Chapter 4
Dee
My boarder woke me up—well, my lady parts and me.
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 should make himself at home, 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 the lad in front of me.
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 refrained from clearing my throat because he made me…uneasy.
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 let 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 PGL 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 murmured and then 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.
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 the 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 a decade 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.
When I asked him why he wasn’t getting treatment, he’d flatly told me, “What’s the point, Dee, when I got just a few months…I want to live it here, not in a hospital.”
I was with him on that.
Maggie 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 stepped out to let Liam know his tea would be up shortly—and stopped cold.
Cillian O’Farrell stood in my doorway.
The old anger and humiliation coiled in my stomach. I’d given that man three years of my life, and he’d cheated on me, discarded me, and left me feeling like I wasn’t good enough.
Maggie hadn’t been able to stand the sight of his arse, and I’d kept 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’s 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 my then-fiancée’s colleague.
“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 blond 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, as if this were a 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 the decision would be made 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 with the tea for Liam then. 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?”