sonya once said to her, back in high school. “A girl needs to freak out sometimes. It’s healthy.”
The “Girl in a Room” playlist began for moments just like this.
Maeve scrolls to Walk the Moon’s “Shut Up and Dance.” The bright, upbeat opener begins, and immediately Maeve is fifteen again, back in her pristine bedroom with its color-coordinated closet and poster of Nick Jonas. The lyrics start, and she shakes her head, her hair swishing back and forth. The more she moves, the less she wants to cry. The more sweat on her forehead, the more she forgets where she is. The weight of anxiety drips from her fingers as her arms sway. By the time the chorus comes back around, Maeve is completely dissolved in the song, eyes closed, dancing, twisting in circles and flailing, her head spinning, sweat on her skin. She peels off her sweater and throws it across the room as she belts out the words. Her singing is as unimpressive as her dancing, but it doesn’t matter. No one is around to witness this meltdown. The best messes are the kind you can clean up before anyone sees.
As the song builds to the end, Maeve gives everything she has, screaming the lyrics until she’s hoarse, her body spinning, her mind a blur. These four blissful minutes of song are the best she’s felt since she left the States, maybe the best she’s felt in months. She’s needed this freak-out desperately. After holding herself together, so long and so tightly, finally she’s loose. And then her foot catches the leg of a table.
Maybe she was too loose.
Maeve opens her eyes, realizing just how dizzy she is. She stumbles. Hits another table. Grabs at a chair to steady herself, but her body is moving so fast and her head is so off-kilter, she knocks into the chair and fumbles back. The chair falls, Maeve quickly following suit. She’s about to hit the cold stone floor when ... she’s caught.
Her immediate reaction is relief. To break her butt would have been the cyanide icing on a truly shitty day. But relief is soon replaced with deep, burning embarrassment. Someone was watching her dance routine and is now holding her sweaty, panting body in his arms.
The man says, in a soft Irish accent, “Should I get a spoon?”
“What?”
“Are you having a seizure?”
Maeve’s first thought is that he is one of the most beautiful creatures she’s ever seen. He is the definition of stunning. She’s never seen a person who defines a word before. Her second thought: he saw her dancing ... and singing ... loudly. Oh God. She doesn’t even do that in front of Sonya! Third thought: a bead of her sweat just dripped onto his sizable arm.
Maeve untangles herself and straightens out her T-shirt. “A seizure?”
He smiles broadly, clearly joking. “Anyone who says white girls can’t dance hasn’t met you.”
Maeve hits a new level of mortification. The only solution: get this man out of the pub right now.
“We’re closed,” she says, collecting her earbuds from the floor.
“But the door was open.”
She takes in the full size of this very tall, very broad man before her, dressed in jeans and a hunter-green fleece jacket, looking like a Patagonia model. “That doesn’t mean you can just walk through any open door you want.”
“But this is a pub. You’re supposed to walk through the door. That’s why it’s red, so you can find it easily.”
“Is that true?”
“I’ve never thought about it until now, but it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
She points to the open door. “Please leave.”
“But I just got here. I’m hoping there’s a second act.”
Maeve groans and walks behind the bar, needing a barrier between them.
Instead of following her instructions, the man takes a seat at one of the stools. “I have to thank you. I needed that.”
Maeve grabs a rag and starts wiping down the clean bar top. “I’m glad my embarrassment entertains you.”
He places a large, warm hand over hers. “Don’t be embarrassed. Giving another person joy is one of the greatest gifts.”
His hand feels really nice, but she pulls away. “Did you read that on a Hallmark card?”
He chuckles. “Jameson, please.”
“I told you. We’re closed.”
“But I just saved your life. If I wasn’t there to catch you, who knows what would have happened?” A good point, as infuriating as it might be. “Just one drink, Ferris. That’s all I’m asking. And then I’ll be on my way. It’ll be like I was never here.”
Maeve has two options: fight with this guy and delay his departure or just serve him the drink and be done with it. Judging by the fact he hasn’t left yet, the latter seems more efficient. “Fine. One drink. But only if you promise to keep what you saw a secret. You can never tell anyone.”
“A talent like that really should be shared.” With a warm smile, he crosses his heart. “I promise. I won’t tell a soul. Your secret’s safe with me, Ferris.”
She pours a stiff glass of Jameson and passes it to him. “Why do you keep calling me Ferris?”
“Your shirt.” He points at her chest where SAVE FERRIS is written.
“This is from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off .”
“Never seen it.”
“What is wrong with you?” Maeve blurts. She is undoubtedly tipsy.
“Should you really be asking me that question when you were the one screaming and punching the air like a boxing bag just a few minutes ago?”
She straightens out her clothes and hair. “My name’s Maeve. Not Ferris.”
“Briggs.” He extends his hand, swallowing hers in his own. “Can I ask you something, Maeve?” The faintest fine lines rim his dark-brown eyes, lines from smiling and sunshine, most likely. He’s probably a few years older than she is: late twenties, maybe thirty. His short hair is a few shades lighter than his eyes, and unlike Eoin’s clean-shaven face, Briggs has something between stubble and a beard, but well-groomed. Eoin had the look of a shaving-cream model, but Briggs looks like an adventure guide, maybe, or an arborist. A man who works with his hands and loves being outside.
Briggs takes a sip of his drink and leans his sizable forearms on the bar. “Why were you dancing?” he asks seriously.
It’s not the question Maeve expects. “Can’t a girl just dance?”
“Sure. But it’s been my experience that when a woman dances like that, it’s for a reason.”
There’s only steadiness in his gaze, no mockery. For just a second, Maeve seriously considers confessing her problems to this stranger, just to get them off her chest, but promptly thinks better of it. “You think you know women that well?”
Briggs sits back and crosses his arms. “I think I know pain that well.”
That sucks all the wind out of Maeve’s lungs. Damn. Who is this guy? She deflects his question with one of her own. “Why are you out drinking this late?”
“Can’t a guy get a drink?”
“Sure, but it’s been my experience that when a person drinks this late, it’s for a reason.”
Clearly impressed with her turning the tables on him, he says, “Tonight, I need the blur.”
“From what?”
“Harsh reality.” His intense expression pulls at Maeve’s gut. He holds up his glass. “Drinking alone is kind of pathetic. Care to save me the embarrassment, Maeve?”
“I guess I should, since you saved me from breaking my tailbone.”
She pours another pint, and Briggs raises his glass again. “To saving each other.”
They toast. “To the blur,” she adds, which makes Briggs’s eyes twinkle further, enhancing his strikingly good looks.
Awkward silence follows, the kind that happens between strangers who have shared an intimate moment but who don’t know what to do next. Briggs points at the dartboard in the corner. “Fancy a game?”
It’s better than staring uncomfortably at each other, even with the nice view, so Maeve comes out from behind the bar, and they head over to the board. Briggs retrieves the darts and rolls them around in his hands.
“Let’s make it interesting,” he says. “Three darts. Three questions. The higher the individual points, the more personal the questions. And you must answer. No refusing.”
“No way. I don’t know you.”
“Makes it that much better,” Briggs says. “It’s always easier to tell a stranger the truth. No consequences. Saying it to the people we love threatens us most.”
He has a point. Isn’t that why she hasn’t told her parents about her debt and Liam’s death? But like meeting a stranger on an airplane, Maeve feels completely comfortable, because come the end of the flight, they’ll never see each other again.
“What if we hit the bull’s-eye?” she asks.
“The ultimate confession. The harsh reality we don’t want to tell anyone.” Briggs lifts his glass, and Maeve considers the probability of his hitting a bull’s-eye. But what does it matter? He doesn’t know her. She could make up a confession, or tell him the truth and never see him again. It’s a win-win. She agrees to the terms, and Briggs hands her three darts. “Ladies first.”
Maeve aims and tosses. The dart lands in a single ring, the lowest possible points. There are plenty of mundane questions she could ask—where he’s from, what he does for work—but most won’t really tell her what she wants to know. Then it hits her. “What’s your karaoke song?”
“That’s your question?”
“The answer says a lot about a person.”
Briggs raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”
“Take any Adele song. Only a person with a gigantic ego and delusions of grandeur would pick one of hers. Or a man who sings Shania Twain’s ‘Man! I Feel Like a Woman.’” Maeve pretends to gag. “A horrible sense of humor, and he probably struggles with fears of inadequacy.”
“You’ve really thought about this.”
Maeve picks her sweater off the ground and folds it neatly. “Don’t get me started on people who sing ‘I Will Survive.’ Desperate serial drunk dialers who can’t get over their exes.”
Maeve sets the sweater on the bar and checks her hair in one of the multiple mirrored signs on the wall. For near twenty hours of travel, she looks ... alright. But then again, she’s kind of drunk.
“Well, I wouldn’t pick Adele, and I’m not a fan of country,” Briggs says.
Maeve picks up the chair she knocked over and tucks it neatly under the table.
“And a drunk dial isn’t my style,” Briggs adds.
She notices a ring of moisture on the bar where he had set his glass, and she wipes it away. His attention follows her as she works.
“What is it then?” Maeve tosses the rag over her shoulder. “And don’t say Oasis or I’ll kick you out of this pub right now.”
“Feck no,” Briggs says in all seriousness.
This makes her chuckle. Maeve waits, her full attention on his answer.
“Miley Cyrus. ‘Party in the U.S.A.’” This is so wholly unexpected that Maeve bursts out laughing. A warm feeling blooms in her chest for the first time since ...
She sucks in a breath. Wow . Maeve hasn’t felt this since Spencer.
“Now, give me your best psychoanalysis,” Briggs says with a grin. “I can take it.”
“Not telling.” Maeve swallows down a heart hiccup and casually pulls her dart from the board.
“You have to.”
“No, I don’t. I asked a question. You answered. It’s your turn to throw a dart.”
Briggs groans playfully and takes his shot, hitting a triple ring—a good score, but not the bull’s-eye. He narrows his eyes on Maeve and contemplates his question. “Why were you cleaning just now?”
“There was whiskey on the bar.” But he isn’t buying the answer, so Maeve adds, “I like a tidy space.”
Briggs sits back on a table and crosses his arms. “I may not be Freud, but I know damn well there’s more to it than that.”
“Why does there have to be more to it than that?”
“Because there always is.”
Maeve considers this. “Having a clean space makes me feel in control. Is that what you want to hear?”
“It’s better,” he recognizes. “Why do you need to feel in control?”
“That’s more than one question. It’s my turn now.” She walks toward him, but before she gets there, Briggs knocks over his drink.
“Oops.” He shrugs with a smirk.
Maeve watches the whiskey spread across the table, her hand itching for the rag on her shoulder.
“It’s fine,” she says casually.
“Fine,” Briggs echoes and hands her a dart. “Your shot, Maeve.”
She aims at the board, but every few seconds, she glances at the whiskey flowing closer to the edge of the table. When it finally spills, Maeve cringes, the sound of dripping magnified in her ears. She throws the dart and misses the board completely.
Briggs finds this utterly hilarious. Maeve can hardly breathe. She can’t take it anymore and falls to her knees to clean the mess. But even with it all sopped up, she doesn’t feel any better. She is suddenly too tired to stand, and on the verge of tears, completely embarrassed.
“Damn it.” Briggs kneels. “I was only taking the piss.”
“Well, you proved your point. I’m a freak. My closets are perfectly organized. The Container Store is my favorite place to shop. And I carry a datebook. A real leather-bound datebook with my initials engraved on the spine. And yes. The inside is color coordinated. Is that what you want to know?”
He lifts her chin, and something in his gentle gaze makes Maeve feel oddly ... safe.
Briggs’s voice is soft and low. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. Especially when this is the best I’ve felt all night. Thanks to you.”
“Really?” Maeve has felt so useless for so many months that knowing she’s helped someone, even the tiniest bit, makes her feel slightly less ... pathetic. Maybe even capable. “I like your beard,” she says, barely above a whisper. Why she chooses that compliment, in this moment, is beyond her, but “You’re so gorgeous, I’d like to hang a poster of you on my wall” might be too much.
“My father always had a beard.”
Had . Past tense. “Is your dad ...” Briggs nods before Maeve can finish the question. “Mine, too.” She feels instant guilt, knowing Keith would be hurt if he knew she called another man “dad.” “Can I touch it?” Briggs places her hand on his cheek. Maeve rakes her nails along the coarse short hairs, mesmerized by the feeling on her fingers. “It’s softer than I thought it would be.”
“I hear it can be quite ticklish.”
Her fingers skim his chin. “I’ve never kissed anyone with a beard.”
“If you keep doing that, Maeve, you might just find out.” They’re so close that heat radiates between them, a pulse growing with each passing second, as if they’re both in an alternate universe where time doesn’t matter. Like they’ve known each other for years.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” she says.
“I’m sorry about yours,” he echoes.
“I didn’t know him, actually.” Their eyes haven’t left each other. “Which is really confusing, because I don’t know how to feel.”
“Maybe it’s a blessing,” Briggs offers. “I know how I felt when I lost my father, and I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone.”
His honesty draws Maeve further in, his mouth now inches from hers. “Just so we’re clear ...” she says.
One eyebrow lifts. “Yes?”
“We cannot kiss.”
“Yes. Terrible idea. Horrible. Definitely a mistake.”
“Huge mistake,” she agrees.
This is a bad idea, and Maeve knows it. She’s not in the right headspace, all jet-lagged in a foreign country, looking at the most gorgeous human being walking the planet, who just happened to save her from falling ... in a pub she now owns. Maeve squeezes her eyes closed, forcing the moment to break.
She stands. “I need to close now.” She goes behind the bar, every difficult step away from him like walking in sticky glue.
“At least let me help.”
“As you now know, I like to clean.” She offers a meek smile.
Briggs sets his empty glass on the bar. “Thanks for the blur, Maeve.”
The way he says “tanks,” instead of “thanks,” might be the most adorable thing she’s ever heard.
“Thanks for saving my life.” She imitates his accent, which he evidently finds just as endearing. And again, Maeve feels a ridiculous amount of satisfaction. Instead of wallowing in her own misery, she managed to provide happiness and help. So she decides to confess one more thing. “I’ve never actually sung karaoke before. Only watched other people do it. I’m too scared everyone will laugh at me.”
“If you did, what song would you sing?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know.”
Briggs grabs a napkin and asks for a pen. Maeve finds one by the till and hands it to him. When he’s done writing, he gives her the napkin. “When you decide, let me know. I want to be there when you sing it.”
On the napkin is his number and name: Briggs Murphy. She stares down at it as he walks toward the door.
When Eoin had first emailed, Sonya thought this trip to Ireland was a blessing. “It’s just the break you need,” she said. The word “break” carried two meanings—time away and a bit of good luck. “Try a different life on. See how it fits. Who knows? Maybe this lost half of you is just what you need to feel whole again.”
Briggs is almost to the door when Maeve says, “Wait.”
“Want to attempt the bull’s-eye after all?”
Blood is pumping so fast in Maeve’s veins that she feels it in her temples. Spencer stole more than money from her. He stole her trust. He made her scared of people in a way she’d never felt before. And she is sick of being scared, of suffering while Spencer is off scot-free, doing whatever the hell he wants.
Without another thought, she walks to Briggs and kisses him. Relief is instant, his warm mouth on hers tasting sweet and earthy, like whiskey and sex and masculinity.
Briggs pulls back. “I thought you said we can’t kiss.”
Shocked that she actually did it, Maeve says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
But Briggs doesn’t let her finish. His lips return to hers with fervor, like he’s starving and Maeve is the only meal he wants. When his tongue slides into her mouth, her knees threaten to buckle. The contact, warm and wet, pulls deep at her belly, deliciously waking her up between her thighs.
Briggs’s hands slide down her sides, grab her hips, and pull her closer. His tongue skims her lower lip, like he’s licking the remains of a drink from her mouth, and Maeve gasps with pleasure before his mouth closes on hers again.
This kiss ... she’s never experienced anything like it. It’s like they’re caught in a tornado, swirling, their combined energy ratcheting up every inch of her body, sensation seeping into every pore. And then, right as she’s about to throw caution out the pub window, the red door bursts open, bringing with it a blast of cool, humid air. Briggs and Maeve freeze, mid-embrace. An older woman walks into the pub dressed in flannel pajamas. She’s maybe a few years younger than Maryann, with deep-red, curly hair hanging wild over her shoulders.
“What the hell is going on here?” she says.
The question is obviously rhetorical, but Maeve sputters, “A-actually—”
“You know you shouldn’t be here,” the woman says ... to Briggs.
He straightens his clothes. “Now don’t overreact. I was just walking by and saw the light on. I thought I’d check on the place.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
“Honestly, Ivy.” Briggs crosses his heart. “I came over to make sure nothing was wrong. The door was open, and I had a drink. That’s all. Just being a good neighbor.”
“You’re not meant to be a good neighbor, Briggs. Remember? You’re her enemy.”
“Enemy?” Maeve interjects.
“Can’t we let that go for one bloody night, Ivy?” Briggs says. “She just got here.”
“No. We can’t. This place is crawling with tourists. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Wait,” Maeve says to Briggs. “I thought you were a tourist.”
“Is that what he told you?” Ivy says, her green-brown eyes sparkling with intrigue.
Briggs holds up his hands. “I never said that.”
“I’m so confused.” Maeve grabs her head, suddenly feeling all the alcohol.
“It’s all right, love.” Ivy touches her arm. “This has to be quite a shock. Which is why you shouldn’t be here.” Her words are directed at Briggs again. “When are you going to stop messing with every girl who comes to this island, Briggs? Even you know better than to go after a Doherty.”
“I told you. I wanted to help,” Briggs says, his jaw clenched tight. “I know a little something about what she’s going through, Ivy.”
Right then, Maeve remembers the directions Eoin gave her to the Cabbage Patch, owned by a person named Ivy.
“That still doesn’t mean you should be here,” Ivy counters. “Especially doing what you were doing. What if someone saw? How would you explain that?”
“Easy,” Briggs says. “I was just playing a little joke on the new owner. A welcome present from the Murphys.”
“A joke?” Maeve says. “Why the hell would you do that? And what do you mean you knew who I was?”
“Love,” Ivy says in all seriousness. “Everyone on this island knows who you are.”
“But ... how?” Maeve turns to Briggs and points a finger in his face. “And why didn’t you say you knew who I was? I thought you were a stranger.”
“We are strangers,” he says. “Just maybe not the kind you thought.”
Frustration boiling over, Maeve points at the exit. “Leave.” Briggs sputters, trying to explain himself further, but Maeve wants nothing to do with it. “The door is painted red for a reason,” she snaps.
Briggs groans. “Fine.” But before he goes, he picks up one last dart and throws it at the board. Bull’s-eye. “Now we both owe each other,” he says, and he walks out the door.