4. Dee
CHAPTER 4
Dee
M y boarder woke me up…well, me and my lady parts.
I had gone downstairs to the pub and found him shirtless in sweatpants, sweating as he drank water from a glass while he stood on the wrong side…my side of the bar. But I’d told him he could, so I couldn’t yell at him about it, now, could I?
He’d obviously gone running bright and early. It was only seven in the morning. Ronan wouldn’t be in until eight when he’d start getting ready for the lunch service, and the regulars would start strolling in when we opened at eleven.
“Good morning.” Jax set the glass of water on the bar.
“Good morning,” I murmured, watching his muscles ripple as he rotated his shoulders. When I thought of a golfer, I thought of a potbellied, old white man, with orange hair; I didn’t think they looked like him .
Jax was built .
Broad shoulders tapered down to a trim, muscular waist, and his arms—Jesus, his arms—were roped with sinewy strength that spoke of hours of driving golf balls across pristine fairways. His chest was sculpted, his abs a defined roadmap that hinted at grueling workouts beyond just swinging a club. And those V-shaped lines disappearing into the waistband of those should-be-illegal low-slung sweatpants…well, they weren’t doing me any favors this early in the morning.
I blinked, forcing myself to look anywhere but at him, but my traitorous brain had other ideas, and for some Godforsaken reason, I found myself wondering how a man who spent most of his time on a golf course could look like he moonlighted as a Greek statue.
“Would you like coffee?” I asked and refrained from clearing my throat. The hell with him. I’d seen better-looking men, and they did nothing for me.
Jax Caldwell could go feck himself!
Or me? He could….
Feckin’ hell!
“No, thanks.” Jax shook his head. “I’m going to take a shower and go to the bakery. Get a scone as you suggested.”
Those dimples ! They should be illegal, too.
But it wasn’t just how he looked. It was how he talked. He was polite. He wasn’t brash. He was nice. He spoke to everyone last night, and how he’d taken care of Fiadh while her parents dealt with the wee one who was crying up a storm, had made every woman’s ovaries give out a low moan.
He was a stranger. He was rich. He drove a Porsche, and according to Google, he was from Charleston and came from old Southern American money. He’d won the PGA Championship twice , one of the youngest to do so. He also had cheated on his most recent girlfriend, a supermodel.
“Well, then…ah…have a nice day.” I hurried into the kitchen and waited to hear the sound of the creaky steps that Jax took to go to his room before I came back into the bar.
My vibrator stopped working a couple of months ago, and I had not bothered to replace it, which I now knew was a mistake. So, I decided to order one right away.
I didn’t have time to dwell on Jax (thank the Lord) because there was so much work to do. Cleaning, helping in the kitchen, doing inventory, restocking the bar, wiping down the tables, polishing the taps, making sure the kegs were connected correctly, double-checking the till, placing new orders for anything running low, sweeping out the front entrance, and, of course, wrangling Saoirse into helping Ronan prep the day’s menu without starting a kitchen fire. It was a Thursday, and we served roast chicken with champ, along with seeded brown bread, which Ronan baked. It was hearty and nutty, a real crowd-pleaser. For dessert, Ronan was making an apple tart with custard.
Ronan adjusted the menu with the seasons and always used locally available ingredients. In spring, while the chill still lingered in the air, he made nourishing meals to warm body and soul.
It wasn’t like I was paying attention, but my boarder went for breakfast and didn’t return for lunch, and by around five in the evening, I was wondering if the Yank had gotten himself lost.
The crowd had simmered down around four and would rise again at seven for dinner. I was taking the opportunity to wipe down the tables.
“You know, if you married me, you wouldn’t have to do hard labor,” Liam Murphy remarked.
“If I married you, I’d go to prison for killing you, and I would have to do harder labor,” I teased.
Liam had come to Ballybeg ten years ago with his wife, who’d died of breast cancer two years ago. Since then, he’d tried to live the best he could, but when he was hit with cancer, and after seeing what his wife went through with chemo, he decided against treatment. The doctors, I knew, had given him a few months at best, and he was spending a good part of them at The Banshee’s Rest.
“What’s the point, pet, when I got just a year…I want to live it here, not in a hospital.”
I was with him on that. Maggie had wanted to die at home—she’d been militant about it, and I’d supported her. My heart felt heavy because I still missed her—the grief, I knew, would lessen, but never fully disappear.
“Liam, you haven’t eaten a thing.” I rebuked him as I looked at his plate of roast chicken and champ. He’d eaten some of the champ but none of the chicken.
“Today is not a good day, lass,” he said quietly.
“You want something else?” I put a hand on his shoulder. He covered mine with his. “How about a milk tea? Something to soothe the stomach.”
He nodded. “That sounds good, love.”
I blinked my tears away. Liam didn’t need that.
“Always wants something that’s not on the menu,” I grumbled good naturedly.
Liam took the bait. “Aye, you know me, Dee, nothin’ but trouble.”
Tears were rolling down my cheeks when I made it to the kitchen. Ronan looked at me with concern. I shook my head. “It’s Liam,” I whispered.
Ronan hugged me. Then, I felt Saoirse's slender arms join in the group hug.
I pulled away, sniffling. “He wants a milk tea.”
Ronan rolled his eyes. “Always wanting what’s not on the menu.”
“Considering we don’t have a menu….” Saoirse flipped her braid airily and went back to her workstation, where she was putting whipped butter into tiny bowls for the dinner service.
I went back out to let Liam know his tea would be out shortly when I stopped in my tracks.
Cillian O’Farrell had just darkened my door. I felt the old anger and humiliation coil in my stomach. Three years I’d given this man, and the bastard had cheated on me, discarded me, and made me feel like I wasn’t enough.
Maggie hadn’t been able to stand the sight of his arse, and I’d kept on telling her he was just misunderstood. Feckin’ nonsense!
Following him was the woman I’d found him balls deep in. Aoife Kelleher worked with him at his uncle and Da’s big-time real estate development company. Her laugh came first—high-pitched and brittle, as the manicure on her hand rested possessively on his arm. Then came her voice, as sharp and grating as a crow’s caw.
“Dee, love, how are you?”
I used to know her, and we were friendly; after all, she was the colleague of my boyfriend and then-fiancée.
“Feckin’ fabulous,” I replied and arched an eyebrow at Cillian. “And to what do I owe your presence at The Banshee’s Rest?”
Cillian smiled. He was a handsome devil even if he was every inch the smug bastard I’d spent years of my life loving and far too long regretting.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Aoife continued as she moved to the bar and then put her finger on it as if testing for dirt. “It’s just so quaint, isn’t it, Cillian?”
I walked to the other side of the bar. “Liam, your tea will be here in a minute,” I told him again, wanting to have something to do.
Liam turned to Cillian and Aoife. “You here to critique the décor, or are you going to order something? If not, feck off.”
I didn’t bother to suppress my smile. When it came to the people of Ballybeg, they were all Team Dee.
“Liam Murphy, why don’t you stay out of it?” Aoife snarled.
“Hey, do you see that sign?” I pointed to the one that said, “We Only Serve People We Like—Don’t Test Your Luck.”
“Stop being childish, Dee.” Cillian finally deigned to speak, his smooth slipping into the room like oil on water. “Aoife’s just admiring the…charm.”
“I’m sure she is,” Liam muttered.
I wondered how I hadn’t noticed it before, that beneath that beautiful face and handsome smile, underneath the tailored suit and blonde hair, was one of the most insincere men in Ireland.
“Cillian,” I said coolly. “I thought you’d be busy paving over some other village by now. What brings you back to Ballybeg?”
He laughed lightly like this was all some casual social call. “Business, of course. We’re just ironing out a few details before the vote.”
His tone and how he said vote like he had it in the bag set my teeth on edge.
The proposed golf resort project was coming up for a vote soon, and it would be decided at the county level. The developers—Cillian included—had been trying to buy up land and sway local council members while I’d been doing everything in my power to fight them. Flyers, petitions, late nights convincing neighbors that a resort would ruin Ballybeg instead of saving it—most of us in Ballybeg were certain of it.
Ronan came in then with the tea for Liam. He probably had heard Cillian and was here to make sure he was kicked out on his arse if he as much as breathed wrong.
“Ah, if it ain’t the golden boy of the let’s-ruin-Ballybeg brigade.” He set down the tea in front of Liam.
“I see that your pitbull is still here.” Cillian’s eyes flashed anger. They’d come to fisticuffs a few months ago when Cillian had made disparaging statements about certain parts of my body.
“Pitbull with sharp teeth.” Ronan snarled for effect.
Liam chuckled.
The O’Malley brothers at the other end of the bar guffawed.
In general, a smattering of laughter ran through the place.
“No matter.” Cillian turned to me and winked. “You know the vote is all but a done deal, don’t you, Dee?”
Aoife folded her arms. “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re not from here, Aoife,” I threw at her and then glared at Cillian. “It’s a bit early for a victory lap, don’t you think?”
“Regardless. I’m not here to see you but….” Cillian looked around.
“Dee, maybe the arsehole is here for a pint of Guinness to wash down that load of shite he’s been spreading about his ‘community-friendly development’?” Aislin Boyle, who was at one of the tables with her ma, celebrating her eightieth, called out.
Aoife’s lips curved into a condescending smile. “Now, now, Aislin. No need to be hostile. Change can be a good thing. You know, progress?”
“Is that what you call bulldozing farmland and sticking a shopping center where the cows used to graze?” I shot back.
Aoife opened her mouth to reply, but Cillian, the feckin’ diplomat, held up a hand.
“We didn’t come here to argue,” he said smoothly. “Why don’t we calm down?”
His condescension put my back up, aye , but it did.
“You know, maybe we can be cordial. Aoife, sweetheart, take a seat.” They both sat at the bar. “It’s chicken night.” He read the board. “Is the food as good now as I remember?”
He had the nerve to bring up the food. My sister, Maggie, had cooked for this pub every day until the cancer got too bad. The food was still good—thanks to Ronan’s talent in the kitchen—but hearing Cillian talk about it like some nostalgic curiosity made me want to launch a pint at his head. Especially since the bastard had blamed me for his cheating, saying I spent too much time with Maggie.
Didn’t you know? A man, apparently, had needs.
I grabbed a clean glass and pulled his drink patiently. “Pint of Guinness, was it?” I asked my tone all sugar and acid.
Before he could answer, the pub door swung open, and in walked Jax Caldwell—rain-dampened, flushed, and carrying himself like he was the Lord himself.
Where the hell had he been all day? I thought angrily and then did a mental head slap ‘cause I sounded like a bloody wife, which I wasn’t.
“Ah, there he is!” Cillian’s voice boomed, all false charm. “The man of the hour! Jax Caldwell in Ballybeg of all places.”
What the feckin’ fuck?
I should’ve known. Cillian wasn’t here to poke at me, he was here for business, to lure Jax into his scheme to mow down Ballybeg.
Jax blinked, clearly not expecting the attention, but his easy smile didn’t falter. “Ah, hello.”
Cillian rushed to him, his hand extended. He was ready to kiss the man’s ring, for God’s sake.
Jax looked at his hand and shook it hesitantly. “Ah…who are you?”
“Cillian O’Farrell. I am the Vice President of Projects for Irish Dream Developments.”
Jax looked blankly at Cillian and then turned to see me as if seeking an explanation. I shrugged. If the man was going to join hands with Cillian, he could take his-self far away from my place.
“I have no idea what that is.” Jax pulled his hand away and then walked to the bar.
“I’m such a fan.” Aoife rose, her hand on her heart. She was making googly eyes at him.
Little Baby Jesus!
Jax looked fecking uncomfortable and that made me feel better.
Cillian clapped Jax on the shoulder like they were old friends. “This is Aoife, my fiancée.”
Jax moved away and then nodded at Liam. He looked around the room, and I knew he could feel the tension, and he wasn’t sure what was up or down. He grinned at Ronan. “Please tell me we have that amazing stew again tonight ‘cause I’m frozen solid inside.”
“It’s chicken night, and you’ll like it,” Ronan informed him, flush with pride at Jax’s compliment.
“You know there are better places to stay than Ballybeg,” Cillian, who obviously couldn’t read the room or his quarry, who obviously didn’t want to have anything to do with him, said.
“I’m fine. Thank you.” Jax sat down and rubbed his hands together. “Dee, do you think I can have some Irish whiskey? I need to warm up after that walk.”
I moved and poured him some of my finest.
“We’re from Cork.” Aoife sidled up to him, and not subtly at all, Jax shifted the barstool to get some distance from my ex’s fiancée. “We have some lovely properties fifty miles away…with a golf course.”
Jax swallowed and pursed his lips. Now, this man could read a room. He could see something was off, and he was determining how to handle it. I set the whiskey in front of him, folded my arms, and leaned back to watch the scene. There was pin-drop silence in the pub, like everyone was watching their favorite TV show. All that was missing was the popcorn.
“I’m on vacation.” Jax picked up the glass of whiskey, his eyes on me. “And I’m enjoying the view at Ballybeg.” He downed the drink, and my heart began to hammer in my chest. That look should be illegal. My knickers were getting wet.
“This is no place for a vacation,” Cillian persisted as he flanked Jax, coming between him and Liam.
“Do you mind?” Jax raised both his eyebrows. “I’m here with my friend Liam.”
Cillian looked like he’d been punched. I had to suppress a giggle, which was strange because I wasn’t prone to giggling.
“Liam?” Cillian had a blank look on his face.
“Yeah. I thought you knew Liam Murphy because everyone knows everyone here.” Jax grinned. “I love this place.”
“This place?” Aoife scoffed.
“Yes,” he gritted out, just a sprinkle of temper in his words, enough to make Aoife take a step away from him.
It seemed like Jax didn’t care about Aoife Kelleher’s perfect hair, perfect teeth, and toned body.
When I found them in Cillian’s office, his white arse slamming into Aoife, her business skirt up her waist, showing all her business—I’d been angry and had hurled insults before walking out of there. But for all my bluster, the truth was that I’d been devastated. Maggie had just died, and I needed support. I thought my fiancé, my future husband, would give me that, but he’d been busy boning another woman.
“Jax.” I leaned on the bar counter so we were face to face. I was taking a chance here that he was on my side based on how he was behaving. “Did you know that Cillian and I used to be engaged?”
Jax’s lips curled on the edges.
“And did you know we broke up when I found him balls deep inside Aoife here?”
“Dee,” Cillian hissed.
“Oh my God, you’re such a bitch,” Aoife commented.
“I actually did.” Jax smiled widely.
I arched an eyebrow in inquiry.
“I had some beers with Paddy at his garage,” he explained, winking at me.