Chapter 8
EIGHT
‘Actually, no!’ I cross my arms indignantly. I’m not saying my heart isn’t racing behind my ribs because it is.
‘Is that so?’ He crosses his arms too. My MacBook looks so small tucked safely under his arm.
‘It is actually. I wasn’t running away. I came straight in to find the owner when I was attacked by your dog, so I resent that accusation, sir!
’ This feels good. This feels like I always imagined it would.
How dare he? I am as honest as the day is long.
He crosses one leg over the other now and I notice the sudden amused curl of his generous lips.
‘Well now, I dispute that fact, Miss. I was watching you on the CCTV in the office, you didn’t approach Mary at all,’ he says as those dark eyes dip to my hands.
‘Mary? Who’s Mary?’ I ask. This is like an episode of The Twilight Zone that my mom watches re-runs of on cable TV.
‘I’m Mary.’ My head spins to see an older woman with short grey hair standing behind the mahogany reception desk at the far end of the entrance hall. She’s dressed in a light blue uniform with a bright yellow tie, watching on in amusement, a large mug in between both her hands.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t sprint to the desk, I’d only stepped in. I was taking a look around because I’m here to wri—’
‘Sightseeing rather than reporting a crime.’ He clicks his long fingers. ‘Gotcha.’
‘The only crimes around here, Sir, are your false allegations!’ I glare at him but lower my voice, still confident but not obnoxious.
‘Is that a fact,’ he asks now, putting one hand into his jacket pocket.
‘Actually, that is a fact and here’s another fact . . .’
‘That you say the word actually a lot?’ he smirks.
But I’m on a roll now. ‘I am the feature wedding location writer for Ultimate Locations Wedding Magazine, you will have been expecting me. I’m here to do a story on Castlemoon, possibly a cover too.’ Boom. Mic drop, I think.
‘Ohhh, ’tis yourself, Your Highness.’ He mock bows, bending over almost in half, his left forearm sweeping under his chin, fingertips grazing the ground.
‘Whatever.’ I roll my eyes, trying to hide my amusement amid my angry release.
‘Mary, we forgot to lay out the red carpet!’ he calls back over his shoulder as he stands. When he turns back to look at me, I can see he’s trying really hard not to smile. A few guests have stopped to listen to the pair of us.
‘Hilarious, aren’t you?’ I tilt my head at him.
‘It’s been said.’ He lifts his shoulders, nodding sincerely.
‘It’s a lie.’ I give him a fake smile, utterly delighted with myself as I hold out my hand for my MacBook, curling my fingers to him.
‘You want to hold hands?’ He keeps his arms crossed; my MacBook still secure under them.
‘Only if we’re racing to see who can let go first.’
‘Ouch. Question: does Your Highness crash into all parked cars to move them out of her way? Too inconvenient to find a space, I wager?’
‘Please, grow up.’ I roll my eyes.
‘Only if you promise to stop acting like a child,’ he says.
‘How am I acting like a child?’ I uncross my arms now, place both hands firmly on the waist of my straight-legged jeans and jut my chin out.
‘Running away.’ He shakes his head, his unruly hair flopping left to right.
‘I was not running away! Oh, my God, you’re so infuriating!’
‘I’m glad to know I’m leaving an impression.’ That smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth.
‘Whatever. And another thing, my MacBook has a great big crack down the middle of it. Now, please give it back.’ Again, I reach out for it.
‘And what do you want me to do about that?’ He turns away slightly so I can’t get it, looks down at it.
‘Fix it! It’s your fault! Now give it back.’ I grab for it and stuff it into my satchel. The absolute cheek of this man. He still hasn’t even had the manners to apologise. ‘And apologise,’ I demand.
‘Me?’ He jabs a long finger into his chest.
‘Yes, you,’ I huff.
‘No chance. Not in a million years.’ He shakes his head, that hair flopping from side to side again. Then, he lifts his hood back up, pulls the drawstrings together in a move that says this conversation is over.
‘Are you in some kind of hooded gang?’ I ask now, walking away.
‘I am.’ He bites down on the beginning of that smile. ‘Do you wanna join? We could do with a hard-arse criminal like yourself.’
‘You are preposterous.’ I roll my eyes again.
Feeling the heat, I raise my hands and pull off my woollen hat.
As my curls tumble out around me, I shake them out loose.
Suddenly I hear a strange noise. I stare up at him but he says nothing.
His face is unreadable now. He expends a short breath.
Takes a few steps back then leans one arm up against the exposed brick wall, never taking his gaze off me.
‘Well now . . . I—’ he mutters to himself, strokes his jaw.
‘Okay, we are getting nowhere here and I’m really busy. You don’t strike me as the type who owns a Rolls-Royce but let’s swap details.’ I rush on, babbling nonsense in a high pitch, still unable to get these emotions of mine under control.
‘Yeah, well it’s mine. I don’t look like I’d own a Rolls-Royce?’ But his tone drops. ‘Don’t I look worthy of such a fine set of wheels, Your Highness?’ It’s more serious all of a sudden.
‘No, I don’t know, I suppose I expected . . .’ I look at him, flick my hair over my shoulder.
‘What, did you think I rode a cow? Or perhaps I had a pony and trap?’ he pulls himself back and asks a little too sarcastically this time. I’m not sure why, but I feel like I have suddenly pissed him off and I don’t like the feeling.
‘I don’t have time for this, I’m on a deadline,’ I tell him, breathing heavily, feeling a little upset now.
‘That’s the problem with you Americans, no time for things that really matter.’ Still, he leans on his arm, his voice sounding serious. He crosses one leg over the other again as though he’s all the time in the world to keep this conversation going.
‘Get a grip. What are you on about? You Americans. Please don’t generalise and be so rude and insulting to my country,’ I say with real passion now as Red circles me again, then jumps up on me, his long legs leaving paw prints on my green wool coat.
‘Red!’ He slaps his leg again. ‘And I didn’t mean all Americans. Red, down, boy! This is so unusual. Red likes no one but me,’ he admits in his low, lilting, Irish accent.
‘Red needs to get out more,’ I retort, but notice now he’s fighting a smile back again. This Irish man might be drop dead gorgeous but I just want to escape him and take a cold shower.
‘A sassy American girl,’ he sing-songs but this gets my back up too.
‘Please don’t call me girl. Now, can I give you my insurance details, please? I can’t stand here all day.’
‘This way, Your Highness.’ He pushes himself off the wall, extends his hand and I brush past him.
His sharp cologne lingers as I strut past the crackling fire, stop at the reception desk.
I rest my MacBook on top, flick it open and find the Word doc Phoebe sent me with my insurance number and provider saved to my desktop.
‘Mary, will you take them details down?’ he asks the older receptionist. ‘I’ll have to go and cancel the advertisement in the Heartwell Gazette for the car before they charge me.’
Mary nods. ‘We’ll be grand, lad. Terry can look at it. But I’ll phone down to the garage first thing in the morning just in case it’s more serious,’ Mary calls after him as he retreats, approaching a woman walking with a cane. He links her free arm with his. I see her smile warmly up at him.
‘Come on, boy,’ he calls back to the dog who is now sitting at my feet, looking up adoringly at me, long pink tongue panting.
‘Let me just take your details, lovey,’ Mary says. ‘His bark is worse than his bite.’
‘Red’s?’ I ask, my heart rate still hopping up and down.
Mary laughs. ‘Dan’s.’
‘Well, I think Dan is a bit of a jerk.’ I say to her with a roll of my eyes.
‘Ah, one thing Dan Delaney is not, is a jerk. He’s under fierce pressure, that’s all. He was selling the Rolls-Royce to help pay for . . . ah look, like I said, he’s a good lad, just stressed,’ Mary tells me, tapping my insurance details into her system.
‘If you say so,’ I say with disbelief rolling around my words.
‘Now, welcome to Castlemoon.’ Mary hands me a small glass from a silver tray on the desk, with a golden liquid inside. ‘We’ve been expecting you.’
‘What is this?’ I smell the alcohol before I taste it. My eyes water from the fumes. I feel more alive than I have done in years. Normally I’d absolutely refuse a drink I was unfamiliar with, I’m not exactly a shots person, but right now I feel adventurous.
‘It’s HeartGoose, a welcome drink. Brewed right here in Heartwell village, it will put the heat into ya,’ Mary tells me.
‘If ya were a fella, I’d tell ya it’ll put hairs on yer chest but yer not so, ya probably don’t want hairs there.
’ Mary chuckles and it’s infectious so I laugh too and knock back the drink, hoping to steady my wildly beating heart.
I embrace the silence for a moment after the chaos of that interaction. The sharp drink works its way down to the tips of my toes, heating my insides beautifully as it travels, calming me almost instantly. A warm flush comes over my entire body.
‘Here we are. Maggie Grace, Ultimate Locations Wedding Magazine.’ Mary glances up swiftly before her fingers dance over the keys.
She slides her chair back on its wheels to remove a large key fob from a hook on the brick wall.
‘There ye are now. Room nine, great view of the grounds. Breakfast and dinner are in the Sweet Orange Room from seven until ten daily. Are you with us for dinner?’
‘No, but can I book in for tonight, if I’m not too late?’ I ask hopefully, my stomach sensing the words and rumbling. Noticing now my feet and back feel sore after the tense drive from Dublin to Galway, I ask, ‘I don’t suppose you have any appointments for a massage tomorrow?’
‘Not unless you want me to do it for ya. We don’t have a spa here, I’m afraid. An hour okay for dinner?’ Mary says to me without consulting her computer.
‘Perfect. I’m absolutely famished, I could smell cooking from outside. I’m surprised you don’t offer spa treatments, it’s such a major part of hotel bookings these days. Self-care, especially for wedding parties?’ I tell Mary.
‘We’re more old school here. When I’m asked about relaxation I usually refer guests to the armchairs beside the turf fire, feet up and recommend a good book. I’ve yet to have a complaint.’ Mary raises a knowing eyebrow and I laugh, adjust my satchel. Right now, that idea sounds divine.
‘And that appetising smell will be our flame-grilled steaks. We have the best steaks. Organic, from Jimmy Murphy’s farm just up behind us here.
They supply most of the village’s food in the market, too.
’ Mary goes on, ‘Their vegetables taste like no other. No pesticides, none of that, and don’t get me started on their free-range eggs.
’ Mary smacks her lips, playfully. ‘Our breakfast omelettes are famous.’
‘Oh, right, I passed the market driving through the village! Sounds delicious. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get my bags.’ I pocket the key in my wool coat and smack off Red’s dusty paw prints.
That was crazy, I think, opening my eyes wide.
‘Oh my God, what was it about that guy?’ I whisper.
‘I mean I was amazing. I stood up for myself. I was confident, witty, but he got my back right up. But he was mesmerising at the same time. Wait until I tell Jill this. She will be so proud of me!’ I continue to march through the snowy car park towards my car, head bent.
I reach it and for the first time survey the damage.
Mine isn’t too bad considering – a small dent and scrapes.
But the Rolls-Royce’s bumper is hanging off and the front door has a deep dent.
I put my finger under, push the button and open my trunk.
Pulling out my suitcase I slide open the zipper and tuck my MacBook inside.
Resting my hands on the open trunk, an image of Dan’s dark eyes float through my mind.
I wasn’t mistaking it, there was a sense of vulnerability and sadness about him .
. . oh, wise up, I think, he was totally playing with you.
He’s no manners and doesn’t deserve a second thought.
You are here to do a job – a very big job!
Concentrate, I chastise myself and slam the boot way harder than necessary.
Immediately, I hear a dog bark. I yank my head up in the direction of the noise.
A heavy curtain swings back over a top window.
‘Oh great, was that good ole Danny Boy, spying on me again?’ Childishly, I stick out my tongue up to the window and march my way back to the door of the castle.
But I can’t help it, still I replay that whole scene in my head.
Hit and run? Your Highness! I think of what he was saying while my stomach continues to flip-flap all over the place.
I must need to eat. ‘That’s it!’ I mutter, ‘I’m hungry.
’ A tasty Irish chargrilled steak and a nice glass of red wine to wash it down will fix me. Then sleep. I’m exhausted.
Cautiously, I take an expeditious look up to the window again, but Mr Dan Delaney is nowhere to be seen.