7
B riggs is behind the bar at the Thatch, wiping glasses.
“I met a girl today,” Hugh says.
Just from his friend’s amusing tone, Briggs knows who it is.
“Midwestern smoke show. Brunette with blue eyes that turn soft body parts—”
“I get it.” Briggs clenches his jaw.
“What have I told you about girls from middle America?”
“Ain’t nothing average about them,” Briggs says, poorly imitating an American accent.
“Fuck off. You even sound sexy with a bad Southern accent.” Hugh fills a pint for a customer and sets it on the bar with a gap-toothed grin. He may complain about his empty bed most nights, but it’s not for lack of charm. Hugh just isn’t built for one-night stands. It’s part of his appeal, which oddly enough could get him a lot of one-night stands. But being raised around seven sisters has instilled in him a respect for women that exceeds most men’s. He may talk big, but it’s just a cover. He’s a romantic at heart, and it’s one of the traits Briggs likes most about the guy.
Briggs recognizes a woman who appreciates a one-night stand, and for all her posturing last night, he knows Maeve isn’t one of them. She may have allowed herself an impulsive moment, but deep down, that’s not her. She toiled over that kiss too much, which only made Briggs want it more. Maeve would be perfect for Hugh, which gives Briggs the sudden urge to punch his best friend in the nose.
“I’m telling you, bro,” Hugh continues. “This one was extra unique. She takes ‘girl next door’ to a whole other level.”
Briggs contemplates smashing a whiskey bottle over Hugh’s head. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s acting like a schoolkid fighting with his friend over a crush. He takes a deep breath and files away another reason that Maeve Doherty is not good for him. Violence is the last thing his heart needs.
“So where’d you meet this girl?” Briggs asks, stretching away the tension in his neck.
Hugh claps him on the back. “She was poking around the pub. Peeking in the windows. She literally fell off the picnic bench, on top of me. That’s a sign, right?”
That really gets Briggs’s attention. “What?”
“Yeah. Like she was trying to break in. Hottest burglar I’ve ever seen.”
A tiny, satisfied smile grows on Briggs’s face. “Really?” He imagines Maeve snooping around the Thatch in her tight black pants, scoping out the competition. A bold move, he has to admit.
“She’s a Negroni, man. All the way.”
“You used the old ‘I bet I can guess your favorite drink’ line, eh?” Briggs carries three full pints to the end of the bar.
“Hell yeah, I did. And I was right. She’s sweet, fruity, but a little bitter, which makes her interesting, so you keep coming back for more.”
“You really need to get laid, mate.”
“Well, Furphy, if you’d share the wealth, maybe I would.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
Hugh groans. “You’re right. I need genuine commitment. God, I hate you.”
Briggs rolls his eyes. Hugh may peg him as the handsome heartbreaker who won’t settle down, but Briggs has never spent the night with a woman who hasn’t consented to what they could offer each other. Over all the years, he’s seen enough customers to distinguish when a woman is looking for love and when she’s looking for sex. He keeps his distance from the former. He’s not in the market for love.
But he hasn’t been able to get Maeve out of his mind all day, and that’s a bloody problem. Even the incident at Mettā Café, which left him scrubbing green out of his clothes all morning, was kind of ... adorable. He couldn’t stop laughing about it. Hell, fighting with her was the most fun he’s had in a while. Which is a huge problem for a guy who’s fine with carnal attraction but draws the line at joy and laughter. Those are matters of the heart. Off limits.
The pub door opens, letting in a fresh wave of air and people. Hugh perks up.
“She’s not coming, mate,” Briggs says as he loads dirty glasses into a bin for the dishwasher, thankful Maeve can’t set foot in his pub, offering his only reprieve.
“How the hell do you know?” Hugh says. “I told her to come in tonight. Maybe she likes chubby charmers.”
“You’re right. Maybe she does.” Briggs picks up the bin and heads toward the kitchen.
“Wait.” Hugh stops him. “Say that again.”
“Maybe she does.”
His jaw falls open. “No. Not fucking possible. You already met her!”
Briggs ignores him and disappears into the bustling kitchen. He checks in with the cooks, monitors orders, goes over next week’s schedule in his office. Anything to avoid the bar. But eventually, he knows it’s cruel to leave Hugh to manage the crowd alone.
Fifteen minutes later, he walks back out to the bar.
“Spill it,” Hugh says, arms crossed.
Briggs slings a rag over his shoulder. “It’s a small island. It’s not that odd for us to meet the same person. Happens every day.”
“Bullshit.” Hugh pokes a finger in Briggs’s face, which he swats away with too much vigor. “You don’t make that face when we talk about girls.”
“What face?”
“Like you want to rip off my balls.” Hugh is now wearing a smartass grin. “I knew something was off this morning. She’s the one who got your panties in a bunch!”
“I don’t wear fecking panties.” Briggs brushes past Hugh, bumping his shoulder. “And wipe that look off your ugly face.”
Hugh follows him closely. “Redirecting unwanted feelings onto an innocent bystander. She must really be messing with you. This makes me so happy.” He claps his hands like a puppet.
Briggs rounds on him and grabs his hands, squeezing. “I’m gonna kill you in your sleep.”
But Hugh only smiles wider. Lucky for them both, Aoife walks into the pub, forcing Briggs to let go of Hugh’s hands. He goes into the kitchen and retrieves the stool he saves just for Aoife, placing it at her usual spot at the end of the bar.
Before Aoife can sit down, Hugh blurts, “You’re not going to believe what happened!”
Aoife lifts her arms in celebration. “You got your first pube!”
Hugh isn’t fazed. “Briggs’s panties are bunched so far up his ass, you’d think it was a thong. And it’s about a girl!”
Aoife looks at Briggs. “You told him?”
“What?” Hugh exchanges glances with them both. “You already know?”
“She came into the café this morning, freshly jet-lagged. It was quite the scene. Did Briggs tell you about it?”
Briggs goes to the cooler for Aoife’s bottle of wine—he’s not about to offer Sancerre at an Irish pub—and pours a glass, which he sets in front of her with a heavy hand and a glare.
“Keep that to yourself, Eef.”
“Absolutely not. It was brilliant. Everyone in town is buzzing about it. Quite the introduction, I’d say.”
“What was brilliant?” Hugh asks, eyes alight.
Aoife sits back and crosses her arms, too satisfied with herself. “She dumped an entire smoothie on his head.”
Hugh’s jaw drops. “No way. Why the hell did she do that?”
Briggs stares daggers at Aoife.
“Because ...” Aoife takes a dramatic pause. “She’s Liam Doherty’s daughter!”
Hugh lets loose with a gut-busting laugh that gathers the attention of most of the customers. “No fucking way!”
Briggs points at Aoife and mutters, “I’m kicking you out.”
“No, you’re not.” She blows off the threat, knowing damn well Briggs would never. After twenty years of friendship, she’s well acquainted with his programming and never hesitates to push every last button, all while wearing a warm smile. He won’t do a bloody thing.
“Maeve Kaminski from Chicago is Liam Doherty’s daughter?” Hugh repeats, keeled over from laughter. “I can’t believe it.”
Briggs grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him up. He muscles Hugh into the bar and points a finger in his face, but he says nothing. What is he going to say? He lets go of Hugh’s shirt. “Keep your voice down.”
“When have we ever done that when it comes to the Dohertys?”
“She doesn’t need a bunch of people swarming the Moorings, gawking at her. She just got here.”
Hugh sees right through the excuse. “No way. That’s not why.”
“Her father just died,” Briggs presses. “She needs space, Hugh. Best we leave her alone for now.”
Hugh claps Briggs on the back. “You son of a bitch. After all these years, it’s finally happened.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You like her,” Hugh whispers in his ear.
“Ah, for feck’s sake.” Briggs shoves him away.
Hugh sidles up to Aoife. “He likes her.”
“He sure does,” she agrees.
“Both of you.” Briggs points an angry finger at them. “Out.”
“It’s like all my dreams are coming true,” Hugh says, starry-eyed. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted. Briggs finally likes a girl, and it turns out, he can’t touch her. Who do I congratulate for writing this script?”
“Shakespeare,” Aoife offers and takes a sip of wine.
“I do not like her,” Briggs says through tight teeth.
“Sure,” Hugh says. “And I don’t like pizza.”
Aoife rolls her eyes. “God, you’ve always been a terrible liar.”
“So, she’s like ... here to stay, right?” Hugh asks. “The Moorings is hers now. She’s the only Doherty left.”
“She could always sell.” Aoife glances at Briggs, clocking his reaction.
“She can’t do that,” Hugh counters.
Briggs wipes down the bar. “If she owns the place, she can do whatever she wants.”
“But the Murphy–Doherty feud is legend. You can’t have one without the other. The Thatch isn’t the Thatch without the Moorings. She’s gotta know that, right?”
“I don’t know what she knows. Our conversation was cut short when she dumped a smoothie on my head.”
“I really wish I had gotten a picture,” Aoife says.
“Well, there’s an easy solution to the problem.” Hugh pulls his phone from his back pocket. “Let’s look her up.”
Briggs rounds on him and takes the phone. “Don’t you dare.”
“Or I could just text her and ask?” Aoife has her phone out, and she flashes Maeve’s contact at Hugh and Briggs.
“How the hell did you get that?” Briggs asks.
Aoife answers coolly. “She’s new in town, so I gave her my number in case she needs anything.”
“Bloody hell.” Briggs shakes his head.
“Can I get her contact?” Hugh pleads.
“Absolutely not.” Briggs reaches for Aoife.
She swats his hand away. “Calm down. I would never. And I’m not about to ask what her plan is. It’s personal. We just met. That would be rude. But ... there’s no harm in looking her up on social media.” She leans back with a grin.
Hugh moves hurriedly to Aoife’s side, leaving Briggs behind the bar. “Where should we start? Google? TikTok? Tinder?”
“ Not Tinder,” Briggs says strongly.
“Instagram,” Aoife says. She types into the phone, focused on the screen.
Briggs squeezes the bridge of his nose like he’s coming down with a headache. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a pub to run.”
“You better get back to work then,” Aoife says casually. “We’ve got this covered.”
“You’re about three seconds away from getting fired,” Briggs snaps at Hugh.
“Go for it, bro. I bet Maeve would love an experienced bartender to help her through this tough transition at the Moorings.”
Briggs snarls and turns, but he only makes it three steps before Aoife says, “Found her.” And like Pavlov’s dog, he’s right back where he was just standing. Jesus Christ, he hates that his stomach just flipped. That there’s a catalog of pictures of Maeve online. That he might have to break his policy of no social media.
“Shite. Her page is private,” Aoife says. “I’ll send her a follow request.”
“Don’t—”
“Already done. And ... she accepted.”
“Already?” Briggs says.
“This is better than my first hand job.” Hugh leans over Aoife’s shoulder to see the page. “Yep, that’s the girl I met. God, I can’t believe I didn’t put the pieces together. She looks just like Liam.”
Briggs grips the edge of the bar, too damn intrigued for his own good.
“This is odd,” Aoife says.
“What?” Briggs hates that he jumped so fast at the statement.
“There’s a gap in her posts.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“The dates,” Aoife explains. “She didn’t post for over a year. The page goes from May 2021 to just a few months ago.”
“What the hell is odd about it?” Briggs snaps. “Maybe she got sick of posting for a while.”
Aoife and Hugh both glare at him.
“I broke up with social media once,” Hugh says. “It lasted five hours before I was back on TikTok watching dance videos.”
Aoife gasps and points at her phone. “I know what happened!”
“What?” Briggs asks, hating that he cares so much, wishing he could snatch the phone from Aoife’s hands.
“She deleted the pictures from that year.”
Aoife and Hugh glance at each other, eyes sparkling like they just discovered the identity of Jack the Ripper. Then they look at Briggs and simultaneously say, “A breakup.”
Briggs’s entire body constricts.
“It’s the only explanation,” Aoife says. “Someone broke her heart, and she deleted the evidence that he ever existed. Damn. It must have been bad.”
“You’re totally right,” Hugh says, his gaze softening. “Poor baby. Now I like her even more.”
Briggs can’t take it. “Put the goddamn phone down,” he begs Aoife, rubbing his chest with his palm.
She tracks his movement and finally concedes, then drinks the last of her wine and passes the glass back to Briggs. “I should go home anyway. The café is insanity these days. Can’t afford to feel like boiled shite tomorrow.” She stands and heads toward the bathroom.
Clearly disappointed that their fun is over, Hugh yields, too, and heads back around the bar. “I guess I’ll get back to work, boss.”
Briggs and Hugh fall into rhythm, pouring drinks and charming patrons, but Briggs’s mind continues to spin on Maeve and the Moorings. He hadn’t considered that she might sell the pub. For both families, that’s never been an option, but Maeve wasn’t raised here. The Moorings could mean nothing to her. Either way, Briggs has a problem. If she stays, Briggs’s crush might grow worse. If she sells, the Thatch could be ruined. Hell, the whole island would be affected. If they don’t have tourists ...
Briggs is deep in thought when Aoife comes out of the bathroom and pulls him aside, careful that Hugh can’t overhear.
“Please, Aoife, I don’t want—”
“This isn’t about her,” she says quietly. “I saw Eoin this afternoon.”
“That vampire showed his face outside during the day? I’m surprised he didn’t combust. Did he speak to you?”
Aoife shakes her head. “He didn’t see me. I just hate that he has me feeling like I’m eighteen again, with something to hide.”
Briggs shakes his head. “You can’t let him do that to you.”
“I know. I just don’t understand why he’s back after all this time.”
“Running from another burning bridge, no doubt. He’s not our concern anymore. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left the island by July.”
“You’re right.” Aoife pulls out her phone and checks the time. “Will you come to meditation tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You always say that.”
“And I always do.” Briggs exaggerates a smile, knowing damn well he has no intention of going.
“It’ll help. I promise. Especially with your—” She eyes his chest, knowing she’s sworn to secrecy on the subject, especially in the pub.
“I’ll think about it,” he says gently.
She kisses him on the cheek, and right then, the pub door flies open. A customer runs inside, yelling, “She took it! I saw her do it! And now she’s getting away!”
Briggs, Hugh, and Aoife all run toward the young man, not from the island, whose face is lit up with excitement like he just saw Santa Claus.
“What are you talking about, mate?” Briggs asks. The noise in the pub is down to a dull chatter of whispers.
“The sign,” he says. “She stole the sign!”
Everyone funnels out into the night, drinks in hand. In the distance, the culprit speeds away on a bike, the “Voted Best Pub in Inishglass!” banner flapping behind her. Briggs watches in amazement, and damn it if he doesn’t smile, just a little.
“Who was that?” the young man asks.
Hugh pats Briggs on the shoulder, beaming. “Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”
Briggs looks at the gathered crowd, his face wiped clean of amusement, and growls loudly, “Those bloody Dohertys!”