Chapter 4
POV: Liam:?
Saturday nights weren’t for the weak—neither was being a local pub owner in Lisdoorvarna, especially during Matchmaking season.
Yes, that was a thing here.
Matchmaking season.
It practically was the reason why our economy was booming—tourists, the illusion of love, and the fable that somehow the true love of your life actually exists.
You can say I’m jaded, but that’s for good reason. I don’t believe in love, not like I used to, even though there was definitely a time I did. Now, I think it’s a myth concocted by desperate men and women.
So, you can say, this time of the year was absolute hell for me. I loathed it, though the money was good, the pub was always packed, and it was good grounds to get laid. Though, I was particular in my conquests. I never slept with anyone that actually lived in the town, that would be a disaster waiting to happen, and I tried to keep myself away from women who lived in Ireland, because there would be the delusion that things could work out after all. And if you didn’t catch on already, I didn’t want things to work out. I was happy alone. I was happy without a woman causing problems where they weren’t any. I didn’t want commitment.
I glanced around the bar as the live music began to start up. All of my customers looked happy and piled with generous amounts of alcohol, and I could already sense Matchmaking season getting its hooks in them by the way subtle glances were exchanged.
I turned my attention back to work, as I should have in the first place.
The beer pints needed polishing since Guinness was basically drunk like water around here. As I finished polishing my twentieth and last glass, I saw her. And I caught her staring at me.
Her jaw was practically dropped a few inches open and she looked flustered.
I wanted to smirk, because of her clear preoccupation—with me, but I refrained.
Cold and steady always did the trick. Mysterious. Unattainable. It drew clear lines to women. It lets them know what to expect.
I didn’t walk towards her immediately, no I lingered, continuing to wipe the glass for a moment longer than I should have, figuring out my game plan.
Obviously she was a tourist, though she looked like she might have some Irish heritage. Dirty blonde hair—gold and brown waves, like typical Irish curls. Pale skin, ivory colored and smooth. Her body was hidden by a cream wool sweater and I couldn’t see how tall she was or what the rest of her looked like since she was perched on a bar stool, but she looked fit. Pink lips and barely any makeup. She was pretty, pretty without any makeup needed or any injectables.
I pretended like I didn’t notice her staring at me and I pretended like she didn’t exist, at least not urgently, before I finally decided to walk over to her and take her order.
The girl next to her was a local, Deirdre, who was already probably pissed at me for turning her down—what, about twenty times now.
“Yes, Deirdre?” I asked, waiting for her order.
She gave me her best pouty lips and wide eyes as she leaned over the bar towards me.
It never worked, and she knew it, though she hoped it would.
“2 Guinnesses, love.”
Love.
I wanted to roll my eyes.
Calling someone love here in Ireland was code for please fuck me or I’m interested in you fucking me, one or the other, it came down to the same thing. Sex.
I nodded curtly, poured her Guinness into two freshly cleaned glasses from the tap then slid them across the bar. “I’ll put it on your tab?”
“Yeah, thanks Liam,” she tried to bat her lashes again for good measure.
I offered her a firm smile. But the entire time I was interacting with her, I was really looking at her—the pretty tourist next to her—and I’m sure Deirdre noticed and that probably pissed her off even more.
After Deirdre stomped away, it was just her and I. And she was looking at me like I had a third eye, silent, mouth open, nervous.
“What will you have then?” I asked, amused but hiding it.
“I—” she cleared her throat. “I will take a Guinness.”
Shocking, I wanted to say, but I kept my sarcasm to myself.
After she spoke, I heard it immediately. Her giveaway. An American. Her accent was unmistakable. But so were those blue eyes—-deep and endless like an ocean.
“An American,” I said, even toned.
“Yes, an American. Is there a problem?” she nearly yelled out.
I must’ve looked surprised. Out of character for me, but she got me there. I didn’t expect that type of sass and attitude to come from her, but I’d be a liar if I told you I wasn’t a bit turned on.
I offered her a half smirk, as I watched her mouth close quickly after her little outburst. “Not at all. Welcome to Lisdoovarna, Ms. America.”
I didn’t give her time to answer, instead I went off to pour her guinness.
From a distance, I watched her fiddle, and it was definitely from our interaction. She tossed her hair, then tucked the other strand behind her ear, then looked down at her phone, all while waiting 2 minutes for a beer.
When I placed it in front of her, I lingered a moment too long, “It’s like water for us here in Ireland.”
It wasn’t like me to offer small talk, but I wanted to get another rise out of her for some reason.
She didn’t respond, not immediately, instead she just stared at the Guinness, before taking a large gulp then finally looked up at me.
I’m not sure why I was still standing there, waiting for an American girl to respond, but here I was.
“Thank you,” she squeaked out.
Well, that was a lot different than her little outburst earlier.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Like water,” she agreed, looking down at the wooden bar top.
What was I doing?
Making small talk with a tourist—and an American one not to mention. Just ask her for her damn order, Liam then leave—no more small talk—no more flirting—no more interest.
“Anything else for you?”
“Um,” she paused, thinking as if Ireland was known for their food, especially a delicacy of pub food in a small bar in a tourist town. “What do you recommend?”
“Well,” I paused, glancing over her face again, admiring her small nose, pink lips and blue eyes. I’ve got to stop that shit. “Fish and chips, a good roast, irish stew, or a burger. You might not be impressed but you’ll definitely not be disgusted,” I joked.
I was doing it again, joking, teasing, flirting.
“Fish and chips it is, thank you,” she offered me a soft smile, her eyes darting away from mine again.
I nodded then turned away, cursing myself as I did, for my interest in a tourist, one that was probably here to find love.
And I knew that was the beginning and end to any bad idea—a pretty girl, who was a foreigner, in my bar, in close proximity, looking for connection. That was a disaster waiting to happen, because the entire time I walked to place her kitchen order, I wondered what she looked like naked—on my bar—moaning my name.