Chapter Fourteen
“How are these things still the most delicious food in the world?”
One afternoon the next week, I drag my gaze from the stock list to where Harry sits at the bar, polishing off a cheese toastie.
“We use extra butter,” I explain. “And local cheese. Not crappy cheese.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s how you cut the sandwich diagonally instead of horizontal.” He pushes the plate away and sets a hand against his stomach. “I’m going to regret that in about thirty seconds, and it will be all your— wait, no. Ten seconds. I’m getting old.”
I abandon my work to slump on the bar next to him.
He texted me this morning asking if I had time to see him, and I immediately said yes, but asked him to swing by the barn first so he could see it and then come and admire me and my brilliance.
Despite this very clear task, he hasn’t even mentioned it.
And as each moment passes, I’m getting more and more impatient. A girl needs praise.
“So?” I ask now, as he checks his phone.
“So what?”
“What do you think?”
“Best toastie ever.”
“Of the barn,” I groan, and he grins.
“It looks great. I’m very impressed. I thought that place was good for nothing other than underage smoking and maybe a location for a horror movie, but you’ve proved me wrong.”
“And we haven’t even put the decorations in yet,” I say. “I don’t know why we didn’t do something like this before. We could rent it out in the future. Host some traveling theater troupes or something.”
“How many traveling theater troupes do you know of?”
“Ask me that question in six months and the answer will blow your mind.”
“It looks great,” he says again. “And the festival will be great. You just need to dress the place up a bit more and it will be incredible.”
“Dress what up? The barn?”
“The village.”
“What’s wrong with the village?”
He gives me a look.
“What? The village is fine.”
“The village is depressing,” he says. “You expect all these people to come and just not notice the state of the main street? It looks as gloomy as it did when I left.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” I chide. “It’s not gloomy.”
“It’s gloomy. It’s dystopian gloomy. And you know you need to water those hanging baskets, right? You can’t just put them up and hope for the best. You’ve also got a litter problem.”
“We do not have a litter problem. We have foxes. That’s different.”
“You’ve got to clean it up, or no one’s going to come here and think, yes, that girl is right. This sad little place I’ve never heard of deserves my time and energy to save it. Here’s ten thousand euro.”
I pout, seeing his point. “Well, what do you suggest we do?”
“As I said, dress it up. Sweep the streets, water the plants, put some fake displays in the empty shop windows and a gone fishing sign on the door.”
“That’s lying.”
“That’s life. Better yet, that’s business.
” He leans back on the stool, rolling his shoulders back.
“Speaking of business. Will you be partaking in any of this matchmaking yourself, or will you just be standing in the back with your clipboard and headset? Because a new guy started at the office who I think would be great for you.”
“My ex-boyfriend wants to set me up?”
“Only weird if you make it weird.”
“I’m not looking for anyone right now,” I say, and he hums.
“That’s what they all say.”
I shrug, returning to my stock list while keeping my eyes round and innocent and—
“Alright,” he says flatly. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re really bad at secrets, Katie Collins. You’re a bad liar and a bad secret keeper and you’re doing that thing where you obviously want to tell me something, but you want to pretend that I forced it out of you.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Bad at lying,” he reminds me. “Tell me. I’ll be gone in an hour anyway. Did you kill someone?”
“No.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“No! Harry! I met someone. That’s all.”
“Who?”
“Nobody.”
“Katie—”
“We also kissed.”
“Is he local?”
“He works for Glenmill.”
Harry snorts. “Of course he does. Always have to make thing difficult for yourself, don’t you?”
“He’s an on-site project coordinator. Doesn’t that sound impressive?”
“Not really,” he says, before his eyes narrow. “Are you blushing?”
“I don’t blush. I’m warm.”
“You’re blushing. You’re blushing because you have a crush on an on-site project coordinator? What are you? Fourteen? What’s his name?”
“I’m not telling you. Callum Dempsey.” I lean back over the bar as the office door opens and Adam emerges. “What are you doing?”
Harry takes out his phone. “I’m googling him.”
“Googling who?” Adam asks. He rubs his eyes in his I’ve been looking at numbers for the past hour way and snatches one of the orange slices I cut earlier.
“Nobody,” I say, as Harry looks up.
“Katie kissed a boy.”
“Harry!” I whack his arm with a dishcloth. “Snitch move.”
“You kissed this guy?” Harry makes a show of peering at the screen, and I glimpse a picture of Callum on it. “Well done you.”
“Okay, I don’t need to be around for this conversation.” Adam grabs his keys, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “It’s like hearing about my baby sister.”
“Where are you going?” I ask. “We could have a whole busload of people show up here in the next hour and I’ll be all by myself.”
“I’ll have to take my chances. I said I’d take Noah to the pool.”
“You did? That’s nice of you.” The nearest public swimming pool is at least an hour’s drive away.
“Yeah, well, he deserves it. He said Gemma was supposed to bring him because he got an A on his French test, but she had to work today.”
I bite back a smile. “An A, huh?”
“Yeah. Great, isn’t it?”
“The greatest,” I agree. “Except Noah’s school doesn’t have tests. And he doesn’t do French. He does Spanish.”
Adam pauses in the middle of putting on his jacket. “Well, then I guess I’ve been played.”
I can only grin as his expression settles into his usual scowl.
Adam’s been in a noticeably better mood the past few weeks.
Maybe not noticeable to everyone , but definitely to me, the person professionally obliged to spend a lot of time with him.
He’d never admit it because he’s a perpetual pessimist who still expects the world to come crashing down around him, but I know he has his hopes up that the festival will work.
“Just go,” I say. “He should be rewarded for his shamelessness.”
“I said I’d take him for a burger as well,” Adam mutters, and I laugh. “You’re good here?”
“We’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be back by five. And Harry pays for everything he orders,” he adds, pushing open the door. “No freebies.”
I give him a two-fingered salute and turn to Harry. “Do you want a mocktail? It doesn’t have any alcohol in it, but it does have a year’s worth of sugar.”
“Hmmm,” he says, not looking up from his phone, and I pause at the carefully blank expression on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. But what’s Callum’s second name again?”
“Dempsey.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. That’s what Jack said it was.”
“Jack Doyle?” His eyes snap up. “The director guy at Glenmill? The one writing all the articles?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “Why?”
“When did he say that?”
I pause, confused by the suspicion in his voice. “The first time they all came to the pub. When I found out what was happening.”
“Why was Callum there?”
“I don’t know,” I say, growing annoyed when he just continues to scroll. “If you’re going to say something rude like he’s out of my league or—”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” he interrupts. “I just want to know what you’re doing kissing the boss’s brother.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. “What are you talking about?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Know what?” I snap.
He turns his phone around to show me the screen, but I don’t even glance at it. “Katie, Jack Doyle is Callum’s brother.”
More staring. More waiting. No punchlines. “No, he’s not.”
“According to all these articles he is,” Harry says.
“Though most are from a few years ago when Jack got the job. Following Mr. O’Hara’s retirement, executive Jack Doyle will be stepping into the role .
Glenmill Properties has become something of a family business for Mr. Doyle, whose younger brother Callum also works in the firm. Together they —”
“Wait, wait, wait.” I lean over the bar, plucking the phone from his hands. “That’s…no. It’s a mistake. They’re not brothers. They look nothing alike.”
“It’s not a rule. And they kind of do.”
I’m already pulling up an image of Jack in another tab and, after a second, I type in both their names together.
A picture of them immediately comes up. They both look younger and the date on the article is more than five years old, but there they are side by side, standing in front of some construction site in Belfast.
“Nu-uh.” It’s all I can say. It’s all I can think, even as a little bit of doubt creeps in.
A little bit of doubt followed swiftly by a whole lot of hurt.
You don’t think it’s weird that he’s just around all the time?
That’s what Gemma asked when he showed up here.
That’s what I dismissed without even considering it.
“Okay,” Harry says, sensing my growing unease. “This doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
“What if he’s a spy?”
“He’s not a spy.”
“How do you know?”
“Because this isn’t the Cold War. This is rural Ireland, and you are hosting a matchmaking festival. Let’s just calm down.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
Harry’s mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know,” he says.
“Right. So he just happens to show a massive interest in me. The girl who’s trying to halt his boss’s plans. His brother’s plans.” His brother . Christ. “What if he’s not even a site guy? What if he’s a boardroom guy? What if he was just pretending to be Mr. Normal and he’s actually—”
“Okay,” Harry interrupts. “Now we’re just spiraling.”
“What if he’s playing me?” I finish. “What if I have a crush on someone who’s playing me?”
To that, Harry doesn’t respond.
Oh my God.
“Am I jumping to conclusions?” I ask, and his face screws up. “Harry, tell me I’m jumping to conclusions.”
“You’re… assessing the full picture,” he says, and I drop my head to the bar, ignoring the toastie crumbs as they stick to my forehead. “I’m sorry, Katie.”
I grunt and he pats the top of my head.
“You know what?” he says. “Maybe I will have one of those mocktails.”