3. Aisling
THREE
Aisling
PAST
“I wish I could have gone with you,” my mother laments over her frothy pint of Guinness. We’re sitting in the hotel pub after a blessed night of rest. The extra sleep really did her some good because she’s back to her usual over-the-top self. “I could have given you a proper tour of Dublin.”
Ever since I told her about my night wandering the city, she’s somehow decided I did it all wrong and now blames herself for not schooling me on the proper places to visit.
“I can’t believe you didn’t go to Dublin Castle,” she whines.
I huff out a breath. “It was nearly dinnertime,” I tell her. “I doubt it was even open.”
She reluctantly agrees, shrugging her shoulders as she sips the dark ale. I suppress a shudder, wondering how she can tolerate something that looks like sludge.
I am not a beer girl, much to my mother’s dismay. She believes it’s a dishonor to our Irish heritage or something. I think I can honor it just fine with a pint of Bulmers and a wool scarf.
“So, you just walked around then?” she asks as I stifle a yawn. I may have had a decent night’s sleep, but my body is still adjusting to this damn time change.
It didn’t help that my mom was up with the sun, already dressed and ready to go. We spent the morning walking around the quaint little village that surrounds our hotel. Don’t want to waste a single second , she told me over breakfast. We walked down to the beach and collected seashells while simultaneously trying not to freeze our asses off. The wind is brutal here on the coast.
We then did some shopping and had lunch. Even though Mom goes on these trips a couple of times a year, she still insists on buying gifts for everyone she knows. By the time we make it back to Dublin next week, we may need an extra suitcase for all the shit she’s accumulated.
It’s now late afternoon and nearly time for our tour to officially begin. According to my mom, we won’t actually tour anything until tomorrow, but today, we will meet our guide and go over the schedule and logistics.
O’Connell Tours reserved the whole pub for an hour for this meeting, and as usual, my mother is the first to arrive.
“Pretty much.” I nod in reply. “I realized I didn’t really have a specific destination in mind when I got in the cab, so?—”
“Oh, honey,” Mom says in that same tone she used when I was a child and struggled to tie my shoelaces.
“I was a little jet lagged,” I admit. “So, I just rattled off the first place I could think of—Trinity College—and then just kind of winged it from there.”
“Isn’t Trinity beautiful?” she asks as her attention begins to wander a bit. Deidre Farrell is a people watcher. She’s nosy as fuck and loves to know everyone’s business. It would make her a world-class gossip if her heart weren’t so damn big.
“It is.” I nod. But I’ve already lost her attention. Several people have taken seats at some of the tables nearby, in groups of twos and fours, and from the hesitant looks and subtle glances around the room, I’d say some of our group members have arrived.
“I ran into a guy.”
Her head snaps back, and I can’t help but grin widely.
“What? When? Tell me everything!” Her words spill out in a rush, making me giggle.
“It was nothing,” I answer with a shrug.
“Clearly, it wasn’t, or you wouldn’t be bringing it up.”
“Your attention was wavering,” I say, feigning innocence. “I just wanted to see if you were listening.”
“Oh, cut the bullshit, Ash.” She lets out an exasperated sigh but then smiles. “Tell me about him.”
I feel a blush heat my cheeks as I recall my run-in with the Irish hottie from last night. “I was very literally lost,” I tell her. “I had no idea where I was going.”
“I told you to use the app on your phone,” my mom chastises me right in the middle of my story, making me roll my eyes. “I should have never let you?—”
“Dublin isn’t my first big city, Mom. I live in one. Remember? Besides, I figured it out eventually. Anyway, do you want to hear this or not?” I raise my eyebrow at her, and she motions with her hand like she’s zipping her lips shut. “That’s what I thought. As I was saying, I was lost, and I turned a corner and ran into?—”
There’s laughter at the front of the pub, and I turn. A group has gathered. An elderly couple, several middle-aged women, and a young man.
A very familiar-looking young man.
“Him.”
“Yes,” my mom says, clearly unable to see where my attention has turned. “Go on.”
When I don’t respond, and she finally notices my wide eyes fixed on the opposite side of the room, she turns. A sharp inhale escapes her lungs, and I see her excited expression meet mine. “Him, as in him ?”
I manage a quick nod.
It really is him.
I know it was dark last night, and we only talked for maybe a minute tops, but it was one hell of a memorable minute.
My mystery man gives a polite nod to the group gathered around him, then they scatter, each finding a seat at the tables surrounding us. He scans the room, and I take that moment to suddenly become very interested in my half-empty glass of cider. I can feel my mom’s eyes on me.
Ugh, I should have never told her.
I risk a glance in his direction and see him take a confident step into the room. He’s somehow even hotter in the daytime, if that’s possible. Tall, with dark brown hair cut razor short on the sides that he’s left purposely longer up top. It gives him an edgy look that contradicts the easy smile and soft green eyes. His long sleeves are pushed up, revealing muscled forearms that are covered in ink. Must have missed those last night due to the cold and the need for layering.
He completes his grand sweep around the room without noticing me, and I’ve never been more grateful for that because a moment later, he clears his throat and addresses everyone by saying, “Hello. Everyone. My name is Finn Larkin, and I work for O’Connell Tours. I will be your host and guide for the next week as we journey across Ireland together.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
* * *
Finn
If there’s one thing that could make me break out in a cold sweat faster than an Irishman at confession, it’s being late.
Growing up, my father considered being punctual not just a common courtesy but a reflection of one’s character. If you showed up late to something, you might as well not show up at all.
For that reason alone, I was purposely late to nearly everything in my life—from school to meetings. Everything except rugby, that is. You don’t fuck with rugby.
But that was then.
Now, during the weeks I’m touring, every minute is planned out, and the clock is my best friend. I run my tours like a well-oiled machine.
Because when things run smoothly, people are happy.
And when people are happy, they tend to tip well.
I needed those tips.
Thanks to a faulty alarm clock, however, all of that was in jeopardy, and I am now running tragically late. Last night, I stayed out far too late at the pubs, enjoying a pint or two while listening to a local band.
More than once, my thoughts drifted back to the girl I met.
She was American. I picked that up right away. I’ve been doing this tour guide gig long enough that I could tell the minute difference between a Canadian and an American accent.
Was she here by herself? With family? Or a boyfriend?
That last thought sent a surge of jealousy through me that I didn’t expect. Yeah, it was definitely time to hit the pubs if I was getting jealous over a girl I talked to for all of one minute.
Clearly, it was just a physical itch that needed to be scratched.
When I got back from this tour, Rian would be back in town, and we’d go out to blow off some steam, and I’d probably never think about her again. But I have more important shite to worry about—like getting my ass to that hotel.
Not wanting to leave my car at the hotel for a week, I take a cab, knowing I’ll be reimbursed later. The job did come with a few perks.
Fortunately, my trip to the hotel is quick, and I have just enough time to grab my key and store my luggage in my room before the welcome meeting. I’ve stayed at this hotel so many times that several of the staff greet me on my way up. A woman from the concierge, returning from a room, gives me a flirty wave. I politely nod, my body not reacting in the slightest to her.
Just physical, huh?
Even I know I’m lying to myself. But lying is the only thing I can do. Admitting that girl from last night was something more won’t do me any favors. Not when the last image I have is of her disappearing around that corner—forever.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I step into the hallway.
Pocketing my room key, I pull it out and see a text from my dad.
Da
Call me when you get back in town. Good luck on your tour.
I stare at it far longer than I have time for, hoping to decipher some hidden meaning buried between those two short sentences.
But I come up short.
Like with most things involving my complex relationship with my father, I am left utterly clueless. Our relationship has always been…frosty. But since his ultimatum nearly two years ago, our communication has gone nearly glacial.
We talk only when absolutely necessary, and although I’m still dead set on proving myself to him, there won’t be any ass-kissing involved.
I let out a sigh as I scrub a hand down my face and head toward the elevator.
“Finn?”
I turn to see a familiar-looking couple headed my way.
Shit, shit, shit.
Why now? I don’t have time for this now.
I plaster on a wide, welcoming smile and turn to the older couple. They’re repeat customers—of that I’m sure—and just like all the others before them, I don’t have a fucking clue what their names are. So, I morph into tour guide mode and say, “Just couldn’t stay away, could you?”
They laugh as I extend my hand, giving a firm handshake to the husband and a warm hug to the wife.
“It’s great to see you,” the husband says. I take an extra moment to look at him. He’s tall and thin but fairly fit for his age. Brown eyes and pale, weathered skin suggest he has seen his fair share of sun. His hair is mostly silver, with streaks of dark brown woven through it.
That description likely fits about half of the demographic that travels with us, as a significant portion of the tourists visiting Ireland are those seeking their heritage. I sometimes feel guilty for forgetting most of them, but after two years in this job, every week tends to blend together.
In the beginning, I could remember everyone—every single name. But eventually, there were too many faces, and I just couldn’t keep up.
“Are you headed off to the pub?” I ask, hoping they don’t notice I haven’t addressed them by name.
“Yes,” the wife answers. “Seems great minds think alike.”
I slip into this alter ego of mine well, laughing right on cue at her attempted humor as the three of us make our way down the hall. We continue to chat in the lift and eventually, I learn the husband’s name is Paul.
It’s like a lightbulb switching on in my brain.
That’s right—Paul and Tina from Minnesota.
A flood of memories come pouring in from one of my earlier tours, and I breathe a sigh of relief. If I remember correctly, they were a lovely couple to spend a week with and will be easy to manage.
Super chatty but lovely.
“Finn.” Tina gestures to a group of women clustered together near the entrance of the pub. There are four of them, and if I had to guess, I’d say they are in their mid to late forties. Well-dressed, they’re dripping in expensive perfume and jewelry. “We met these ladies this morning over breakfast. They’re all from Arizona, and it’s their first time in Ireland. They left their husbands and kids at home.” She laughs.
A moms’ trip. Always a winning combination for me.
I turn and offer them a broad smile. I can almost hear the inappropriate thoughts swirling in their heads as they shamelessly look me over.
“Welcome,” I say, and they all continue to stare. My grin only widens as I turn toward the pub. “Shall we head inside?”
In a perfect scenario, I prefer to arrive at the hotel early, allowing me time to get my bearings and prepare. I check into my room, go over my itinerary, and then head down to the pub early.
Like the moms’ group, most people don’t expect someone like me to be their tour guide, which gives me a bit of an advantage. I grab a pint, sit back, and observe everyone as they enter. Those precious few minutes can be the difference between mistaking someone’s daughter for his wife or noticing a limp and being able to step in and assist someone on and off the bus.
But I don’t have that today, so instead, I walk in with everyone else and say a quick prayer that everything goes according to plan. Taking a quick scan across the room, it all seems to be business as usual—gray hair everywhere.
I used to have to suppress an eye roll when dealing with a certain demographic, but then I quickly discovered two things.
Old people are actually pretty cool, and they tipped like fucking champs.
I allow the group of women and the couple from Minnesota a moment to settle in before I step into the center of the dimly lit pub. Thanks to our rather loud entrance, I seem to have already captured the attention of everyone in the small space. Flashing that polished smile once more, I open my mouth and say the words I’ve spoken dozens of times to hundreds of people.
“Hello, everyone. My name is Finn Larkin, and I work for O’Connell Tours. I will be your host and guide for the next week as we journey across Ireland together.”
I let that sink in for a moment before moving on, stealing a glance around the room as I try to greet everyone present. It’s important to familiarize myself with each person as quickly as possible. I will be responsible for all these faces for the next six days, so committing them to memory—even if just short-term—is crucial.
“We have a lot to discuss before our group dinner tonight, and we only have the pub to ourselves for the next hour, so we unfortunately need to get down to business. However, since you’re on holiday, we’ll have a bit of fun too—or craic, as we say in Ireland. No, not that kind of craic. It’s not that kind of tour.”
Everyone laughs right on cue.
“Eoghan, our bartender for today, will be coming around to ensure everyone has a drink in hand.” I gesture to the lad behind me, who has assisted on several of my other tours. He nods and quickly gets to work on the closest table.
“And,” I continue, looking at my captive audience. I can’t help but notice a few tired faces, so I make a mental note to check on them later. Most of our clients work with travel agents who always recommend booking an extra day to adjust to the time change. I can always pick out those who ignore this advice and arrive jet lagged and frazzled. They are probably still in the same clothes they left home in and barely have time to check into their hotel rooms. “To ensure we’re not strangers by the time we leave this pub, we’re going to go around and get to know each other.”
This is sometimes where I lose people, depending on the dynamic of the group.
Once, about six months ago, there was a chorus of boos so loud I nearly just said fuck it and skipped the whole damn exercise. But unfortunately, O’Connell Tours believes it is crucial to bonding and all that.
And I tend to agree.
Thankfully, this group seems amenable.
The offer of free drinks usually helps.
“I think we will start on this—” My voice catches in my throat as I turn and find myself staring into a familiar set of blue eyes.
The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
She is sitting at a small table in the back, which is likely why I haven’t noticed her until now.
Because this girl? She is the kind of girl you notice.
The kind of girl you remember.
An older woman sits at the table with her. Given the similar slim frame and blond hair, I’d say she’s probably her mother. Then, like a set of dominoes falling, my mind finally begins to catch up with the scene in front of me.
She is here.
She is here, in this pub. In my meeting, which means…
She’s in my fucking tour.
Shite.
* * *
Aisling
I freeze.
The moment those emerald-green eyes meet mine, my whole body turns into a freaking statue.
What do I do?
Awkwardly wave?
Pretend I have no idea why he just tripped over his polished tour guide spiel to stare at me as if he’s just seen a goddamn ghost?
Before I have a chance to make a decision or, you know, freak the fuck out, he manages to pull himself together before he even takes his next breath. His gaze instantly shifts past me to my mother as that somewhat generic smile locks back into place.
“Here,” he says, albeit a bit distracted. “Yes, we’ll start here.” His words come out a little rushed, and his voice sounds slightly strained. Perhaps I threw him off more than he’s willing to admit.
Good, because same .
“Just our name and where we’re from? Or do you want something a little more fun?” my mom asks, playfully tossing Finn’s words back at him with a wink.
God help me.
He chuckles, and I don’t know if it’s the accent helping him out, but even his laugh is sexy as hell. “Let’s go with your name, where you’re visiting from, and what you’re looking forward to most on this tour.”
“Oh, I like you.” She praises him, glancing over and giving me a nod of approval as if she has just met her future son-in-law.
Subtle, Mom. Real, subtle.
Why the hell couldn’t we have gotten a regular tour guide? Like the one my mom talked about from her last tour? A retired teacher who loved to watch Matlock reruns and buy crossword puzzles for his wife?
No, we had to get the young, hot , charming tour guide, whom I happened to run into on a random street corner last night.
You’re never truly lost—just searching for something.
I wandered around Dublin for hours, visiting pubs and shops, all the while wondering in the back of my mind if I would run into him again.
But I never did.
It’s been months since I called off my wedding. Months spent convincing myself that I made the right decision, all the while secretly questioning whether I did. Six years of my life wasted. What if I never find someone else?
And then I ran into a guy on the streets in Dublin, and I felt?—
I don’t know what I felt, but I felt something , and it was the first time I felt anything since I walked away from my ex.
So it had to mean something, right?
I berated myself for hours for not turning around, seizing that moment on the street, and asking him if he wanted to be my tour guide in Dublin for the night.
Oh, the irony…
Not missing a chance to socialize, my mother stands. She freaking stands . Like she’s about to accept an Oscar or something.
“Hello,” she greets the other guests as if they’re her new best friends. “I’m Deidre Farrell, and this is my daughter, Aisling.” She turns to me and beams.
This woman is pure joy, and as I look around the room, watching everyone listen as she speaks, I can’t help but smile as I see them fall just a little bit in love with the woman who raised me.
She may meddle a little too much in my personal life.
She may be over the top some days. Okay, most days.
But she’s mine, and I wouldn’t trade her for anything.
“I’ve been to Ireland numerous times, so I’m a bit embarrassed to say I’ve visited most of the destinations on this tour,” my mom admits. “In fact, I think I might have even been on this tour before.” A few people chuckled. “But I booked it anyway, in hopes that Ash would finally join me. So I guess that’s what I’m looking forward to—spending time with my daughter.”
A few awws and stray claps fill the air as she takes a seat, and then the room falls silent while my mom looks at me expectantly. It takes me a moment to realize it’s my turn now. Right. Shit. My eyes dart around the room and happen to land on laid-back Finn as he casually leans against the weathered wood bar. One long, denim-clad leg draped over the other. Just waiting.
I feel my cheeks heat when he looks right at me.
He clearly remembers me from last night. Is he just going to pretend he doesn’t?
How am I supposed to survive a whole damn week crammed on a bus with this guy?
Ugh…
This is not the kind of vacation I envisioned…
“Hi,” I manage to eke out, my ass remaining firmly planted in my seat. “Um, I am not going to stand. Just want to put that out there.” A chorus of quiet laughter fills the room, which helps to calm my nerves. “My name is Aisling Farrell. Or Ash for short. I’ve been in Chicago for about a year after living in South Bend for college.”
Someone hollers their praise for the Fighting Irish. I laugh.
“Yes, I went to Notre Dame, but I am originally from Quincy—like my mom.” I try to remember what other question I was supposed to answer because I am definitely rambling. God, I hate being the center of attention. It’s probably a byproduct of having a mother who absolutely adores it. “Oh, what am I looking forward to?” I suddenly toss out, remembering the last question. “I’m going to be totally honest and say that I don’t actually know where we’re going—which I know sounds crazy. But I decided to go on this trip super last minute, so, at the moment, I’d have to say I’m mostly looking forward to the time away.” From everything.
I let out an exhausted breath as the focus of the room shifted to the next person down the line. As I listen to the older man introduce himself and his wife, I can’t help but feel eyes on me. Looking up, I notice right away that Finn is staring at me. He quickly turns away, shifting his attention toward the person speaking.
For the next thirty minutes or so, he never looks back.
Never makes eye contact.
Never acknowledges my presence.
It’s as if I finally found the invisibility cloak from Harry Potter that I so desperately wished existed when I was a kid and tossed it on. A few minutes ago, I was trying to figure out how to exist in the same space with him for the next week.
Well, apparently, I have my answer.