Chapter 8 #2
She inhaled deeply. The place was warm but not just in temperature. It had a feel. A hum beneath the surface, like something alive. It was the kind of place where you could sit for hours and forget the rest of the world existed.
In the far corner, a trad session was already underway.
Two fiddlers, a bodhránist, and a guitarist sat clustered in chairs, their instruments and pints jostling for space on the table in the center.
They weren’t performing, not really. There was no stage, no spotlight, just music for music’s sake.
A rolling, rhythmic pulse that filled the space.
Gwen felt it before she realized she was tapping her foot.
She stopped herself.
No. She wasn’t here to enjoy herself.
She was here for answers.
Alert again, her eyes scanned the room,.
She couldn’t afford to let the atmosphere lull her into comfort.
She didn’t know these people. Didn’t know what kind of trouble might be tucked behind one of those smiles or folded into the corners of this charming little pub.
If there were secrets to be found, they wouldn’t be by someone wooed by music and cozy walls.
She slipped toward an empty stool near the far end of the bar. Out of the way. Not too obvious.
Time to blend in. Time to start listening.
And most of all—time to remember who she was.
Or, at least, who she was pretending to be.
Gwen took a seat, choosing the stool with a clear view of the room. She set her bag down on the seat beside her and folded her hands in her lap, trying to look casual. Normal. Like a perfectly average visitor stopping in for a pint.
Before she could even glance over the menu chalked on the wall, the door behind the bar swung open with a thud, and a woman in an apron emerged from the kitchen, shouting over her shoulder.
“I’d rather feed my foot to a hungry dog!”
Her voice rang out clear and unapologetic, laced with amusement rather than anger.
“Love you too, Soph!” a man called back from somewhere unseen.
The woman with warm skin, a sharp ponytail, and flour dusting the side of her black top, shook her head as she walked toward the bar. She wore no name tag, but Gwen didn’t need one to know who she was.
Sophie O’Brian.
She moved with an easy confidence, like someone who knew every creak of the floorboards and every regular by name. Her eyes swept the room out of habit as she reached the bar then landed on Gwen.
Suddenly, panic rose.
Sophie gave her a friendly smile, but it faltered just a touch. “You all right, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Gwen blinked. “What?”
Sophie tilted her head slightly, leaning one elbow on the polished wood. “Just checking you’re not about to faint on me.”
“Oh. No, I’m—” Gwen sat up straighter and gave what she hoped was a casual, breezy smile. “Sorry. I just had a long drive is all. I think I might still be seeing sheep when I close my eyes.”
Sophie chuckled. “They do tend to linger in the brain. Can I get you a drink?”
Gwen hesitated, then glanced out the window, the odd image still fresh in her mind.
She looked back at Sophie and ordered a pint of Guinness with a bit of blackberry in it, then said, “Do you know, I saw the oddest thing just up the down there. A group of—tourists, I should think—were passing a herd of sheep, and each of them was shielding their eyes like this.” She held up her hands, blocking her view in demonstration.
Sophie burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s my fault.”
Gwen blinked. “Your fault?”
“If a tourist annoys me, I tell them that if they look a sheep in the eye, it’ll drop dead,” Sophie said matter-of-factly, completely unbothered.
Gwen snorted and then laughed outright. It had caught her off guard, bubbling up too fast to suppress. That was the last explanation she’d expected.
“That’s… diabolical,” she managed, grinning with admiration.
Sophie shrugged, clearly pleased with herself, and reached for a clean glass. “They come into the countryside acting like they own the place, and complain they can’t charge their stupid phones. The least I can do is mess with them a bit.”
“Well, it worked. They were practically falling over each other.”
She pulled the tap with the kind of practiced rhythm that only comes from muscle memory. Gwen watched as she built the pint of Guinness with easy precision, letting it settle halfway before topping it off with the perfect creamy crown.
It was oddly soothing to watch.
After pouring in the blackberry, Sophie set the glass down in front of her. “Cheers to the sheep.”
Gwen raised her glass, still smiling. The tension in her chest hadn’t disappeared, not completely—but it had loosened, just enough to breathe. She hadn’t expected Sophie to be funny. Or so disarming.
Still, she reminded herself, this wasn’t friendship. It was reconnaissance.
She had to stay sharp.
Gwen took a sip of her pint. “You’ve done a brilliant job with the place and I love the mural outside.”
“Thanks very much. Our friend, Emma Young, painted that and it’s my brother really you should be complimenting. He selected this place. In fact, this really is all his fault—er I mean, his dream come true.”
Gwen chuckled a little. Although she hadn’t expected to, she liked Sophie. “Well, no matter who’s responsible, it’s lovely. Fair play to you both.” That was a genuine compliment whether she had rehearsed it or not.
“Are you from around here?” asked Sophie.
“I live in Dublin.”
“Oh, so you’re traveling around?”
“Something like that. I, well, I decided it was high time I saw what the country looked like beyond the city walls.”
What just happened? That wasn’t the story. That wasn’t what she’d rehearsed at all!
Great. Now what?
Gwen took another sip of her pint while she thought. Don’t panic. This wasn’t so bad. Sophie seemed to buy it, so all wasn’t lost.
But if that were really true, guilt wouldn’t be creeping up her spine like it was.
“Would you like to order some food?”
Food yes. Food was what she needed. “Definitely. What would you recommend?”
“Honestly, everything’s delicious. My brother’s the cook,” Sophie said, with only a hint of smugness.
“His special today is game pie—melt-in-your-mouth kind of stuff. Or if you’re in the mood for something lighter, he does a Caesar salad with his own dressing.
Secret recipe. He guards it like it’s the crown jewels. ”
“Can I order the salad as a side?”
Sophie’s heart sank a little. Why? She didn’t know. Salad just felt like a red flag. “Sure, you can.”
“Then I’ll have the salad as a starter—and the game pie.”
That perked Sophie right up. A Guinness woman who eats. God bless.
“Of course! Coming right up. I’m Sophie, by the way.”
“Ruby. Pleasure to meet you.”
Sophie passed through the kitchen door and handed the order ticket to Keefe, who was leaning against the counter drinking a glass of water.
“Is this the name and phone number of my future wife?” he teased, because teasing his sister was what got him out of bed in the morning.
Sophie opened her mouth for a comeback—but paused.
Ruby was polished but not pretentious. Long red hair that said “don’t mess with me” in the best way. Flawless minimal makeup. Sea-green eyes you could get lost in and forget your name. Add in a killer smile and an actual appetite?
Keefe was doomed.
“Soph? What is it?”
“Ah-ah-ah.” She held up a hand like a traffic cop. She needed a moment.
Ruby seemed genuine, down to earth, maybe a smidge nervous, but in an endearing way.
Not too young, not too old.
A Dublin girl, yes—but that was Keefe’s problem, not hers.
Oh no. This was really happening.
She’d found her brother’s dream girl.
God help them all.
“Just a minute. I’ll be right back.”
First, she needed to have a quick chat with her best friend: Powers whiskey.
Sophie slipped into the office, opened the drawer, and pulled out the blue bottle.
Unscrewed the cap. Took a swig.
Then another.
Nope—still not emotionally prepared. One more.
Okay. Now she had Dutch courage running through her veins. She squared her shoulders. Time to play Cupid.
Wait. Ew. Now she needed another drink. One last swig.
Right. Now she was ready.
She pushed the kitchen door open, stepped inside—and then immediately regretted it.
This was weird. Right? Totally weird.
But didn’t she want her brother to be happy?
Of course she did.
Even if it meant she had to witness him being all gooey with someone in her pub.
“Soph?”
“Hm?”
“I asked what’s up. You feeling okay?”
“Sorry, I was... never mind.” Deep breath. “All right, listen. There’s a woman out there.”
Keefe waited for more. When nothing came, he raised an eyebrow. “So?”
“Make her order extra special.”
He looked at the ticket. “How exactly am I supposed to make a salad and game pie extra special ? Sprinkle it with diamonds?”
Sophie gave him the look. The one that said: shut up and read my mind.
Unfortunately, their twin telepathy had taken the day off. She resorted to jerking her head toward the dining room like she was trying to pop her own neck.
“Wait... you mean she’s?—”
Thank God he caught on.
“Yep.”
“You’re telling me... you actually found someone?”
Sophie nodded solemnly. “She’s everything you’re looking for and she’s sitting at the bar.”
He stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Well, crap. I wasn’t prepared for this.”
“Extra special, remember?”
“On it. And how about I serve it myself and introduce myself?”
“Excellent idea.” Sophie gave him a salute and backed toward the exit. “Bye!”
“Just a sec. Why didn’t you just have me go out front and spot her myself? If she’s so perfect for me,” he shrugged with a smirk, “seems like I would find her.”
Sophie’s mouth fell open. Why hadn’t she thought of that? It certainly would have spared her this beyond awkward conversation. “Shut. Up.” And with that she stepped out the back door.
“Wait—where are you going?”
“Fresh air. Or I’m going to puke. Could go either way.”
Keefe laughed as he turned to the stove.
“Hey, Soph?”