3. Jax
CHAPTER 3
Jax
T he cell reception in Ballybeg was about as reliable as my golf swing on a windy day, but I finally managed to find one corner of my room where I could hold a call without it cutting out. I stood by the window, phone pressed to my ear because my earbuds weren’t charged, and watched the rain batter the rolling hills that were somehow still postcard-perfect.
“You gonna have to explain that. You know I don’t do social media.” I ran a hand through my hair and paced in the tiny room, which was surprisingly charming, and I wasn’t even into the whole cozy-and-cramped aesthetic.
“She said you cheated on her?”
“Who said that?” I struggled to remember who I was rumored to have been dating recently. As a rule, I didn’t date. I had sex when the mood struck, and I could find a suitable partner, but spending time with women alone who weren’t friends or family was not in the cards. And this meant that I couldn’t cheat on anyone. I wasn’t with anyone.
“Francia Agnelli,” Brad ground out.
“Francia?” I wondered if I had heard Brad wrong. She was a model turned actress, and I’d probably spent a minute with her in the large scheme of life.
“Yes,” Brad screamed. “She talked to Howard Stern and told him you broke her heart by fuckin’ someone else.”
“I barely fucked her ,” I protested. This is why I didn’t date. Women be crazy !
“Well, according to her, you’re the love of her life. She even fuckin’ cried.”
“There’s nothing between me and Francia. It was casual. Very casual.”
“You need to make a statement,” Brad demanded.
“Nope. She’s the one turning this into a circus, not me.” I didn’t give statements about my personal life. Brad knew that, my PR team knew that, and the PGA PR team knew that.
Brad sighed on the other end of the line. “Jax, you’re a professional golfer. You know as well as I do that what happens off the course gets just as much attention as what happens on it. This will hurt your sponsorships.”
“Okay.” I didn’t give a shit, and then I sighed. “Look, Francia’s got herself a movie deal now. She’s probably riding my name for all it’s worth.”
“If the tabloids think Jax Caldwell broke the heart of the latest Sports Illustrated cover model, then?—.”
“Brad, there will be no statement.”
“Jax, listen, I?—”
“Brad, you’re the one not?—"
“This is news. And the paps are looking for you, by the way. I got a call from someone at TMZ asking if you were back in Charleston.” Brad paused for a moment. “Where the fuck are you?”
“In a bunker.”
I heard Brad sigh rather audibly. “Jax,” he warned.
“I was driving around Ireland after that charity golf thing in Killarney and…well, Nikolai’s car went kaput, and now I’m in an Irish village called Ballybeg in the ass-end of nowhere with just two bars on my 5G.”
“Ballybeg? How big is it?”
How the fuck was I supposed to know. “Population: half a sheep and a goat.” And a very sexy redhead.
Brad chuckled. “Perfect. Stay there. Lay low. You don’t have anything for at least six weeks.”
In six weeks, I had an appearance for a sponsor in London. I had thought of going home to Charleston because my friend Amara was pregnant—but maybe I could stay here for a week or two, and then when fucking Francia was done getting publicity, I could head home.
I leaned against the window and looked down at the faint glow of light spilling on the wet cobblestones as the sun hid behind another dark cloud. There were worse places to be stranded.
“I can’t stay here for six weeks,” I remarked. “I’ve got meetings with the Nike people in Dublin and the Honma guys in London. But…maybe a week or two.” Though, I’d have to find a way to work out. Maybe I could run up and down those cliffs for cardio, and find a gym of sorts to lift weights.
“Right, right,” Brad murmured, and I knew he was looking through my calendar. “Where exactly are you staying?”
“An inn above a pub.”
“Huh?”
I grinned. I looked around the room. It was nice. I had checked the bathroom, and it had a clawfoot tub and heated floors. What more could a man ask for?
“It’s not a five-star hotel, Brad. But the owner of the pub said she’d leave a chocolate on my pillow if I was good.” I smiled when I thought about Dee.
“Jax, you feelin’ okay?”
“‘Course.”
“You made a fuss last time because your room smelled funny.”
That was at a resort in Florida. “That was because the guy next door was smoking cigars, and my room was smelling funny! And it wasn’t ha-ha funny, more bring on an asthma attack hilarious, and I don’t even have asthma.”
“Okay, stay at…Bally, what the hell ever! I’m guessing there are no supermodels there?”
“You’d be guessing right.” However, Dee was way classier and sexier than Francia could ever dream of being.
“I’ll deal with the fallout here.”
“You’ll deal with fuck all, Brad. The story will die down. It always does. Francia gets a few minutes of attention, and then we can all return to our regular programming.” Which was what for me? I had no idea anymore. I was a professional golfer who had enough family wealth that I didn’t need to work for a living, which was why I didn’t give a shit if my sponsorships were jeopardized, but I knew Brad cared, and the people who worked on my team to promote my career would care as it would hurt their income and they didn’t have a trust fund.
After ending my call with Brad, I felt strangely light.
It wasn’t like I never took time off. I did. I wasn’t one of those people who believed in killing themselves for a paycheck by working all the fucking time.
I knew players who were either training or doing photo and film shoots for ads or whatever, or PR—or they were playing whatever pro game was their poison. I was not one of them. I didn’t need more money. I played golf because I loved it. I went to tournaments because I was a competitive motherfucker, and I liked to win. And if I stopped doing this or was prevented from doing it, what the hell else was there for me to do? My family expected me to join the Caldwell family business, but that was never my thing. I wasn’t a businessman. If I’d wanted to go down that road, I would’ve done it years ago—back when I fell in love and proposed to Daniela, my Dani, who’d been in my life since we were kids. She’d been my first and only for the longest time, but she left me because she wanted to marry a stable guy—not someone chasing dreams with nothing but a good golf swing to his name. Since then, I hadn’t been in relationships—I’d also not been close to my family. Sure, my father had pulled me back into the fold after I won my first PGA championship. That was my family; they wanted you only when you were useful.
I shrugged off the past. Maybe I did need a break if I was thinking about Dani—something I hadn’t done in a long time. She had become a reminder that love alone wasn’t always enough. You needed shared values, too. For her, it was family name, status, and money—in that order. For me, it was following my heart and doing what made me happy.
* * *
When I came downstairs around four in the evening, the pub was humming.
The crowd was lively but not exactly raucous. There was a lot of swearing, loud talking, and chants of slainte . The brass sconces threw warm light, and surprisingly, the smell of something mouthwatering wafted from the kitchen.
Everyone knew everyone. That much was obvious. The music was pop. A young girl, a server, was taking orders.
My Wild Cat smiled and laughed as she stood behind the bar, drawing pints. I saw two empty barstools and decided to take one. Dee came from around the bar to talk to someone who’d just walked in.
I sat next to an elderly man who was also solo.
As Dee talked to someone I assumed was another vendor but one she liked, I saw the old man’s hand move to Dee’s well-formed ass covered in the tightest of jeans, and he… honest to fuckin’ God …pinched a cheek.
I waited with bated breath, and Dee did not disappoint. She turned and glared at the old man, who was grinning mischievously. She picked up a bottle of what looked like Irish whiskey resting on the bar, put a hand on her hip, and narrowed her eyes at the old man.
“Liam Murphy, if you so much as breathe near my arse again, I’ll take this bottle and break it over your head!”
“It wasn’t me.” Liam assumed an innocent look and then looked at me. “It was him .”
I straightened. What the fuck ?
“ Liam Murphy , you think I can’t pick out your gnarly fingers in a butt-pinching lineup?” Dee glowered.
A what? Butt-pinching lineup ? Where the fuck was I?
Liam Murphy smiled wide, and his teeth, or dentures, to be precise, were on full display like he was in a Colgate ad. "Ah, come on now, Dee. I’ve not long left in me—ya wouldn’t deny an old fella one of life’s simple pleasures, would ya?"
Dee went nose to nose with him. “You gonna die before your time is up if you put your hands on me again.”
“Ah, go on, Dee,” the man said, beaming guiltily like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You know I only do it ‘cause I love ya.”
“You’ll love me without your hands.” She jabbed a finger in the air in front of his offending digits. “Sit. Behave, or I’ll have you banned for a month.” She glared at me for good measure as if saying, ‘ You, Yank, you better keep your paws to yourself .’
“I’ll probably be dead in a month,” he grumbled.
Dee huffed and went back to her conversation with the vendor.
The man with the gnarly fingers Dee could pick out of a lineup offered his hand to me. “Liam Murphy, dying of lung cancer.”
I shook his hand hesitantly. “Jax Caldwell, stranded tourist.”
Dee walked back to the bar and came to us. “You settled in?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I knew the ma’am pissed her off, and maybe that was why I was planning on overdoing it.
She sighed. “The special tonight is Irish beer stew with dumplings and Cadhla’s soda bread. For dessert, Ronan’s made a bread puddin’ with whiskey sauce.”
I nodded and looked around. “You got a menu?”
“No.” She tilted her chin toward a board on the wall, which listed the two items she’d mentioned. “When I said special tonight, I meant that was all we were serving tonight.”
“Right. No vegetarians in Ballybeg?” I asked.
“Oh, my Lord, are you one of them vegan people?” Dee exclaimed in mock horror and then went back to speaking dryly, “If you are, you’re gonna be one hungry puppy.”
“No, thank God, I’m not.” I grinned. “I’m good with the stew and the bread pudding, ma’am . And to drink…whatever you recommend that’s on tap.”
She huffed. “We don’t have any of that fancy IPA shit you Yanks like.”
“Something local,” I suggested, and that softened her.
“Well.” She pulled a beer for me and set it in front of me. “This is a Dooliner Irish Lager. It’s brewed right here near the Cliff of Moher.”
I took a sip and nodded appreciatively.
“Lass, get me another Smitticks, will ya?” Liam asked.
Dee pulled him a pint, and as she watched me staring at the red liquid, she arched an eyebrow. “It’s an Irish red ale, spelled Smithwick but pronounced Smitticks.”
I nodded.
“It’s smooth, slightly sweet, and a classic choice for those like Liam Murphy who can’t handle their Guinness anymore,” she explained with sarcastic saccharine sweetness.
Liam growled. “Now, don’t be insultin’, Dee. Every Irish man worth his salt takes pride in drinkin’ a perfectly poured pint of Guinness.” Then he looked at me as he rubbed his chest. “But it gives me heartburn these days.”
Dee went to the other end of the bar to take care of a patron, and another older man who was wiry and wore thick glasses, who was sitting at a table near us, walked up and thumped Liam on his back. “You gotta stop playin’ with fire, Liam. Dee won’t just kick you out. She’ll kick us all out.”
The man looked at me. “You the Yank with the Porsche?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who you callin’ sir ?” He turned to his companion at the table. “He’s callin’ me sir,” he complained.
“You can call me sir.” His companion, who was balding and wore suspenders, came up to where Liam and I sat. He pulled at the suspenders, leading with a pot belly. “Sir Cillian, I like it.”
I was introduced to the other two men: Sir Cillian and Liam Ryan. According to them, the two Liams and one Cillian were the Three Musketeers of Ballybeg. Liam joined his friends at the table to play cards. As I looked around, I realized that The Banshee’s Rest was a community center of sorts for the village. There were families, people young and old, and a sense of camaraderie that was probably prevalent in small towns and villages. Definitely very different from Charleston.
The server came up behind me. “Pardon my reach. Here’s your stew.”
I moved to let her set the big bowl, a plate of thick soda bread, and a small bowl of whipped herb butter in front of him. “Enjoy. Ronan makes the best stew in all of Ireland.”
I glanced at the steaming bowl, which smelled like heaven. “If this tastes as good as it smells, I might just move in.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “You should,” she said breathlessly.
“Go on, girl.” Dee banged her hand on the weathered counter, making me jump.
The server made a face. “She thinks you’re too old for me,” she complained.
I blinked. Say what?
“I said you’re rich enough to be as old as you like.”
I cleared my throat. If there was a candid camera somewhere, I wanted them to let me know now . “Ah, I’m flattered, but Dee is right, I am too old for?—”
“Get going, Saoirse,” Dee snapped.
The server flipped her auburn braid and marched away.
“You keep your pants zipped up around that one,” she warned.
Okay, that was taking it too far. “She’s a child, and that warning is insulting.” I couldn’t keep the anger or hurt out of my voice.
Dee immediately (and surprisingly) became sheepish. “Ah…you’re right. That wasn’t fair. You want another beer? On the house.”
This woman was a bunch of contradictions, now, wasn’t she?
I accepted her apology. “I’d like that.”
I had to admit that I was enjoying myself. People came by and chatted with me, and no one except for the server, who I think was taking a piss, gave a shit about who I was and what I did. They accepted that I was a stranded tourist and told me that Paddy would do a fine job with the car, even though it was his first Porsche.
Nikolai was going to murder me.
The bread pudding was excellent, as I’d been told it would be, as the stew had been. I was happy as a clam. When Dee served me an Irish coffee with two homemade cookies, I knew I’d gotten lucky to end up here with good food, great company, and a sense of home that was comforting for even a stranger like me.
I felt someone touch my thigh. I looked down to see a toddler, a girl who waved a chubby hand at me.
“Hi there.” I grinned at the kid.
She gave me a thousand-watt smile that all but blinded me.
“Don’t let that smile fool you,” the man sitting next to me said, raising a pint of Guinness. “That one’s a tyrant when she wants to be.” He leaned closer. “Gets it from her mother.”
“Biscuit.” The little tyrant pointed at my plate. “You got two. You gimme one.”
Okay, so young children around the world are told about stranger danger and not to approach people in bars and ask for cookies. I looked around for the person who was her parent and saw a woman who was nursing a baby, a shawl over the baby’s head.
The mother , I presumed, looked at her toddler. “Now, Fiadh, you already had one biscuit. You can’t have another.”
“He has two,” the toddler protested.
Dee picked up little Fiadh. “You stealin’ biscuits, love?” She nuzzled the little girl’s neck, making her giggle.
“Eamon, take care of your daughter,” the mother yelled.
I looked around to see who Eamon was and realized it was the man who’d called Fiadh a little tyrant.
“I’m drinkin’ me Guinness, love, and you know well enough that when I am, I need me peace."
“I’ll give you peace once this one’s done nursing, you wanker,” the mother threatened.
Eamon didn’t seem affected. The toddler wiggled, making demanding sounds.
“You gonna eat both?” Dee asked me of the cookies sitting on the saucer of my coffee cup.
I shook my head.
Dee snagged the cookie…er, biscuit, and gave it to Fiadh, who took it like it was a champion’s trophy. She wriggled out of Dee’s grasp, cried out a “thank you” to me, and ran back to her mother.
“When she has cavities, I’m gonna send the dentist’s bills to you, Dee,” the mother called out.
“Whatever.” Dee waved airily. When she went back behind the bar, she stood in front of Eamon. “Get your ass back to your wife before she cuts your balls off.”
Eamon scoffed but did as Dee instructed. I turned to see that his wife glared at him but let him kiss her lips.
“You good?” I heard Dee ask me.
I met her gaze, and suddenly, the pub seemed quieter, smaller, like it was just the two of us there. “Yeah, I’m good,” I breathed.
Her lips curved into the faintest smirk, and I knew, right then and there, that pursuing this Wild Cat, when I’d pursued no other woman, was going to be a whole hell of a lot of fun.