Chapter One
Four months in, and there’s still dust. I swear there are little fairies that fly around this pub at night and shit dust everywhere.
” Piper leaned on the brush she was using and glared down at the ground.
She did have dust prints on her dark blue designer jeans that fit her like they were made for her, like most things did.
“Are fairies not supposed to shit glitter?” Imogen asked her with a grin.
“Not Ballyluck ones, apparently.” She gave the floor an overly aggressive sweep, creating a dust cloud to prove her point.
Niamh walked out of their sage-coloured corner office, looking very professional as always in dress trousers and a shirt, carrying a sign of some kind. “It’s an old building. Old buildings are notoriously dusty.”
“Next you’re going to say it’s part of their charm,” Piper grumbled.
The look on Niamh’s face confirmed that was exactly what she was going to say.
Imogen laughed. “You know, as the person who was the most sceptical about our Ballyluck adventure, I think I’m the one who complains about it the least.”
Piper gasped. “I love Ballyluck and our adventure. But that doesn’t mean I have to embrace the whole dust situation. People are allowed gripes. Dust is mine.”
“And the only time you’ve heard me complaining was when the boiler broke down and I had two days of cold showers.” Niamh pointed at Imogen. “And don’t you start going on about the health benefits again. Some of us like to be warm.”
Imogen shuffled the weekly accounts papers together and tapped them against the table she was working at. “There’s warm, and then there’s temperatures that could rival the depths of hell.”
Piper started to laugh, and Niamh turned to glare at her.
“What? You have to admit, you do look like a lobster for at least an hour after you shower. I live with you, so you can’t deny it.”
“I didn’t on those days.” Niamh shuddered. “And I only go red because I’m very sensitive. Have you forgotten about my fair skin? I’m pretty sure I was supposed to be born a redhead and I only got dark hair because there was some kind of mix-up.”
It was true. Unlike Imogen who could tan from the light in the fridge, Niamh remained pale all year round and burned to a crisp if the sun so much as winked at her. “Fine, I take it back. All three of us love Ballyluck, in spite of the dust bunnies and shower glitches.”
What wasn’t to love? It was probably the most peaceful place on earth.
Since moving to Ballyluck, Imogen had started her mornings by getting up early, pouring some coffee into her travel mug, and setting off on an hour-long walk—at a minimum.
Being outdoors and breathing in the fresh air was the absolute best way to wake up.
And the air in Ballyluck was fresh. No smog or fumes.
The village was well off the beaten track, and people didn’t need to pass through to get to anywhere other than, well, Ballyluck.
Which meant that traffic was exceptionally light.
As for the views, there was beauty round every corner.
Every route that Imogen walked was a scenic route.
She liked to vary them too, some days repeating her favourites, and other days exploring somewhere completely new.
That morning, she had taken a narrow dirt path through a mile of perfectly mowed green fields surrounded by sprawling hills, with only the sheep and cows for company.
They were good company too. Separated only by flimsy, amateurly built wire fences, the animals strutted right over to her, bleating and mooing in greeting.
Imogen was more than happy to spare a few minutes to stop and pet them and say hello.
To think that she had once fretted about leaving the hustle and bustle of Belfast. She still loved Belfast a lot, that hadn’t changed, but it was only a ninety-minute drive away, and her new home was nothing short of idyllic.
All her initial hesitation had been needless.
After she walked that morning, Imogen had taken a quick, warm shower—because although she liked to tease Niamh about cold showers being better, she didn’t brave them herself every day either.
Then she had quickly tidied around her apartment, which wasn’t difficult because she lived alone and was a naturally tidy person.
Her new place wasn’t big by any means, but it felt like a palace compared to her tiny apartment in the city.
Imogen had actual rooms now. Three of them, or four if you counted the small hallway between her front door and her living room door where she kept her coats and shoes.
The living room itself was a decent size with a surprisingly comfortable sofa, and it led on to an open plan kitchen.
Nothing fancy. Functional was a better word, with all the basic things that Imogen needed.
Good storage space, a regular-sized fridge-freezer, a washer-dryer, a sink, and a cooker.
And luckily, she had brought her microwave and air fryer with her when she moved.
She’d also added a coffee machine about a month ago because early starts required caffeine.
There were two doors off to the right of the kitchen.
One led to a small bedroom that didn’t fit much more than her double bed, a wardrobe, and a chest of drawers.
And the other led to an even smaller bathroom covered in blue tiles, both on the walls and floor.
They were a bit swirly and wouldn’t have been her choice of décor, but she was slowly getting used to them.
After Imogen’s needless tidy-up, she had left her apartment and embarked on her twelve-second commute to work—literally. The VIP entrance, as they liked to call it, was right down the stairs and through a door that led directly behind the bar area of the Wishing Well.
The office light had been on when she arrived, meaning that Niamh had beaten her there.
Instead of joining her and risking getting distracted—which happened quite a bit—Imogen had grabbed one of the tables in the bar area and got a jump on finalising the previous week’s accounts before they were due to open at ten a.m.
Piper, who was not an early bird at all, had arrived a bit later, as she usually did in the mornings. Just in time to help set everything up. But Piper was also the last to leave at night too, insisting that it was only fair that she lock up.
The three of them had a good thing going, working together at their little pub.
It still felt crazy to think about—that she co-owned a pub.
It was something Imogen would never have pictured for herself.
Not in a million years. But it turned out that she loved it.
Who would have ever thought it? Not her.
It wasn’t easy. The work was hard, and the progress was slow.
They didn’t have enough money to instantly transform the place, so they had to rely on what they made each week to make small improvements, bit by bit.
They couldn’t afford to hire help either, so they learned DIY from YouTube.
Yet, somehow, the struggles only added to the satisfaction of what they were doing.
Their first focus had been on the exterior of the Wishing Well.
Their logic was that it had to look good on the outside to make people want to come inside.
So, when they first arrived in Ballyluck, much of their spare time had been spent sanding wood, power-hosing, and painting.
They painted the window frames a cheerful, creamy yellow colour.
The front door went from the dullest colour of brown Imogen had ever seen, to a nice, clean white.
That, and the freshly hosed red and orange brick that had previously been close to black, really worked to brighten the pub up.
They also added some window pots with as many colourful flowers as they could find.
Colour was exactly what the place needed.
They even decorated the old well with some flowers they had left over.
They replaced the bulbs in the outside lights.
The sign had been scrubbed within an inch of its life—it was amazing that the old thing was still readable.
But they hadn’t been able to afford a new one.
Yet. It was on the long list that they had.
There was still a long, difficult road ahead to turn the Wishing Well into the pub they wanted. Probably an even harder one to make it successful. But Imogen relished the challenge, and she had zero regrets about her new life.
“What you got there?” she asked Niamh, nodding to indicate the sign she was holding.
Niamh flipped it round to show her. “Remember I bought this when we first got here, and you said that I couldn’t put it up because we knew nothing, and it was false advertising at its finest?”
Imogen looked down at the Best Guinness in Ireland served here sign. “And you don’t think it’s false advertising now?”
“Not since Piper took that course in Dublin last week,” Niamh said. “I think that qualifies us to at least compete in the Guinness world.”
Imogen scrunched up her nose. “Does it though?”
“Of course it does,” Piper exclaimed. “I passed with distinction. They said my pour was silky smooth.”
“And we are very proud of you for it. On the other hand, a guy recently referred to my Guinness as bumpy, however that’s possible.”
Niamh continued walking toward the main entrance with the sign.
“Well, say goodbye to bumpy pints because you’re taking the course next, and I’ll do it after.
As long as we try to keep Piper on Guinness duty until then, I think the sign is valid.
” She disappeared for a few seconds to set it outside and came back in.
“Also, it’s very pretty. I love the big, swoopy letters. ”
“Fine, swoopy letters win.” Imogen still wasn’t totally convinced they were at that level yet, or any level, but it was worth a try. She held up the stack of accounts. “And we do need the business.”
Niamh winced. “Not good?”