10
W hen a girl emails her boss that she’ll need the rest of the summer off to go to Ireland, that girl gets fired. In a single week, Maeve Kaminski has gained a pub and lost control of her life. And to top it off, on an island full of wool, there is only one knitting shop, aptly named Stitches and Bitches, which has been inconveniently closed for five days while the owners are away on holiday in Scotland, according to the sign.
So Maeve did what any logical twenty-four-year-old control freak would do. The first day, she bought cleaning supplies, a block of cheddar cheese, crackers, and ice cream, and threw herself a pity party. The next day, her fingers aching from scrubbing, she binged every season of Bridgerton . The following day, she couldn’t stand herself anymore and decided to get to work. If knitting wasn’t an option, she’d move down the list. She needs to build a winning kickball team. And the most logical place to find players ... the Moorings.
For three days now, Maeve has tucked herself behind the bar, chatting up locals and tourists alike. And while she hasn’t completed a single item on Liam’s list, if she’s being honest, the pub has been not only a great distraction from the garbage fire that is her life, but kind of fun, too. Maeve likes the social aspect of bartending, which is imperative since Sonya still hasn’t called her back. Also, the story of her stealing the Thatch banner has made Maeve even more of a celebrity, especially now that it hangs proudly over the Moorings’s door. To safeguard it from Briggs, she brings it in every night and hides it under the bar, only to hoist it proudly again the next day.
Until yesterday, when Aoife texted her, Maeve hadn’t thought about online reviews.
5 new reviews in a week! That might be a record! Aoife wrote.
Too intrigued, Maeve checked, and while she was embarrassed that a few mentioned or implied her specifically, she was also thrilled to be catching up to the Thatch. If all else is falling apart, at least she is gaining on Briggs.
Take that, Murphy!
The two women chatted back and forth. Aoife asked lots of questions. How was Maeve doing? Does she like being on the island? Has she adjusted to the time change? Does she need anything? Aoife shared, too. Apparently, she makes her own face and body oil, soaps, and bath salts out of seaweed she collects herself.
An ancient family tradition, she texted. Packed with vitamins, minerals, and plant magic!
Aoife intrigues Maeve, mostly because of her overwhelming kindness, but also because deep down, Maeve wishes she were into plant magic, beyond natural cleaning products.
Come to meditation tomorrow and I’ll give you a bag of goodies.
Wanting to make a friend, Maeve said yes.
Which is why she has dragged herself out of bed after a late shift at the Moorings to sit on a cushion and try not to fall back asleep.
Maeve props the baby-blue e-bike outside of Mettā Café and races into the restaurant, worried she’s late. On her way out the door, she ran into Ivy, who was out throwing a ball for her tireless black lab, Murray. They exchanged pleasantries, commenting on how early they were up and about. When Ivy threw the ball again, Maeve noted the distance, the impressive speed, the sheer athleticism ... and she had an idea.
“I bet you could throw a ball clear across, say ... a kickball pitch,” Maeve suggested, which sparked a broad grin on Ivy’s face.
“Indeed, I could.”
“Is your leg as good as your arm?”
“Better,” Ivy said. “I played football at university. You should see my instep kick.”
With Ivy, the Moorings’s kickball team is almost complete. As for one of the final positions, Maeve has a certain person in mind, but she’ll need to be strategic in her approach.
The tables and chairs in the café have been pushed back along the walls to make space in the middle for round meditation cushions. They’re lined up in neat rows, blankets underneath, like little relaxation pods on the floor. Incense burns in the corner, and mellow, spa-like music plays over the speakers. The crowd is bigger than Maeve thought it would be.
She tries to blend in and not draw attention to herself, especially because she’s sweating slightly from the speedy bike ride. Having never been to a meditation class, Maeve dressed in leggings and an oversized Nirvana T-shirt, a proud vintage item from Maryann’s younger years. She finished the outfit with her hot-pink Converse. Cute and comfortable, with just enough brightness to counter the black.
But as sweat drips down Maeve’s cheek, Aoife approaches, looking like a hippie pixie in search of higher consciousness. Maeve herself looks like a drowned rat in a grunge-band concert souvenir, and she worries she might be in over her head. Thirty minutes alone with her wandering thoughts? Maeve has kept herself busy this past week so she can avoid doing just that. Add that her pores are spouting water like a drinking fountain and Maeve is now righteously nervous.
“You came!” Aoife says, bounding over to Maeve dressed in flowy black pants, white crop top, oversized cardigan, and multicolored beaded bracelets stacked on her wrist. She has a crystal hanging around her neck. No doubt she knows about auras and chakras. She’s probably danced naked around a fire in some pagan ceremony and done ayahuasca. Whereas Maeve most recently ordered a folding board from Amazon so her garments are neatly put away in her drawer with as few wrinkles as possible. Maeve seriously considered packing it, but Sonya refused to let her.
“As promised!” Maeve manages a smile. “But looks like you might be full.”
“Don’t be silly. There’s plenty of room.” Aoife guides her to a nearby unclaimed cushion. “Take a seat here and we’ll get started.”
“But—”
Aoife is gone before Maeve can ask her how one meditates in the first place. She has no choice but to sit down and wing it. Not Maeve’s strong suit. In fact, she’s never even worn that kind of suit.
Sonya made her go to a yoga class once where the teacher encouraged them to make noise while they practiced. People moaned and exhaled loudly. At one point, someone wailed. Maeve, on the other hand, didn’t make a sound, too worried it would be the wrong sound or done at the wrong time and people would stare at her. At one point, the teacher had them flop around to “release stuck energy.” The students jumped, flapped their arms, and shook their heads, Sonya included, and Maeve just stood there watching them all move. She swayed a little, bobbed her head from side to side, but she wasn’t about to let it all go. That is strictly reserved for when she’s alone in her bedroom dancing.
Aoife asks everyone to find their cushions. Maeve takes a deep breath of the incense as she sits, then crosses her legs, uncrosses, recrosses.
Then right as Aoife says, “Welcome—” the café door bursts open, and all the students turn toward the noise. Briggs stands there, stoic, taking up the entire doorway. The sight of him actually steals Maeve’s breath. Holy hell, even at the crack of dawn, dressed in joggers and a T-shirt, the man is stunning. A breeze blows through the door, and his fresh salty scent invades Maeve’s whole being.
Aoife approaches him with a knowing twinkle in her eye and whispers, “What a surprise.”
“Quite,” he says quietly, with a tight, forced smile.
Aoife points to the cushion beside Maeve and shrugs. “Only seat left.”
Briggs sneers and says, “No more bloody Sancerre for you.”
“You wouldn’t do that to me.” Aoife blows off the threat like it’s dust.
Briggs plops himself on the cushion. “Gah. You know I wouldn’t.”
Given the way he follows her instruction without pushback, and the intimate nature of their interaction, Maeve realizes that Briggs and Aoife are friends. Of course they are. They both grew up on the island. How did she not consider this before?
Maeve ties her sweaty hair into a topknot, actively ignoring Briggs and hoping that any smell she’s producing is masked by the incense.
Briggs shifts around on his cushion, like a giant trying to get comfortable on a mushroom top. When his leg brushes Maeve’s, she says, “Would you please stay in your designated space?”
“I can’t help it. These blasted cushions aren’t built for people my size.”
Maeve rolls her eyes. “You just love excuses.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Like you know what that is.”
Aoife clears her throat at the front of the room. “If you two could please put your feelings aside for the duration of the class, that would be much appreciated.”
“Sorry,” they mumble together.
Maeve closes her eyes, adjusts her seat, and tries to ignore the overwhelming man next to her, whose body heat is slowly warming her own space and delightfully jumbling her stomach.
“By the way, I want my sign back,” Briggs whispers.
“Absolutely not.” Maeve sits up straighter, resolve on display.
“You know, I could have you arrested for stealing.”
“I doubt the police care about a ten-dollar VistaPrint banner.”
“I worked hard on that,” Briggs groans.
Maeve turns toward him. “Well, I could sue you for false advertising.”
“It’s not false advertising.”
Maeve gapes at him. “There was never a vote. You made it up!”
“I didn’t need a vote. The reviews speak for themselves. The Thatch has a higher online rating than the Moorings. That’s all the proof I need.”
“Well, check again,” Maeve says with a cocky smirk. “Because the evidence has shifted in my direction.”
Briggs clenches his jaw and leans in closer. “Just give me back my sign.”
She reciprocates, coming almost nose to nose with him. “You want it, Briggs Murphy? Come and get it!”
They sit, deadlocked, breathing heavily, their faces so close that Maeve can smell his toothpaste.
“Are you two done now?” Aoife asks.
They turn to find the entire room staring at them, wide-eyed, transfixed.
Aoife shrugs. “That’s just what happens when you put a Doherty and a Murphy in the same class. Let me remind you that we’re here to meditate, not fight. Now, can you two control yourselves until the end of class?”
The scene couldn’t have been better scripted. Maeve can already imagine the chatter. By the time she gets to the pub this afternoon, news of this fight will be all over the island.
“Sorry, Eef,” Briggs says, all warmth and charm. “We won’t interrupt again.”
Maeve shoots him an annoyed look. He started it. “Yeah, sorry. Not another word,” she says, doing her best to sound remorseful, though really she liked fighting with Briggs. It was ... fun. Invigorating. Maeve hasn’t felt this revved in months.
They settle back onto their cushions, and Aoife starts the class with the chime of the tingsha bells. She instructs the students to sit with their backs straight but not rigid, upright but not forced. Eyes closed or hold a soft gaze. Then all they’re supposed to do is breathe.
Maeve follows instructions, and for the first part of class, it goes well. She inhales and exhales and tries to ignore Briggs. Then about five minutes in, she gets antsy. Her toes tingle. Her stomach growls. Her nose itches. She loses concentration on her breathing. Her thoughts start to spin, and what she feared would happen happens. For a week, she’s avoided reality, treating this whole excursion to Ireland like it’s a play and she’s just acting out a part. But what about her life in the States? Nothing on Liam’s list has been accomplished yet. She’s no closer to returning home than she was a week ago. And what if she loses the kickball game? What if she can’t sell the pub? What if she can’t pay off her debt and she’s right back where she started, but without a job?
Maeve’s breath picks up and becomes shallow. Anxiety swarms in her belly. Holy hell, she’s going to have a panic attack in meditation class. How insulting to Aoife!
“Maeve,” Briggs whispers. “Just breathe.”
“I can’t.” She wheezes and shifts, pulling at the neck of her T-shirt. “I’m no good at this.”
Briggs lays his hand on her leg. “You’re OK. Just focus on my hand.”
She tries, desperate for anything to stop the fear. She concentrates on the warmth of his skin, the size of his palm, each individual finger and where it rests on her thigh. She homes in so acutely that she swears she can feel his fingerprints.
“Good. Now just watch your thoughts come and go,” Briggs offers. “Just let them be.”
“Easier said than done,” Maeve says.
“I know this is hard for you. You want to clean up your thoughts. But don’t.” His hand hasn’t left her leg. His thumb gently moves back and forth on her thigh, soothing her. “Pretend they’re a movie. Just watch what happens, like your mind is a theater and you’re in the audience.”
Maeve’s thoughts continue to bounce, like a rock rolling down a hill and catching more momentum as it goes. But the second she starts to panic again, she focuses on Briggs’s hand. It becomes her safe place. There she can relax and let her thoughts go instead of attempting to tame them. Gradually, she settles into the theater of her mind, watching as thoughts and images come and go. And then one daydream rises to capture her attention.
Maeve hasn’t allowed herself to think much about their kiss, but with Briggs next to her, his hand on her thigh, he is the movie she turns on. She relives every detail. His tongue as it glided across her lower lip, teasing her mouth open. His hands, hungry for her body, lifting her closer to him, desperate to be devoured. And that was just a kiss. Maeve’s mind drifts further, wondering, wandering, imagining the potential, until she’s one big warm sensation, so wrapped up in the fantasy she barely hears Aoife ring the bell to end the meditation. Briggs takes his hand off her thigh, and Maeve’s eyes fly open. The fantasy was so real, it was almost tangible.
“Are you OK?” Briggs asks. “You look flushed.”
That was so not what you’re supposed to do in meditation. With your enemy!
Maeve scrambles to her feet. “I have to go.”
She bolts outside and jumps on her e-bike. She needs a shower. Preferably cold. She’ll apologize to Aoife later, after she’s calmed down. Maeve rides straight back to the eco-pod and promptly texts Eoin: What is long and hard that a Polish girl gets on her wedding night?
He replies right away: Please advise.
A new last name.
Why can’t you borrow money from a leprechaun?
Maeve types back: Why?
Because they’re always a little short.
If you were singing karaoke, what song would you pick?
Eoin’s response comes back quickly: Wonderwall.
Maeve cringes. I need to schedule another meeting. Tomorrow 6 p.m. The Moorings. I hope you like potatoes.
Please tell me potato is code for something else.
Is that a yes?
How could I say no?
Stitches and Bitches is a complete mess. After this morning’s meditation debacle, it’s just what Maeve needs.
The store has multiple shelves of yarn, some organized by color, others mismatched and stuffed to the gills. Pattern books are displayed next to lotions and knickknacks. Off-putting headless mannequins model scarves and sweaters. There is no cohesive structure, and Maeve starts to hum at the potential, like when she walks into Maryann’s disheveled closet.
The store is open but quiet at nine in the morning, which is perfect. Maeve doubts that Briggs frequents the place, which means it’s another refuge. She pretends to shop, but then she can’t take it anymore and starts deconstructing a display table: a bin of crocheted coasters, smelly candles, books, colorful yarn bags, fake felt-made flowers, pattern packets, and a basket of scrunchies. Nothing is displayed properly. It’s like a poorly planned garage sale.
She clears the table and starts from scratch. Books as the centerpiece, stacked neatly, with one displayed on top. The bags become the backdrop, interspersed with the candles. She’s organizing the scrunchies by color when a woman comes barreling in from the back of the store.
“What the hell are you doing?” she says in a thick New York accent. Her gray hair is cut bluntly, just above her chin. She looks to be about sixty, maybe sixty-five, and round in the hips.
“You’re back,” Maeve says, startled and excited. “How was Scotland?”
“I asked you a question first. What the hell are you doing?”
“Reorganizing the table. Do you like it?” Maeve asks hopefully.
“It was fine the way it was. Put it back.”
“But now people can see exactly what you’re selling.”
“Are you telling me how to run my shop?”
“No! I just thought I’d help.”
“We don’t need help.” The woman examines the table. “What happened to the flowers?”
“I thought they went better over here.” Maeve gestures to the checkout counter.
“Well, they don’t.”
“Trust me. I’m good at this kind of thing. You should see my mom’s pantry. It’s color coordinated.”
“Something is very wrong with you,” the woman says, pointing a finger in Maeve’s face.
“I’m aware.”
Another woman emerges from the back and says, “Barb, how many times have I told you not to be such a bitch? You scare people away.”
Barb calls over her shoulder. “I named this place Stitches and Bitches, Linda. It’s not false advertising. People know precisely what they’re getting.”
Linda looks at Maeve apologetically. “I’m sorry. Something happens to women when they turn sixty.”
“Yeah,” Barb says. “They stop giving a shit. You should try it.”
“I’m not sixty yet.” Linda’s accent matches Barb’s. Her long black hair is highlighted with heavy streaks of gray. She gives Barb a smartass grin.
“Maybe just give a few more ... shits,” Maeve offers gently. “Since this is a store, and you want to sell things.” To make her point, she walks to another display table that resembles the bric-a-brac section of a Goodwill. “Most people don’t want to hunt through clutter, so each display should play into the others. Put a sweater next to a book about knitting sweaters, next to candles that smell like evergreen trees and campfires. Then people will buy all three.”
“So my store is a goddamn mess,” Barb says. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“No!” Maeve backtracks, remembering that this woman might be the only person who can teach her to knit. “I just got carried away. It felt good to fix something. I’m sorry.”
Barb raises her hand. “Don’t say sorry. Women apologize too much.”
Linda throws her hands up. “Jesus, Barb. You’re confusing the girl. First, you’re yelling at her, now you’re giving her a feminist empowerment speech.”
“It’s my fault,” Maeve says. “I shouldn’t have touched the table.”
“The girl has a point, Barb. This place looks like my grandmother’s basement. We could use her help.”
“Really?” Maeve says. “I’d be happy to.”
Barb isn’t convinced. “Aren’t you a tourist?”
“Not exactly,” Maeve offers.
Recognition dawns on Barb’s face, and she points a wagging finger at Maeve. “Liam Doherty’s daughter. I heard you were in town.”
Maeve is unsure whether Barb is happy about that. She could be Team Murphy, after all.
“If I let you help around the store, what do you want in return?” Barb asks.
“Could you be more cynical?” Linda says.
“I’m a New Yorker,” Barb counters. “I know better than to think anyone does anything out of the goodness of their heart.”
“I thought we moved here to increase our faith in humanity.”
“ You moved here to do that,” Barb says. “I moved here because I can’t live without you.” It’s an oddly sweet moment, despite Barb’s jackhammer tone. “So what do you want, Doherty?”
“My last name is Kaminski. And actually—”
“I knew it!” Barb throws her hands up.
“I need to learn to knit,” Maeve says. “An Aran cable scarf, to be exact.”
Barb’s gaze narrows. “Aran cable?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever knit before?”
“Never.”
“That’s a difficult stitch for a beginner. Too bad I don’t offer private lessons to strangers,” Barb says. “YouTube it.”
“Barb!” Linda scolds.
“Store policy,” Barb states, crossing her arms.
Maeve offers her most endearing smile. “Well, maybe I could become ... not a stranger, if you let me fix up the store. We could get to know each other.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Linda says.
Barb assesses Maeve from head to toe. “I had cancer, you know.” She reaches into her shirt, pulls out her breasts, and puts them in Maeve’s hands. Once her shock dwindles, Maeve realizes she’s holding prostheses. “Double mastectomy. Three years ago. Go ahead. Check them out.”
“It’s like the early eighties again. Everyone in town has felt your boobs,” Linda says with another eye roll. “And you wonder why I wouldn’t commit to you back then.”
“I was drunk for the entirety of the eighties.”
“A slutty drunk. There wasn’t a girl in Hoboken you didn’t sleep with.”
“Nor a bump of coke I didn’t snort.” Barb gestures around the room. “Now I’m a sober, monogamous yarn-store owner in Ireland. Go figure.”
“Put your boobs away,” Linda says. “You’re making the girl uncomfortable.”
Barb grabs them and shoves them back into her shirt. “Just don’t get in anyone’s way.”
Maeve perks up. “You mean I can—”
“Yeah, yeah, you can organize the store.” Barb starts collecting items from different shelves. “But you don’t get any freebies.” She hands a load of knitting supplies to Maeve and a bag to put them in. “These will get you started.”
“So you’ll teach me?”
“Not yet. I still don’t know you. But best to be prepared.” She rings up Maeve’s items and gestures to the felt flowers that Maeve moved next to the register. “They look good here.”
“I won’t disappoint you. I promise.”
As Maeve is about to leave, Barb offers a last piece of advice. “You need one more thing to knit, Maeve.”
“What?” She looks around the store.
“Courage,” Barb says, in all seriousness. “If knitting were easy, we’d all make our own clothes.”
“Poetic,” Linda says.
“Well, you didn’t marry me because I’m Yeats.”
“No,” Linda says. “Yeats had a way with words. You’re much more talented with your mouth.”
Maeve leaves feeling accomplished, one step closer to completing Liam’s list. She heads to the Moorings. She has an idea and wants to get started on it right away. But when she shows up, the red door is unlocked. She tentatively steps inside, offering a bashful “Hello?” She flips on the lights and gasps. The place is covered in toilet paper. It’s a disaster zone, and Maeve can’t help but chuckle. Then she remembers the banner and races behind the bar.
It’s gone.
She takes pictures of the toilet paper as evidence, which she plans to show every patron who enters the pub. Then she puts her earbuds in and spends the next two hours cleaning. Most people would be furious. Most people would curse the vandal who did this. Maeve can’t help but smile.
Briggs gave her a mess to clean. And it’s exactly what she needed.
The next night Eoin walks into the pub, shakes rain from his jacket, and looks around for Maeve. “What happened to the banner, Kaminski? Lost it already?”
She won’t deign to answer, knowing everyone in town is buzzing about the sign being back outside the Thatch, in plain view.
“‘Wonderwall’? Seriously, Asshole?” she says from behind the bar. He’s five minutes late, but she lets it slide. “I saved you a stool.”
Eoin takes his perch. “What’s wrong with that song? Oasis is classic.”
“What isn’t wrong with it?” Only an egomaniac with delusions of grandeur would pick one of the most overplayed karaoke songs. And nobody except the Gallagher brothers can sing it. So either Eoin thinks he’s as good as the Gallaghers, which Maeve highly doubts, or he picked the song because he secretly thinks he’s above everyone. And while Eoin can be charmingly arrogant and overtly sexual, it’s always seemed in good humor to Maeve, not complete self-interest. “Wonderwall” just seems out of character. But then again, maybe she has him pegged wrong. She’s made mistakes with men before.
“Did you plan this meeting just to insult my karaoke pick?”
She hands him an old-fashioned. “Why did you leave London?”
“Why do you care, Kaminski?”
“Isn’t that what friends do? They care about each other?”
“Friends?” Eoin takes a sip of his drink. “That’s a term we haven’t used before.”
“Well, maybe we should.”
Eoin regards Maeve intensely with his piercing eyes. He’d be intimidating if he weren’t on her side. “Fine. I left London because of a girl.” He crosses his arms over his chest and sits back. “There. I said it.”
“What happened?”
“Classic story. We fell in love. She broke my heart. Left me for another bloke. After that, the city wasn’t the same.” He takes another gulp. “So I left, heartbroken, and went back to Cork. I just wanted to be someplace familiar. Satisfied?”
Maeve comes around the bar and, without thinking, hugs Eoin, a move that startles them both. His expensive cologne smells good as she presses her nose into his shoulder. Eoin isn’t soft. His chest is solid, his arms strong. Like hugging a statue. It’s the opposite of Briggs, who, while just as strong, sort of melted around Maeve. When he placed his hand on her thigh during meditation, it was heavy but soft, like a weighted blanket. Eoin is more like a boulder. When Maeve realizes she’s comparing the two men, she immediately stops the hug, blushing.
“What was that for?” Eoin asks.
“I’m Midwestern. We hug.”
Eoin lifts his glass. “I’m Irish. We drink and hide our emotions with sarcasm and dark humor.”
Maeve chuckles. “At least we know who we are.”
Eoin whispers, “Are you sure about that, Kaminski? You look pretty damn natural behind that bar.”
“Really?” And then almost straightaway, Maeve wants to take it back. Because it doesn’t matter. No matter how much fun she’s had, she’s not staying here. She can’t. “Don’t answer that.” She goes back behind the bar and takes a few orders, filling pints, making drinks, and chatting up customers.
When she gets back to Eoin, his drink is empty and he’s perusing the menu. “So, what are you buying me tonight?”
Maeve leans her elbows on the bar. “How about a new item we’re testing out.” Eoin sets down the menu, intrigued. The idea hit Maeve earlier in the week, when she was texting with Aoife. She does have an old family tradition, it’s just not Irish. But luckily the main ingredient is in abundance here. “I figured I’d throw the competition for a loop. It doesn’t make sense for both pubs to serve the same Irish food. Let’s give customers something they can only get here.”
“Spoken like a proper business owner.” Eoin leans in. “Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind, Kaminski? Because I’ve been doing some work on that front. I have a mate in London who works for a restaurant conglomerate. I reached out to him, and he’s intrigued. But I don’t want to string him along if you’re not in.”
“No,” Maeve says. Unfortunately, she cannot change her mind about selling. One week of fun doesn’t justify turning one’s life upside down, especially when fifteen thousand dollars of debt hangs over her head. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Good.” Eoin hands his empty glass to Maeve for a refill. “Now what’s this new item?”
She stands up tall. “I think you’re gonna like it.”
“Fecking hell. Those are brilliant.” Eoin doesn’t just eat his entire portion of pierogi. He demolishes them and practically licks the plate. He leans back in his seat and rests his hands on his stomach. “Where did you learn to make that culinary orgasm?”
The pierogi recipe is Maeve’s grandma’s, passed down from generation to generation. Maeve describes her grandparents’ small brick house in Portage Park, with its cement stoop, small backyard, and the rickety old metal swing set they bought when she was born. “I have such a vivid image of Babcia standing at the stove, apron on, covered in flour, trying to get me to pay attention to her cooking, when all I wanted to do was clean up.”
“You obviously absorbed something. Your granny would be proud.”
Maeve beams, knowing her grandma would get a kick out of her pierogi being on the menu at any restaurant. Too bad she can’t tell her, seeing as no one in her family knows she’s in Ireland.
She makes Eoin another drink and hands it to him. “What about you?” she asks. “What’s your family like?”
“Parents are divorced. Mum lives in Dublin by my sister and her kids. Da moved to Portugal years ago and lives there with his new wife and kids. I’m the only one still in the area.”
“Does that bother you about your dad?”
“That he abandoned his wife and kids and started a new life with a younger woman?” Eoin gives a sly grin. “No. Completely fine with it. Haven’t spent years in therapy unwinding my daddy issues.”
Maeve chuckles. “At least I’m not the only one with daddy issues.”
“You are a unique, beautiful butterfly, but ... harsh reality, Kaminski—everyone has some kind of family drama or trauma.”
“Harsh reality?” she repeats. Maeve hadn’t considered that Briggs and Eoin might know each other. They might even be ... friends. But Eoin would have mentioned that, right? Plus, he hasn’t said anything about going to the Thatch. People on this island pick sides, at least for the summer, and he’s undoubtably on hers. She doesn’t notice she’s staring at the dartboard until Eoin interrupts her reverie.
“Please tell me you’re not into bar games, Kaminski.”
“I’m Midwestern. We love bar games.”
“And hugs, apparently.” Eoin gets a naughty glimmer in his eyes.
Maeve ignores it. “You’re so competitive, I thought you’d love a good game.”
“True,” Eoin agrees. “I just prefer more of a challenge.”
“Like, I don’t know ...” Maeve shrugs and feigns innocence. “Pitching in a kickball game?”
Eoin clicks his tongue. “So the pierogi were just a coercion tactic. Well played, Kaminski.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Please, Asshole,” she begs, leaning toward him on the bar.
“If you want a favor, it usually comes with a price.”
Maeve groans. “Can’t you do this pro bono?”
“Sorry. I don’t do that kind of work.”
“Isn’t the glory of winning enough? I need a strong pitcher if I’m gonna beat Briggs.”
Eoin stiffens, a sudden sense of iciness rolling off his skin. So she was right. They aren’t friends after all.
“You’ve met Briggs, eh?” he asks. “What’d you think of him?”
Maeve plays it cool, not only for Eoin but for the rest of the ears that might be listening. “Just what I expected. An arrogant liar who’s only out for himself and his pub.”
Eoin narrows an intimidating eye on Maeve, as if searching for a lie. He shifts and leans in close, gesturing for Maeve to do the same. “Listen to me, Kaminski,” he says softly. “If Briggs ever finds out you want to sell the Moorings, he’ll turn the whole island against you. Take it from me. He’s ruined lives before, and he’ll do it again.”
“You sound like you know from personal experience.”
“Just trust me. Stay away from him.” Eoin sits back, his casual demeanor returned. “I’ll play on your stupid team. Time the Murphys know what it feels like to lose.” He stands and slings on his raincoat. “And put the pierogi on the menu. They’re a sure hit. Boosted revenue always looks good.”
“Thank you,” Maeve says, relieved.
Eoin slugs back the rest of his drink and sets the glass on the bar. “Just remember, if something happens, you’re the one who wanted me on your team.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “It’s a kickball game. What could go wrong?”
“Have you learned nothing over the past week?”