Chapter 15
Margot
Riding the high from the rage room, Cillian leads me through a tangle of back streets in the older part of Dublin. We're well past the main tourist drag now, but the area still feels like something out of a film to my American eyes.
We'd grabbed a quick bite earlier, a toastie from a tiny café around the corner that was so good I'm half considering moving here for it.
"So are you going to tell me where we're going?" I ask as we navigate the uneven cobblestones. "You're being very cryptic."
"Well, I have to maintain a certain air of mystery to keep you interested, don't I?" He looks down at me, dimples flashing.
In truth, he doesn't need to exert any effort to keep me interested.
"Right, we're here." He stops at what looks like a back-alley entrance to a pub. "Remember what I told you about lock-ins?"
"I do." I nod, quickly ransacking my memory for the details.
"You said that sometimes when you're close with the owner of a pub, they clear out the patrons so the inner circle can stay.
Usually for funerals or weddings, though it can happen for other reasons too.
But they lock the doors since it's technically against the law, hence the name. Blinds drawn. Sometimes music."
"Oh, Ace." He looks like he's fighting a laugh, his expression bordering on affectionate pity. "You really were a straight-A student, weren't you?"
"Shut up," I say, narrowing my eyes. "And yes, I was. I might not have had a massive social circle, but the teachers absolutely adored me."
"Well, I like you too. I think the slightly neurotic overachiever thing is very sexy, for the record."
"Oh?" I glance up at him, fighting a smile, both of us well aware we've been dancing dangerously close to saying screw it all night. "Even the color-coded planner?"
He leans in. "Especially the planner. Something about all that control."
"Well." I arch a brow, my pulse skipping. "Wait until you see what I can do with a spreadsheet."
He laughs. "Now you're just tormenting me."
God help me. I'm about ten seconds away from abandoning every single rule I've ever made.
"Okay, we really need to maintain those boundaries," I say, my voice sounding a touch breathless.
"Any discussion of potential dating waits until we're off the clock.
Preferably when there isn't a press corps roaming Dublin, ready to vilify you for gallivanting around with your apparent puck bunny right after blowing up the season. "
"I'm remarkably good at being discreet, if that helps my case," he says.
"Not a chance. And you'd best behave yourself, Mr. O'Rourke, or I might have to resort to violence." I jab a finger toward his chest, attempting a stern expression. "Don't forget, I've had professional training with a baseball bat now. I'm a formidable opponent."
"Aye, message received." He laughs, reaching for the door. "Well, back to the agenda. It's the pub owner's birthday and he's a pal, so he let me know they're doing a lock-in tonight. You ready to experience your first one, Ace?"
I swallow hard against the frantic flutter in my chest and nod. He swings the door open, smiling down at me as he ushers me into the dark warmth inside.
The room is small and low-ceilinged, mostly dark wood and a long copper-topped bar polished to a shine by what looks like a century of elbows. There are maybe twenty people packed in close, the air thick with laughter and the rich, yeasty smell of stout.
A fiddle is going somewhere in the back, paired with a flat little drum a man plays with a two-headed stick, though by the look of him, he started drinking several hours ago. The second we step inside, everyone looks up.
"Ya bleedin' eejit, what are you doing here!"
"There he is!"
“What's the craic?”
Voices come from every direction at once. A red-faced man at the bar lifts his pint in salute. Someone shouts something sympathetic about the suspension, and Cillian nods his thanks, his hand steady on my lower back.
He steers me through the tight-knit crowd, greeting everyone as we go. Childhood friends, local regulars, and the owner, Joe, who looks to be about Cillian's age.
It's like the return of the prodigal son.
A man with light brown hair and boisterous energy grabs Cillian by the shoulders, shaking him affectionately. "I thought you said you weren't coming!"
"Plans changed, Rob." Cillian laughs, clapping him on the arm. "Good to see you, auld segotia."
"Same to you. And who's this, then?" Rob's eyes land on me, his whole face lifting with curiosity. "You didn't tell me you were bringing anyone."
"Rob, this is Margot. We're working together on the Solstice Estates project." Cillian glances down at me and I feel the heat creep into my cheeks. "Margot, meet Rob. We went to school together and have been pals ever since."
Rob sticks out a hand, his look friendly and welcoming. "Nice to meet you, Margot."
"You too," I say, returning his smile.
"American?"
"Afraid so."
"We'll forgive you for that, so long as you're not one of those tourists who comes in banging on about their Irish heritage.
Great-great-grandfather from Cork, that sort of business.
" Rob grins. Cillian rolls his eyes at him, and Rob throws his hands up.
"What? I'm a bartender in central Dublin. I see it so fucking much."
"Don't worry." I laugh. "Zero family from Ireland on my end, so you're safe from me."
"Then you're sound in my book." Rob's laugh echoes off the low, dark beams. "So you're the one who prompted Cillian's little dash into the stands?"
"Rob," Cillian warns.
"No, it's fine," I say, shooting Cillian a grin. "Yes, that would be me. Apparently I have a face that inspires either kindness or felony. There's no in-between."
Rob lets out a bark of a laugh, slapping the copper bar top. "We'll get on grand, Margot."
I smile back, but before I can respond, a woman maybe about thirty, with striking dark hair and bright blue eyes, catches Cillian's arm with a look of deep familiarity. He turns, momentarily surprised, before a huge smile breaks across his face and he pulls her in for a quick, affectionate squeeze.
"Margot, this is my older sister, Fiadh." His expression is radiating warmth. "Fee, this is Margot, who I've told you all about."
"It's so nice to meet you," I say, feeling a fresh spike of nerves as I reach out to shake her hand.
Fiadh ignores my hand entirely and pulls me into a warm hug, smelling faintly of perfume and red wine. "It's so good to finally meet you too. Cillian's been talking about nothing but you lately."
He's actually mentioned me to his family!
She has the kind of vibrant, open personality that puts you instantly at ease, and I find myself liking her immediately. I catch Cillian shooting me a rueful, apologetic grin, that silent might as well meet the family while we're at it look.
"I'm terrified to imagine what he’s told you," I say, a soft laugh escaping. "Though I’m holding out hope that at least some of it was complimentary."
"Oh, it was all glowing, trust me." Fiadh grins, her blue eyes dancing. "And from everything he's shared, I’m already certain we’re going to be fast friends."
Rob, meanwhile, has moved on to business. "What's the story with you and yer man, then? Saw he's been trashing you extra hard over the whole fight thing."
"Brennan? Aye, he's been running his mouth all week. Riding the suspension story for everything he can get out of it." Cillian shrugs, but his jaw tightens. "Hopefully it'll die down once I'm back on the ice."
The mood shifts at the mention of the suspension, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
He's having a great time tonight, clearly happy to be surrounded by his people, but any moment he isn't actively distracted, I can see it in his face.
It's killing him that his team is playing without him and there's nothing he can do about it.
Rob nods, his face going serious. "Give it socks once you're back out there, alright?"
Give it socks? Despite the shared language, the volume of local slang I've encountered in forty-eight hours could fill a textbook, and I might as well be trying to crack a code for all the sense I'm making of it.
"I will." Cillian gives him a small smile and refocuses on his sister. "And what's the craic with you being here, Fee? I thought you were in Donegal until tomorrow."
"Aye, I was in two minds about it, but I couldn't miss the birthday celebrations. Then Mam sent that photo of you all at dinner last night, and the FOMO was too much to bear." Fiadh gives a light shrug. "Thank goodness too, or I'd have missed meeting the lovely Margot."
Behind us, Joe has apparently adopted "the lovely Margot" on the spot, because he's already shouting about getting me a drink.
Fiadh takes it upon herself to relay the order down the bar to Joe, who's soon working the tap with ceremony, a glass of something dark surging and settling under a slowly forming dome of cream.
Before I can assemble a protest, the glass is pressed into my hand, a round goes out to half the pub, and Fiadh raises hers to toast Joe and his birthday.
Cillian leans in close. "You don’t have to drink it, Ace. I know you mentioned you don't like beer, and it's a bit of a heavy start. Want me to swap it for a wine?”
"No." I shake my head. "I've never actually tried one, and it seems like a crime not to have my first in a Dublin pub."
"You'll have to split the G then, if it's the first time." Rob grins. "Means you have to drink down to the horizontal line of the G on the glass in your first go. No stopping."
"Don't listen to a word he says, Margot," Fiadh says, shaking her head. "I've never done it once. It's entirely unnecessary."
"It's her first pint, gotta make it memorable," Rob insists, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “It's a rite of passage.”
I look down at the glass in my hand, the gold harp and lettering facing me, the cream head sitting thick and level.
"Alright, game on." I lift the heavy glass and take a long, determined pull.