Chapter 10 An Experiment in Terror #3
“What do ye think of this?” Ned sprayed a test card and held it out near my face, flapping it around as I leaned in. I leaned in a little too far, and he slapped my nose with the paper. I heard a cough from Tadhg’s direction that made me wince. He was loving this.
“Oh, wow. Nice! That’s a good one. So”—I rubbed my nose and tried not to sneeze—“unique.”
“I’m happy to hear, Maya, that your tastes favor the unique.”
Then he sprayed not one but three gushy sprays around his neck and, to my uncontainable shock, another spray . . . upon his toupee.
Say nothing. Nothing!
“Ooh. That’ll be . . .” the most fragrant wig in County Clare. I squeezed my awkward little shoulders. “No better way to . . .” keep the rug fresh! “I mean . . . nothing better than free samples!” I winked and hated myself.
“Which one are you going for?” He studied me with a grin.
“Oh. Um. I guess I should . . . This one is nice. Summery.” I picked up the Summer Harvest and gave an experimental half-spray to my wrist and then, without even the slightest thought of where such an action might lead, automatically dabbed my wrists to my neck.
Ned’s wiry hand grabbed out and caught my arm, then, exposing the wrist, brought it up to his nose. “Mmm.”
My eyes went wide. I didn’t like to be touched!
Then, tightening his grip, he pulled us closer together as he made for my neck! My neck!
I stilled in terror while he brought his whiskery face ever-so-slowly closer to sniffle in the vulnerable curve of my tender neck skin.
“Well, would you look at that, now.” A deep, rumbly voice broke me from where I was frozen in Ned’s clutches, and Tadhg stepped between us, forcing Ned to release me from his clutches and us both to take a couple of steps back to make room for Tadhg’s massive shoulder span.
“They have a tour leaving in ten minutes just outside. Why don’t we go and claim our spots before it fills up. ”
“Oh, there’ll be plenty of room,” said the lady at the counter. “No need to rush.”
“All the same,” he said. “Bit of fresh air is always good.”
“I think it’s raining, actually,” the lady went on.
Tadhg’s posture stiffened. “Well, good thing we brought our coats, then.”
The tour was fascinating and mercifully fast, and then we finished off the date with a warm drink in the garden café.
The rain was giving us a little reprieve, and while the prettily painted seats were wet, I was happy to sit outside while I guzzled down my tea with unnatural haste.
I also ordered a slice of maple cake, incapable of resisting its sugary siren song, but this I got in a to-go box, in hopes that it might send a readable message to Ned.
Tadhg and Finn sat on the other side of the garden but chose a location, I couldn’t help but notice, that kept us in sight.
The tea was nice, and the garden, with all its delicate flowers and secret leafy nooks, was positively magical.
The conversation, in contrast, was loud, stilted, and painful—the highlight of which was when I asked Ned about his vitamin regimen.
A few minutes later, I was getting a pat on the hand and a promise to call from Ned, and I was hurrying off back to the Jeep, eager to forcibly squeeze my rump in and get the crap out of there.
Conclusion: date unsuccessful.
Uncontrollable variable: sniffle-induced ick, potentially deadly.
“NOT COOL,” I said, power walking while Finn barked at me.
I looked back to where Tadhg was strolling, not in a hurry now, the turd, and saw one side of his mouth tilt into a lopsided grin, or whatever the goblin equivalent of a grin was.
“You should have told me,” I said.
“I did.”
“What if I’d said something stupid and hurt his feelings?”
“It was fine. Besides, I don’t remember you caring that much about my feelings the other day.”
Not to be mistaken for flirting, this was a dig. I looked back at his face to be sure I was reading it correctly. Yep!
“Don’t be ridiculous. Poltergeists don’t have feelings.” He let out an indignant puff of air. “Except for mad. You’ve got mad down pat.”
We rode in a silence that Finn, barking at cows, did not choose to observe, to a little town called Doolin. Not that Tadhg told me this—I had to look at the signs.
I squeezed my ass out of the car, and we started walking down the hill.
“Just a sec! This is beautiful. I need some photos.” Otherwise Simone is going to deep-fry my still-beating heart in copycat-KFC batter.
It was truly postcard perfection. To my left, down the hill, was a handful of picturesque cottages on a slanted road in yellows, oranges, reds, blues, and even one squat little cottage in bright pink with a thatched roof.
As if in competition for best view, the sea edged in on the other side to flirt with the river, waves churning up painted white crests, and behind it, hills that turned into dramatic cliffs in the distance in a green so bright that it looked surreal against the bright blue sky.
I leaned over a stone wall, cold and damp on my belly, and took some shots, then turned the phone around for a selfie.
Tadhg, who had not stopped walking, started to undress, and I froze and watched him.
He had arrived that morning in jeans and a casual linen button-down in a soft green, attempting to look extra Irish, I assumed, for the elderly woman he’d thought he’d be driving around like Miss Daisy.
But with the blazing Irish sun (see: moderate), he’d unbuttoned the shirt and slid it off his shoulders to reveal a white T-shirt that looked unintentionally snug and classically sexy—1980s Coke-ad sexy. Of course. And goddamn him for it.
He turned around and caught me staring. His face tightened in disapproval before he slung the shirt over a shoulder and walked away faster.
I set off after him down the hill and eventually caught up. “God, this is gorgeous.”
He harrumphed: clearly his favorite word.
“What are we doing here?”
“You’ve a date.”
“Wait. What? Another one? Right now?”
“Unfortunately for him, yes.”
“Well, who is it? What are we doing?”
“Kevin. Lunch.”
“Do you know Kevin too?”
“No more questions.”
“Tell me!”
Another grumbly sound effect.
We walked past a cluster of little cottage-shops; various knitted sweaters, scarves, and blankets tried very hard to snag my hand and make me spend all my money. But of course, I couldn’t slow down. It was all I could do to keep up with the beast’s long-legged pace.
At the bottom of the hill, we stopped just before the road turned and carried on over a prettily arched stone bridge, and we curled left into a gorgeous little courtyard.
A sign out front read “The Ivy Cottage”—and there was a cottage, and there were vines and lots of flowers, and they served food, and I was in heaven.
The sky was a rare, brilliant blue that probably would not last long, so we chose (without bothering to discuss it with our English words) to sit in the garden next to the stream.
It was strung liberally with leafy vines overhead, and twinkling bistro lights, and was picture perfect, down to the gentle breeze and the babble of the water.
To make things even more divine, my churlish chauffeur chose to sit at a table on the other end of the garden, where I could ignore him entirely.
A few minutes later, I got a text from an unknown number:
running late go ahead ??
Uhhh. Was this my date? How late? An emoji? Could I safely assume that meant he was probably under seventy?
All right. Sitting outside. Looking forward to it!
At least I could make an effort to punctuate.
A pretty girl with a French accent came to the table with the menu, but I had already seen what I wanted on other people’s tables. I ordered a glass of chardonnay and “whatever that is,” which turned out to be crab claws in a rich yellow cream sauce with a hunk of fresh bread.
It seemed weird to order without my date. I would have waited, but I was starving, and my mystery date had said to go ahead. Who knew how long he would be or whether he’d want to eat when he finally arrived.
The waitress brought my crisp white wine, and I pulled my book out and settled back, happy to wait all afternoon if I must. Because I’m admirably devoted to my work.