Chapter Five
Alicia
I knew he was coming tonight, but seeing him still sends a shock through my system.
It’s been three months since Rowan has been in O’Nelly’s.
God, he looks good. All those hours of training took his already toned body and turned it into a powerhouse.
The navy blue Seahawks t-shirt he’s wearing is one I am familiar with.
It fit him well last year, but now it’s stretched tight over his chest, the sleeves almost busting around his biceps.
He runs a tattooed hand through his hair, and I notice it’s gotten a little longer on top.
In the span of five seconds, I’ve studied every inch I can see from my spot…
except his eyes. I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, even though I can feel it burning into me.
Suddenly, I’m feeling self-conscious and desperately want to bring my hands to my hair.
This just pisses me off because I don’t get nervous around men, and I certainly don’t primp for them.
Apparently, this is all I needed to fuel my fire. My eyes narrow as I let a bit of snark loose. “How nice of you to grace us with your presence, Gallagher.”
Finally making eye contact, I watch his own widen before crinkling at the corners as that smug smile of his spreads across his face.
He takes a second to peruse me from the messy bun on top of my head, down to the black combat boots I always wear to work.
His appraisal makes my body heat in response. Damn him.
“I always aim to please. Lookin’ good, Alicia.”
Ignoring the compliment, and the way it sends a pang of longing through me, I step to the rack of pint glasses, grabbing one, then another, when I notice the guy next to him.
He’s handsome and looks vaguely familiar.
Something about his dark hair, deep brown eyes, and tawny skin niggles at my brain.
“Who’s your friend?” I ask while I begin pouring the Guinness I know Ro’s going to order.
He looks disappointed that I’m not engaging in our usual verbal sparring, but I just don’t have it in me tonight. My day job was a nightmare today and tips were abysmal.
“This is Marcos, Layla’s brother. We play together and are roomies in Charlotte.”
Ah, that explains it. He and Layla have similar features.
“Oof, that’s rough, Marcos. Sorry you’re stuck with this one,” I nod toward Ro. “But it’s nice to meet you. What are you drinking?”
“Whatever you’re pouring for Gallagher. And he’s not a bad roomie,” Marcos states, tossing an arm over Ro’s shoulders. “He cleans up after himself, cooks his fair share, and pretty much sticks to the apartment when we aren’t on the road. He’s never even brought a girl back to the place!”
My eyes dart to Rowan, only to find him watching me intently; scanning my face for what, I don’t know. I’m honestly shocked by this revelation.
It must show because he cocks his head to the side. “Were you expecting something different, darlin’?”
My breath hitches at the nickname, summoning a slew of memories from a night not that long ago that I’ve been doing my best to forget. With a shake of my head, I shrug as I let his Guinness rest for the required amount of time before topping it off.
“I don’t expect anything as far as you’re concerned.”
His auburn brows furrow in frustration and he sighs heavily through his nose. He opens his mouth to speak, but Marcos interrupts.
“What’s the deal with the Guinness pour? I’ve heard it’s a slow process, but why?”
I’m about to answer when Pat steps up. “Good question, lad! Come down here and I’ll tell ya all about it.
” He motions for Marcos to follow him to the end of the bar, though if he was going to give a lesson, sticking close to the tap would probably be the better option.
Rowan and I watch as Pat leans close and whispers something in Marcos’ ear, causing his eyes to widen and immediately zero in on us.
Great.
I hand Ro his beer without looking at him, but before I release it, he covers my hand with his. Startled by the contact, I look up, ready to tell him off, but words rush from his mouth.
“Li, can we talk? Please?” His eyes are pleading with me, and my resolve starts to waiver. I vowed to never speak to him again more than what’s necessary to do my job.
“We don’t have anything to talk about, Rowan,” I tell him firmly, trying to pull my hand away.
I can’t go down this path. I can’t get caught up in those amber eyes and the lilt of his voice. I can’t let myself remember the feel of his calloused hands on my skin or the way he tastes.
“We bleedin’ well do and you know it,” he seethes, his hand tightening over mine.
“That night was more than—” His jaw clenches, and he looks away for a second before aiming his stare at me again.
“You fuckin’ left, Alicia. No explanation, no goodbye, nothin’.
And now, if you bother to speak to me at all, it’s nothin’ but ice and venom.
I deserve somethin’. Just tell me a reason, and I won’t ask again. I swear it.”
I feel the heat of tears beginning to form. He’s right. He deserves an explanation for why I disappeared like a thief in the night. He deserves a lot more than that, but I can’t give him any of it.
“Ro,” I whisper, warring with myself over how to respond. “I can’t—”
“Gallagher!”
A hand slams down onto his shoulder and I release a shaky breath in relief. Eamon Kennedy to the rescue.
“Oy! It’s time to go on stage, mate! Can’t ya hear Paddy up there?”
Ro holds my gaze a moment longer before turning to Eamon. “Yeah, mate, sorry. I’m ready.”
I watch as the two weave through the crowd and climb the single step to the stage.
Teagan is ready and waiting, harmonica in hand.
Eamon takes the stool in the center, pulling a guitar strap over his head and tuning the instrument.
Ro picks up a fiddle and bow, inspecting it closely before placing it into position between his chin and shoulder. Once settled, Pat announces them.
“Now that they’re all up here,” he remarks, aiming a look at Rowan. “Let me introduce you to three lads that have been gracin’ this stage since they arrived from Ireland over four years ago. On harmonica, we have Teagan O’Brien from Thomastown. Here on the guitar is Eamon Kennedy from Kilkenny.”
A loud whistle sounds from the corner table closest to the stage. Norah, Eamon’s wife, is grinning broadly, cheeks flushing when he winks at her.
“Yes,” Pat says with a chuckle. “We all know how you feel about Eamon, Ms. Grady.”
“Ahem.” Eamon coughs into the microphone, giving Pat a meaningful look.
“Ah, Mrs. Kennedy, I mean. Sorry, friends. They’re both spoken for.”
Eamon nods curtly. “Aye, you bet your arse we are.”
Laughter titters through the crowd before Pat continues. “And this handsome lad on the fiddle is none other than Rowan Gallagher, the starting forward for North Carolina’s very own Charlotte Football Club!”
Cheers ring through the space, and Ro beams as he raises the hand holding the bow into the air.
His shirt sleeve shifts with the movement revealing a tattoo on the inner part of his bicep.
He’s too far for me to identify it, but it didn’t use to be there.
I don’t know why I’m even curious about it. It’s not like it matters.
Paddy makes a few more comments before turning the mic over to Eamon, who doesn’t waste time talking.
He immediately begins playing Galway Girl, much to everyone’s delight but my own.
The amount of times Ro has sung this song to me over the years is countless.
He must be thinking the same thing, because he catches my eye and winks.
As hard as I try, I can’t fight the small smile that plays on my lips as I recall the first time.
* * *
Another busy night but not a bad one. The customers have been happy, and Pat’s been more helpful than normal.
He’d even cleaned the booths and tables before opening.
But he gets that way when the anniversary of his wife’s death comes around.
It is almost like he needs to keep himself busy so he doesn’t sink into despair.
I’ve never met someone that loved their spouse more than Paddy loved his Ellie.
I don’t make a big deal out of it,—just give him a quiet hug and the space to remember her however he needs to.
It’s open-mic night. These are a crowd favorite, especially when Pat can rope the Irish trio into performing. Eamon is usually the lead singer, but tonight, I’m surprised to find Rowan in the hot seat, with the mic in his hand.
“How’s it cuttin’, gang?” He asks jovially. “Havin’ a good night?”
The crowd cheers their answer with loud whistles and a few cat calls that have Ro grinning ear to ear.
“Right. So for those that don’t know, I’m an Irish bloke from Galway.” The patrons laughter travels around the pub. “If you ever hear anyone insulting Galway, it’s all true.”
Another round of laughter that gets louder when Teagan calls out, “Aye, and he’s the perfect example.”
“Oy, haul yer whisht, O’Brien! I’m not a cannabis smoking, Buckfast drinking Weshterner!” He mocks indignation, then grins again. “But my da sure as feck is.”
Even I laugh at that one while pulling a beer.
We got off to a rocky start, and I still act like he’s the bane of my existence, but the ginger is growing on me.
He’s charismatic and sexy, with a knack for getting under my skin like no one I’ve ever known.
When I glance up, he’s looking in my direction.
I look to my left and right, not seeing anyone near me, then give him a questioning look.
He winks. “I’m going to sing a song for ya, if that’s alright? But this isn’t just any song. This one is dedicated to our favorite bartender—.”
Pat yells out from the table he’s been harassing, “Yer too kind, Mr. Gallagher!”
Rowan scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, Paddy, this is embarrassing. I was talking about Alicia.”
I gape, and the audience hoots and hollers with laughter. Pat huffs good-naturedly then concedes, “Aye, fair enough!”
“Anyway, like I was sayin’. This one goes out to our favorite bartender, Alicia. Make sure you tip her well tonight!”
The majority of the customers swivel their heads my way, calling out their thanks and clapping.
I’ve never been so thankful for the low lighting in the pub than this moment as embarrassment shades my skin pink.
To be honest, I’m flattered, but he doesn’t need to know that.
I smile cheerfully and give him the finger.
Rowan roars with laughter. “And that, mates, is why we love her, yeah?”
More cheering has me shaking my head while I ready a shot of whiskey for myself just in case I need it to get through whatever he has planned.
“Enough gabbin’. This song is called Galway Girl.” Without another word, Eamon starts strumming his guitar with an upbeat tune.
“Well I took a stroll on the old long walk
Of a day -I-ay-I-ay
I met a little girl and we stopped to talk
Of a fine soft day -I-ay-I-ay
And I ask you friend, what’s a fella to do
‘Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue
And I knew right then I’d be takin’ a whirl
‘Round the Salthill Prom with a Galway girl
We were halfway there when the rain came down
Of a day -I-ay-I-ay
And she asked me up to her flat downtown
Of a fine soft day -I-ay
And I ask you friend, what’s a fella to do
‘Cause her hair was black and her eyes were blue
So I took her hand and I gave her a twirl
Oh and I lost my heart to a Galway girl.”
I know he’s just singing this to mess with me, but a small part of my heart warms against my will.
No one has ever dedicated a song to me, and it’s nice to be recognized.
As the song comes to a close, I grab a glass and begin pulling another pint of Guinness for him.
He doesn’t think I’ve noticed how he never orders one from Pat.
As he approaches the bar, I slide the pint toward him, careful to keep my expression hard. I don’t want him thinking one song has me all gooey now.
Before he can utter a word, I state, “This one’s on me, but don’t go thinking I’m giving you a free drink every time you dedicate a song to me, Gallagher.”
He grins as he brings the glass to his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it, love.”