9. Finn
NINE
Finn
PAST
If I have to hear her laugh one more time…
It isn’t that I hated the sound of it.
Quite the opposite, actually.
It’s the fact that he is the one making her laugh. Repeatedly. While she sits next to him. On my fucking bus.
To make matters worse, I actually liked the lad at first.
After he asked about football during the city tour, I walked around the cathedral with him and his mates, chatting about their favorite leagues and teams. They even knew a thing or two about rugby, having traveled around Europe quite a bit.
They seemed like decent lads—ones I wouldn’t mind sharing a pint or two in the pub with.
But then they spotted Aisling sitting on the lawn outside the cathedral, and I decided they all needed to die. Him , especially.
I’m not going to lie and say I didn’t find the sight of Aisling eating that ice cream cone fucking sexy as hell. I would probably have dreams about the way her tongue slid over that creamy treat for the rest of my life, but I at least had the common decency to keep those pornographic thoughts to myself.
These fucking arseholes? They stood there, practically drooling all over themselves, while she sat there none the wiser, as they argued over who got “dibs.”
Fucking dibs?
I sat there, listening to their conversation, practically seething. If it weren’t for the fact that I actually needed this job, I would have been up off this bench so fast. I hadn’t had a good fight since my rugby days at university; it had served as a solid outlet. Without it, I sometimes felt like a caged lion.
My knuckles whitened as they continued to hash it out. One guy pointed out that he hadn’t had pussy in “forever” and deserved it. Another pointed out that he used that excuse all the time.
I tried tuning them out after that.
Because, if I didn’t, I’d be unemployed by now. Or possibly in jail.
Not only were these gobshites probably ten years her senior, but they were acting like she was a foregone conclusion. Just another conquest.
And now, I have to sit here at the front of the bus while the guy who supposedly “won” their pathetic little pissing contest attempts to entice her into his bed. I glance back and quickly try to see what her mam is doing. She’s got her nose buried in a book. Aisling laughs again. Deidre smiles.
I let out a sigh that’s edging close to a growl.
It’s not your problem.
Not. Laugh. Your. Laugh. Problem.
Is this guy a fucking comedian? No one is that funny.
I do something I rarely do while on tour: I pop in my earbuds, effectively cutting myself off from everyone and everything until we return to the hotel. When Collin brings the bus to a stop, I nearly leap off the damn thing. I’m so eager to be finished for the day that I hardly feel any joy as those euros start piling up in my hand.
Some folks like to tip daily, while others prefer to wait until the end, like one big grand finale. I’m not picky; I take what I’m offered, and even though I’m fucking exhausted, I do it with a grateful smile on my face because I’m not an arsehole.
After I address any lingering questions about tomorrow and say good night to everyone, I make my way to my room, trying to avoid any thoughts of Aisling and Mr. Chuckle.
Is she going out with him tonight?
Is her mam okay with that?
Stellar job at that avoiding, Finn.
I key into my room and drop my phone and wallet on the table. I take one look at the neatly made bed and know that if I so much as lie down for even a moment, I’m done for the day.
And I still have shit to do.
So, rather than resting, I gather all the stray clothes, shoes, and anything else that may be lying around and pack as much as I can, leaving out only what I need for tonight and tomorrow morning. I’ve learned, after a couple of years living in hotel rooms, that being organized makes the difference between a rushed morning and a pleasant one.
Once that’s sorted, I briefly consider room service. Heading back down to the hotel restaurant feels like an absolute chore, but I don’t want to waste my own money just to have someone walk my food upstairs.
My meals while on tour are expensed, as are all tour guides. However, while our daily limit is fairly generous, we aren’t permitted to order room service. I’ve never really figured out if it’s to avoid paying the excessive fees they add on or just to prevent us from hiding out in our rooms every night.
Maybe if I had actually attended some of those meetings I was supposed to go to…
With an exasperated huff, I stuff my phone and wallet back into my jeans pocket and head downstairs. Again. It’s early enough that I doubt I’ll run into any guests while I’m down there. Most of the time, when they choose to have an early meal, they head into town for it, opting to explore the small village of Dún Laoghaire that surrounds us.
I don’t blame them. There are some fantastic restaurants around here.
I should know. It’s where I grew up.
The stark reminder that my childhood home is only a few miles away has me thinking back to the last time I saw my parents. After my dad enforced his “punishment,” I vowed I’d never go back there.
So far, I’ve kept my word.
Unfortunately, my mam seems to be an innocent bystander in this conflict with my father. When I cut ties with him, I also ended my contact with her. No holidays or birthdays. A few phone calls here and there, but in a way, I am punishing her, too.
I step into the hotel dining room, and before I can even make eye contact with the hostess, I see her.
Aisling.
I’m starting to wonder if I could pick her out of a crowd. Whenever she’s near, I can’t seem to look away.
She’s sitting at a small table near the back with her mother.
I can’t help but let out a sigh of relief, knowing she isn’t out with that guy tonight. Not that I’m jealous—just concerned, as her tour guide, obviously.
“Hi, Finn,” the hostess says, greeting me by name. Jesus, does everyone in this hotel know my name?
“Hey…” I look down at her name tag. “Clare.”
She smiles brightly. “Table for one, or are you meeting someone?”
I hesitate, my gaze darting back to Aisling. I can escape now before either sees me or?—
“Finn!” Deidre calls out. Bollocks. “Finn!” She’s waving now, beckoning me toward the table. Aisling’s eyes are wide with panic, and I have to stifle the grin that threatens to break free at the sight of her irritation. “Join us!” she calls out.
It’s a terrible idea. I’m quite sure Aisling hates me by now, and while being around her isn’t unpleasant (quite the opposite, actually), it tends to make me do irrational and impulsive things. I have never been so rude to a guest as I was today when I practically shouted at her and the guys to return to the bus.
In any other circumstance, I would happily join a few guests from my tour for dinner. It’s a great way to get to know them, answer questions, and share my love for my country. It would be rude of me to deny Deidre’s request simply because of some friction between her daughter and me.
“Sure, I’d be delighted,” I reply, turning back to Clare. “I guess I’ll be joining the ladies by the window.”
“Lovely.” She nods. “Let me get you a menu, and I’ll take you right over.”
With each step closer to the table, I can practically feel the tension in the room intensifying. If looks could kill, I’m pretty sure Aisling Farrell could annihilate me in two seconds flat with that death glare of hers.
This time, I don’t bother hiding my grin. Annoying her is too easy.
“Deirdre,” I greet her mam. “You sure I’m not interrupting?” I don’t bother asking Aisling; I already know how she’ll respond.
“No, no.” She smiles, gesturing toward the seat next to Aisling. I take it without hesitation, relishing the sound of her sharp inhale as my arm brushes against hers. “We’re more than happy to have you. Aren’t we, Ash?”
I turn to her, brows raised.
She glances at me over her menu. “Thrilled,” she deadpans.
I press my lips together, stifling a laugh, as an amused expression spreads across Deidre’s face. Oh, she’s taking way too much pleasure in her daughter’s discomfort.
That makes two of us.
“So, dinner at the hotel this evening?” I ask, putting my menu down. I don’t bother looking at it. I’ve eaten here enough to know what I want. “Didn’t feel like going into town?”
“No,” Deidre answers once again, also setting her menu down. “I was feeling a bit tired after our day out, and Mother Hen here decided to make a fuss about it.”
Aisling lets out a breath. “I did not make a fuss. You were tired. I merely suggested we take it easy.”
“And I merely suggested that I was capable of taking care of myself. You didn’t have to call it a night on my behalf. I could have ordered room service while you went out.”
“Did you have plans?” I asked, turning to Aisling.
“No,” she says at the same time her mam says, “Yes.”
“Well, you would have if you hadn’t turned him down to fuss over me?—”
“Oh my god, I wasn’t fussing, Mom. I didn’t want to go—” Her eyes dart to me, and her lips purse as if she’s just remembered whose company she’s in. “It’s not a big deal,” she amends. “And besides, I’ve barely seen you all day. Can you blame me for wanting to spend some time with my mom?”
By Deidre’s expression, she’s clearly not buying into her daughter’s story, but she brushes it aside. “No, of course not. And now, we get to enjoy a meal with Finn. Isn’t that lucky?”
“So lucky,” Aisling mutters, just as the waiter arrives to take our order.
I grin as I watch her order fish and chips. She might be annoyed by this turn of events, but I don’t care. From what I can tell, she turned down Mr. Chuckles. Not only did she turn him down, but she also made up a lame excuse about needing to take care of her mom in order to do so.
This information pleases me way too much.
We fall into an easy conversation, Deidre and I, and although Aisling mostly remains quiet, I can see her icy exterior gradually starting to melt as she listens.
“You’ve really been to Ireland that many times?” I ask, observing the woman who’s about the size of my left pinky as she tackles her second Guinness of the night.
“I have.” She nods, fiddling with her long blond braid. While their hair colors are nearly identical, Deidre’s deep brown eyes present a stark contrast to Aisling’s. “My dad immigrated from County Clare when he was young, and he never got the chance to return. We didn’t have much money growing up, and that was one of his deepest regrets. I promised that if I ever had it—money, that is—I’d go back for him.”
“Well, I think you’ve done that and then some.”
“Ireland just feels more like home than anywhere else.” She shrugs. “Maybe that’s why I’ve been trying to get Ash to come here for so long.”
“It seems your persistence paid off.”
“Something like that,” she says, looking at her daughter with a mix of emotions I don’t quite grasp. Concern, perhaps?
When our food arrives, she uses the interruption to change the subject, asking me about my life as a tour guide.
“Is this what you do full time?”
“It is.” I nod, taking a bite of my grilled salmon.
“Sounds like grueling work. So much travel.”
“It is, but fortunately, I don’t have many attachments, so it works for now.” My eyes meet Aisling’s before she looks back down at her plate. It’s the same expression I noticed on the bus earlier when the comedian and his friends were talking about the World Cup. She gazed out of that bus window as if she were haunted by something, and I wasn’t sure why, but something urged me to change the subject.
“Do you always lead the same tour? I’m surprised we haven’t run into one another before now. I’ve probably done a dozen or so with O’Connell Tours.”
Considering we currently only offer eight, that is impressive. “I’ve done all of them at some point, but I usually get assigned to the few that depart from Dublin since that’s my home base.”
We finish our meals, and Deidre and I continue to chat while Aisling listens. As much as I wish she’d participate, I know she’s listening intently, and that makes me feel smug as fuck.
She could be out at some restaurant listening to the arsehole comedian drone on for hours about hiking the Swiss Alps or his dull job back in America. Instead, she’s here with me, and while that shouldn’t make me happy because she’s still extremely off-limits, it does.
It really fucking does.
“Can I get anyone dessert?” the waiter asks, coming to the side of the table.
Before I can answer, Deidre looks at the two of us and says, “I’m actually starting to feel tired, but you two should stay.”
“What?” Aisling blurts out. “No, I don’t need dessert. I can head up with you.”
Her mam waves her off. “Hush, I’m fine.” She’s already pushing her chair back. Her daughter’s death stare is now fixed squarely on her. “I already ruined your plans once tonight. Don’t let me do it again.”
“Mother,” she practically hisses as Deidre rises and pats the waiter on the shoulder.
“Dinner’s on me. Can you charge it to room 403, dear?”
Before I have a chance to tell her that I can’t actually let her pay for my dinner (company policy), she strolls away from the table, with a definite pep in her step. Pretty spry for a woman who just told us she’s too tired to make it through the rest of dinner.
I turn back to Aisling, who has a look of horror written across her face.
“I think we’ve just been set up,” I say.
She buries her head in her napkin and lets out a tiny but shrill scream. “I’m going to kill her.”
“I could just leave,” I offer. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know I don’t want to. I shouldn’t, but I want to stay here with her.
“No.” She lets out a sigh. “Because if I don’t come back with a story to regale her with, she’ll feel bad, and then I’ll feel bad. It’ll be a whole thing.”
I let out a laugh. “So, we’re doing this?”
The tiniest of grins pulls at the corner of her plush pink lips. “We’re doing this.”
“Okay, but you realize you’re actually going to have to talk, right?”
She rolls her eyes before they drift over me to the waiter, who is still standing at our table, watching our exchange with far too much interest.
I didn’t even realize he was still here.
“Can I get a glass of wine?” she asks him. “Oh, and you mentioned something about dessert?”
* * *
“Wait.” I raise a finger. “Did you say Irish dancing? Your mom put you in Irish dancing as a kid?”
I don’t know what was in that dessert she ordered. Maybe it was the chocolate. There’s a good chance it was the glass of wine that came with it. Whatever it was, something seemed to change in Aisling.
Our first attempt at a conversation was stilted, to say the least, but then, by some miracle—likely fueled by alcohol and chocolate—we hit our stride.
And now, things just felt effortless—like they had that night in Dublin.
“Yep.” She pops the “P” and laughs, her whole face lighting up. “But you heard her at dinner tonight. My mom is obsessed with her Irish heritage; she named me Aisling for God’s sake. Do you know how many people in America can pronounce that? Five.” She holds up her fingers to emphasize her point. “Five people.”
God, she’s funny. “How long did you dance?”
“About ten years.”
My brows raise. “Ten years? You had to have enjoyed it to do it so long, though.”
She shrugs, taking one of the last bites of her chocolate torte. I watch as the fork disappears between her pretty pink lips. An image of those lips wrapped around my cock flashes across my mind. I shift suddenly in my seat and awkwardly reach for my Guinness. Jesus.
“I loved it until about halfway through high school when it started to get too intense, and then it wasn’t fun anymore. I think my mom would have liked me to continue, though.”
“You know we have a group dinner coming up at this restaurant that features live music. They always bring in Irish dancers when we’re there. I could pull a few strings and?—”
“Don’t you dare!”
I laugh again—something I’ve done a lot tonight—and then ask because I have to know. “Why didn’t you go out with the comedian?”
Her brow furrows before her expression morphs into something akin to amusement. “The comedian? You mean Clint?”
“He must be damn funny to make you laugh that much.”
“He’s not, really,” she confesses. “Or maybe he could be if he weren’t trying so hard? I don’t know. But I didn’t want to be rude, so I might have faked it a little.”
“I know, but it’s nice to hear you admit it.”
“You know?” She looks incredulous. Her fiery attitude shouldn’t turn me on this much. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Because I’ve been making you laugh for the past hour, and your real laugh is nothing like the one you were pawning off on him.”
“Oh.”
I grin. “Yeah, oh.”
“Was it that obvious?”
“At the time, no,” I tell her. “It was convincing enough that I wanted to walk down that aisle and throw him out the window for hogging all your attention like that.” Her breath catches, and I realize I’ve crossed a serious line with my honesty. “He’s not a great guy, Aisling. He wants a quick holiday fuck, and that’s it.”
“And what if that’s all I’m looking for at the moment?”
Then I’m going to revisit the plan of tossing him out the window, I want to tell her.
“Are you?” I ask instead.
Her gaze falls to the table, lingering on the empty plate. Her fingers nervously brush over a spot on her left hand. “No.” Her answer is barely a whisper, yet I hear it loud and clear, especially when she adds, “I just got out of a messy relationship. I’m not really looking for anything at the moment.”
I swallow hard, feeling those words grate down my throat like knives.
They shouldn’t hurt this much. She’s off-limits, and on top of that, she lives thousands of miles away; yet, they still do.
“Right,” I find myself saying. “Grand. That’s grand.”
But, hours later, when I’m back in my empty, hollow room, staring up at the ceiling, I can’t help but think the opposite.
It’s not grand. Not fucking grand at all.