29. Jax
CHAPTER 29
Jax
T he past week had been a whirlwind, but I was a man on a mission, and when I had a mission, there was no backing down. Not on the golf course, and sure as hell not here in Ballybeg.
The first thing I’d done was track down every scrap of information I could get my hands on about the developers and their plans. Emails, phone calls, late-night research sessions with my new trusty mobile Wi-Fi (because the pub network was shite) —I’d been living and breathing this battle. Turns out, the project Big Gil and his posey of bastards had set up had more loopholes than a broken fishing net, and I was determined to use every single one of them to throw a wrench in their plans.
I’d spoken to Paddy, Mickey, and half the landowners in the area—good, hardworking people who were being squeezed to their breaking points by inflated land assessments and impossible taxes. Cillian had been clever, I’d give him that, but his greed left a trail so clear even an amateur could follow it. I wasn’t an amateur.
I’d spent hours on the phone with Brad, working to mobilize his social media team for our “small village versus corporate greed” campaign. Brad thought I’d lost my mind at first, but when I told him how much this mattered to Dee—to us—he got on board. By the time we were done, Ballybeg would be a headline in every golf magazine and Irish news outlet from Dublin to Donegal.
I was going to do interviews and discuss my personal life, including Dee and Ballybeg. If there was a reason for me to put my life under a media microscope, this was the best one.
Then there were the financials. I’d crunched the numbers, consulted lawyers, and set things in motion—strategically buying up land to make life difficult for the developers. To keep it under the radar, I was using a shell company instead of my own name, but I knew it wouldn’t stay quiet for long. Big Gil would be calling soon—I was sure of it. I knew because my father already had, and that conversation hadn’t gone well.
“I hear you’re doing this because of a woman,” he thundered.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s your future daughter-in-law.” I knew that would needle him right where it hurts, and it did.
“A fucking pub owner? Are you out of your mind?”
“No, Dad, I’m in love.”
“Same difference,” Dad had growled. “Now look, everyone likes a little strange, and you’re ? —”
“We’re not gonna discuss my sex life.” I kept my tone light, but I was gritting my teeth.
“First, you give up your family legacy, and now ? —”
“Dad, you need to pull out of Big Gil’s Irish deal,” I put enough steel in my voice so he’d know I was serious.
“Not happenin’, son.”
“In that case, when the media calls you a money-hungry arsehole who’s screwing his son’s fiancée’s village, don’t come complaining to me about it.”
“Why would the media call me anything?” he asked cautiously.
“Because in about a half hour, I have a Zoom interview with Scott Van Pelt, and I’m going to tell him all about how wonderful Ballybeg is, how Big Gil and the guys in Cork are a bunch of gobshites.”
My father knew Scott Van Pelt; in fact, half the sports fans in the world did. Scott was a prominent ESPN host known for his conversational and engaging style on SportsCenter. He was the first media personality Brad had called, and Scott was excited to talk to me when he saw what I was trying to do.
“Jax, you’re going to ruin your life.”
“Dad, that’s what you said when I said I wanted to play golf, and now I’ve two PGA championships.” I looked at my watch. “Now, think about what I said, and I’ll talk to you later.”
My interview with Scott would air in a couple of days, kicking off the social media assault. Meanwhile, I’d spoken to my finance guy, and we were ready to start covering property taxes for the villagers who wanted to stay put. Paddy and Mickey were hard at work convincing those willing to sell to choose me over Shamrock Global Ventures. It was an expensive endeavor, no doubt, but I didn’t mind—not one bit—because for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a real purpose.
Sure, convincing Dee to let me help had been harder than any PGA tournament I’d ever played, but every argument, every exasperated sigh, and every time she glared at me with those emerald-green eyes made me love her more.
When I told her how I’d talked to everyone in Ballybeg and around, she’d been skeptical.
“What does everyone mean?”
“Everyone. Paddy, Mickey, the lads down at the council office—hell, I even chatted up the guy who delivers flour for Cadhla’s Bakery. I’ve been pulling every string I can find.”
“What is it you’re looking for?”
“Any information I can get about Big Gil’s venture and Cillian O’Farrell.”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “You’re telling me my future depends on Ballybeg gossip?”
I grinned. “Darlin’, in a village like this, gossip might just save the day.”
“You think we’re going to save the day?” She sounded scared, and I didn’t like that at all. I wanted her to feel confident, but it was hard to do when I knew that this was a freaking Hail Mary.
“When the social media posts, interviews, and videos about how Ballybeg’s heritage is at risk hit the airwaves, it’s going to put pressure on all right people. People love a good David versus Goliath story, and that’s exactly what this is.”
“And you’re the David in this scenario?”
“No, I’m your slingshot.” I loved the way her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile, and that pleased me because it meant she wasn’t scared anymore.
I had approved several social media posts to go out from my account and reached out to friends with bigger followings than mine—like Nikolai, a soccer superstar—who had agreed to amplify my posts and add their own. Brad’s social media team was handling the logistics, and according to him, they were getting invested in the fight. They saw this for what it was—another case of rich white assholes trying to bulldoze a historic village for profit—and if they felt that strongly about it, I knew their audience would, too. My goal was simple: put enough public pressure on the county council that they had no choice but to change their vote.
I was in my old bedroom, which I had been using as an office since I’d moved into Dee’s room, when Brad texted me with a link: Ask your Irish lass not to freak out.
I frowned as I opened the link and saw the headline on some site called The Irish Star stare back at me like a bad dream.
“Golf Star Jax Caldwell Caught in Scandalous Love Affair!”
Beneath the headline was a grainy photo of Francia and me from that damned event in Dublin, taken at just the right angle to make it look like we were cozying up to each other. Never mind that I’d been standing full feet away from her, and the only thing on my mind had been how quickly I could leave without causing a scene.
Jesus Fucking Christ! This was not what I needed.
Of course, the article didn’t stop there. It rehashed every detail of my so-called breakup with Francia, spun a few wild theories about why I was “hiding out in Ireland,” and, for good measure, tossed in a couple of recycled rumors about my so-called bad boy reputation—because God forbid the tabloids ever let that one die.
I texted Brad: Get someone to write a detailed response to this shit. I’m shutting Francia down.
Brad replied: Really ? Hallelujah! Christmas is here early.
I slammed my phone down on the table, my heart sinking. It wasn’t the article itself that bothered me—I’d been dealing with this kind of crap for years, and Brad would take care of making sure Francia would be shut down.
No, what worried me was how Dee would react when she saw it.
I didn’t need another reason for her to question me, to doubt what we had. Things had just started to feel solid between us, and the last thing I wanted was for some stupid tabloid story to mess that up.
I found Saoirse stacking whiskey bottles under the bar.
“Do you read The Irish Star?”
She gave me a quizzical look. “Aye.”
“Does everybody in Ballybeg read the feckin’ thing?”
“Not everybody, but…sure, many do.”
Damn it! “Where’s Dee?”
“In the kitchen.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips quite like Dee did. “What did you do, Jax Caldwell?”
“I didn’t do anything but tabloid journalism is fucking with my life.”
Saoirse grinned. “Is this about you with that fancy supermodel?”
I sighed. “You saw it.”
“Aye, I did.”
“Dee?”
She scoffed. “Like Dee would sully her eyes with that kind of gobshite.”
Okay, that was something.
Dee came into the bar then, a bright smile on her face.
I froze, my heart pounding. “Hey.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s with you? You look like you’ve spotted a banshee wailin’.”
I had no idea what that meant. “There’s, uh…something you should probably see.”
“Okay.” She walked to me, wiping her hands on her apron.
I swallowed and pulled out my phone. I gave it to her, my stomach twisting into knots as she picked it up and scanned the headline. For a moment, her face was unreadable, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she skimmed the article.
Then, without a word, she gave me my phone back.
“Was that it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, ‘cause I need to check on that arsehole Martin Glancy because he shorted me last week.”
I blinked, stunned. “Wait…that’s it?”
She smirked. “What did you think I was going to do? Throw a fit? You think I’m going to let some stupid tabloid photo get to me?”
I let out a shaky laugh, relief washing over me. “You never stop surprising me, you know that?”
“I hope you’re going to say that when my tits are hanging to my knees.”
I yanked her close to me and dropped my mouth over hers.
“No, no, no,” Saoirse cried out. “All this kissing and making out in the pub needs to stop.”
Dee pulled away and looked at her employee. “And why is that?”
“ Because ….”
Dee cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s a good reason, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to go back to kissing my boyfriend.”
I laughed, my chest tightening with affection. God help me, I loved this woman.
* * *
By the next day, the word had spread: Dee’s lad Jax Caldwell had a plan to save Ballybeg, and he was calling a meeting at The Banshee’s Rest.
I stood in the corner of the pub, watching as people trickled in—farmers, shopkeepers, pensioners, even Mrs. O’Leary, who rarely left her house unless there was a rumor worth spreading. Dee stood behind the bar, pretending to clean glasses but stealing glances at me now and then.
When the room was packed, Dee tapped a knife on a glass to silence everyone.
“Thank you all for coming,” she began. “As you know, the council has told us that they’ll be voting yet to permit Shamrock Global Ventures to build a resort here.”
“Feckin’ gobshites, all of them.” Liam raised his pint.
Everyone agreed with him that they were feckin’ gobshites.
“We hear that your lad has a plan,” Mrs. O’Leary said sternly. “Now, I don’t know you,” she pointed a finger at me, “but I hear from Eileen Nolan that you’re alright for a Yank.”
“That’s high praise coming from you, Eileen.” I bowed to Mrs. Nolan, who flushed.
Fiadh came running to me. “Do you have a biscuit?”
“I do.” Since that first time, I kept a box of fresh biscuits in the bar for Fiadh. The girl had stolen my heart when she did my cookie. “Why don’t you go to Dee, and she’ll take care of you.”
The toddler asked me to lower my head with her finger, which I did. Then, she kissed my cheek and ran as fast as her little legs could take her to Dee.
“Now, he has Fiadh’s stamp of approval, which means he’s a feckin’ saint,” Eamon, the toddler’s father, claimed as he held his sleeping baby against his shoulder.
“Jax, I’m sending you the bill when she has her first cavity,” Fiadh’s mother warned.
“Yes, ma’am,” I grinned. Then I cleared my throat, “As Dee said, thank you all for coming. I know y’all are busy, so I’ll get straight to the point.”
“I’m not busy,” Liam Murphy remarked.
“Well, most of you except Liam,” I corrected myself. I glanced at Dee, who gave me a small nod, her green eyes bright with excitement.
“We all know what’s at stake here,” I continued. “The developers want to turn Ballybeg into a resort, and if we don’t stop them, this village—everything that makes it special—will be gone. But I’ve got a plan to fight back, and I need your help to make it work.”
The room fell silent, every set of eyes fixed on me.
“First,” I continued, “we’re going to make a lot of noise. Social media, local press, and maybe even national coverage. We’re going to tell the world what’s happening here and why it matters. We’ll frame Ballybeg as a symbol of what’s worth protecting—a place where tradition and community come first.”
Geraldine, who had Poppy in a basket by her feet, nodded approvingly. “Damn right.”
“I have already done an interview with ESPN and a couple with sports magazines, and they’ll start trickling in the next days.” Now came the tricky part. “Second, we’re going to protect your lands when it comes to your land tax bill. We’ll also buy some land that the developers will probably need—though that’s going to take some doing—and without which I hope they’ll be discouraged from continuing the project.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Cormac O’Murphy, the ornery bastard who ran the barber shop, raised his hand. “And how exactly are we paying for all this, Yank?”
“That’s where I come in.”
Dee had warned me that the village would not want charity.
Voices rose immediately. Calls that no one in Ballybeg needed a handout came ringing through.
“Silence,” Dee said like she was the Ceann Comhairle keeping order in a rowdy Dáil session.
“Now, I know what you’re thinking, who’s this rich Yank prick who’s thinking he can ride in here on his white horse.” She stood tall as she spoke, and I didn’t think any woman had a right to look as powerfully beautiful as she did. “We all need help from time to time, and as a village and community, we offer that help. Remember when Paddy’s roof caved in last winter? Half the village showed up with hammers and nails, and the rest sent food or tea to keep us all going until it was patched up. And who paid for the materials? Liam Ryan did, and didn’t ask for a single penny back.”
She looked around, letting everyone recollect that particular gesture of neighborliness, before adding, “And what about when Myrna’s car gave up last spring, and she was left without a way to get her kids to school? It was Seamus who loaned her his car for weeks, even though we all know he loves that old thing more than life itself.”
The crowd muttered their agreement, nodding.
“And the time when Poppy needed surgery, and I didn’t have my pension yet,” Geraldine said with a small smile, “Noreen helped me out.”
“When my bakery flooded, Dee helped me with funds because my insurance screwed me over,” Cadhla recollected.
Dee pressed on, her eyes locking on each of them. “That’s what we do here in Ballybeg. We show up for each other. We lend a hand, we share what we have, and we ask for nothing in return but the promise that one day, when it’s our turn, someone will be there for us, too.”
She paused, and I swear the room leaned in closer, hanging on her every word. “So, I can’t see why we should turn away Jax’s help. He’s my man, and he’s one of us. And whether you like it or not, Ballybeg is as much his fight now as it is ours.”
Murmurs of approval went through the pub.
I wanted to walk up to Dee and crush her to me, hold her close. When she’d said she trusted me, I wasn’t sure if she meant it, but now, after hearing her tell everyone who was most important to her that I was her man told me clearly that she was mine as much as I was hers.
Seamus leaned back in his chair, grinning. “I’m in. Anything to stick it to that smug prick Cillian.”
A round of cheers went up.
“Good.” I couldn’t stop grinning. “Because this plan is not just about saving Ballybeg, it’s about sending a message to people like Cillian and the developers he’s working with that they can’t just walk over villages like ours. They think they can squeeze us out of our homes. Let’s show them they’re dead wrong.”
The pub erupted into applause, and I felt a surge of pride for the people of Ballybeg. When the noise died down, I glanced at Dee, who was watching me with love in her eyes.
“We can do this”—I met her gaze—“together.”