Chapter 22 An Experiment in NOT Dating #2
He ran a hand across his beard in a way I liked, and his eyes drifted as he gave it some thought.
“Well, I dunno. I’m a homegrown sort of person, so I guess I’d like to see as much as I could of Ireland and the North.
I’ve never been to Northern Ireland before, if you can believe it.
This will be my first time. It’s part of why I agreed to come.
Even though”—he gestured toward me—“it was clearly a mad lapse in judgment that I will regret for the rest of my life.” I smiled maybe my first real smile since I was in the Shire, ordering the Legolas Lover’s Latte.
I loved it when people gave me a hard time.
Old Tadhg was cutting—this was still sharp, but there was a smile in his eyes that dulled the edge of the blade. “But I’d also love to see Europe.”
“Yeah? Like where?”
“My mom always talked about Rome—I don’t like big cities, but I’d like to see it for her, and I’d love a lasagna. And Switzerland is supposed to have lots of farms and good chocolate.”
I laughed. “Are all of your travel plans related to your stomach?”
“Pretty much. But since I will have won the lottery by that point, obviously, why not fly a little farther while I’m at it?”
“For tacos?”
He pointed at me. “Yes! But no. The biggest sheep show in the world is in New Zealand. I’ve heard they have more sheep than people there.”
“Stomach still in charge, I see.”
“Not quite. I just would love to be there. There are several breeds I’ve never seen in real life. And there would be so much knowledge and experience gathered all in one place, like.”
“Sheep knowledge?”
He smirked. “Sheep knowledge.”
“Yeah, New Zealand would be really cool.”
Three different appetizers arrived to the table, and we flew at them.
“Oh my God, try these.” I pushed over a plate with mini lobster rolls, and he pushed over the steak-and-mushroom bruschetta.
He picked a bit of meat off his piece and fed it to Finn, who had woken up when the food arrived and had sat up immediately to stare at Tadhg and remind him what a dutiful companion she was.
Damn, his bruschetta was good. “I’m surprised a man like you shares his food.”
“Oh, my baby gets whatever she wants.” My eyes went wide. Baby? “I’d go hungry before she would.” Oh, God, he’s talking about Finn!
I laughed out my relief. “I mean with me, you big oaf!”
“Ah, yeah. That’s a different story entirely! I almost stabbed your hand with the fork there a minute ago when you reached out.”
“Don’t joke. You’d be surprised how many dinner dates I go on where men refuse to share their food.
It’s a major red flag. And it’s always a fair trade.
It’s not like I’m saying, ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly eat any dessert!
I’m far too dainty,’ then eating their entire crème br?lée.
What kind of fucking monster doesn’t want to taste as many dishes as possible? It’s just basic logic.”
“Maybe it’s something to do with the way your eyes get all shiny when the food arrives. It’s the same face Finn makes. They’re worried there won’t be any left for them when you’re done.”
I scoffed. “What do you expect? The food is always the best part of the date.”
He laughed at that. “None taken.”
“Oh, for our date, the fish pie was the clear winner. Mostly because it was the least salty thing at the table.”
I got a slow smile then, a real one. It made his eyes sparkle.
It made my stomach flip. I shouldn’t have brought the date up!
I shouldn’t be looking for sparkles in his eyes!
Why do I always say the wrong thing? I searched for a neutral topic—one that did not have me thinking of going on a date with Tadhg, then maybe being walked home by Tadhg, then maybe he’d push me up against the door and . . . Fuck!
“So, lay some sheep knowledge on me. What’s so special about this ram?”
“Which ram?”
“Which ram, he says! The ram that’s so goddamn special that you’re willing to take three weeks out of your life to lock yourself in a Jeep with a woman that you hate more than anything you’ve ever hated in your whole grumpy life.”
He smirked. “Oh yeah. That ram. I’m pinning all my hopes on that ram.”
I gasped. “You have hopes?”
“I do. For instance, right now I hope the server will hurry back so I don’t have to continue this fecking interview without another drink in my hand.”
I caught the waiter’s eye and made some two more drinks gestures. “Okay. Now tell me about this golden ram of hope.”
He sighed, but I raised a challenging eyebrow.
“Fine. He’s a Norsk Villsau, a very hardy sheep from Norway, an old breed.
I don’t know how Mrs. Keilty got her hands on him, but as far as I know, he’s the only one in Ireland.
I want to crossbreed him with a Bluefaced Leicester because I think the breed might be .
. . special, different from what you normally get. The wool, especially.”
“Cool. I’m into wool!”
He smirked. “I know.”
“Where’s your farm? Is it close to your father?”
His smirk dropped a little. “Probably too close.”
The server arrived with the beer and cleared our plates away, and another server brought the mains.
I took a bite of my lamb stew and had to close my eyes for a few seconds and give the stew the moment it deserved before I offered it to Tadhg.
He shook his head and pushed over his fried-chicken burger.
“Tell me where you live. I want to picture the lair of the beast. Is it littered with bones?”
“Yes. The skeletons of opinionated American tourists. You should stay well away.”
I laughed and picked up the burger. I liked to share food, but I didn’t usually bite after people where saliva might be transferred. I paused and wondered momentarily if I minded, but I realized that I didn’t. “I’m going to take an extra-huge bite just for that!”
“Hey! Be careful. You’ll have your hand off!”
I laughed around my full mouth. “Mm—oh my God, this is good.” I pushed the plate back. “So, how many sheep do you have out there? One million? Two million?”
His face tightened. He may not have been the sort of man who was forthcoming about his emotions, but while he seldom spoke them, they were always there on his face, so clear that even I could usually read them.
“I, uhh. I don’t really have a flock anymore. I used to, but, um . . . things have changed.” He looked at his plate while he said this, rather than at me. “I . . . had to start over. But I recently bought a small bit of land. It’s not perfect, but . . .”
“But soon you’re going to have a new flock.” I smiled. “And the little lambs will baa with Norwegian accents?”
“Something like that.” His mouth ticked up, then dropped, and he took a sip of his beer. “I’m—It’ll take time, but I’m not afraid of hard work.”
I tried to picture him out there—hand on his hip, watching the sunrise in the morning with a cup of coffee in his hand as he leaned casually against the open doorframe and surveyed his new land . . . naked. Dammit!
“What’s the house like?”
He shook his head and took another sip. “Just a caravan for now. Building something is the next step.”
And now he was building a house from the ground up with his callused hands, wearing a heavy tool belt and no shirt. Dammit!
“Sounds kinda great, actually.”
He looked up at me then. “It does?”
“Yeah.”
The server came back with the dessert menu.
“Whatcha thinking, Davis? Too dainty for ice cream?”
“Yeah. Obviously. But you’d better order two, just in case.”
“I should, should I? And what flavor do you think I’m going to want for my second ice cream?”
“You’re going to want mint chocolate chip.”
“Am I, now?”