Chapter 2
2
Aidan
I n the past two weeks of working this pub, I thought I’d seen it busy. Not in the least. Right now, the place is packed wall-to-wall with university students and probably half the population of this small town—and the queue to get in still snakes around the building. If you'd asked me six months ago I would have thought I’d be spending the day in a pub with my brother, but plans changed and I needed to get out of Dublin.
Francie welcomed me with open arms and a cold pint when I showed up at his door. I’d known him most of my life. When he offered me a place to stay and a few shifts in his pub, I jumped at the chance to lose myself for a bit. I moved in with a couple of his bartenders and while it was nothing special—a loft space in their two-bedroom apartment—it was the distraction I needed; a good place to get my head together.
Tonight, though, McBride’s is anything but quiet. No time to think—just pitcher after pitcher of green-tinted beer, and bad decisions being made all about me. Francie warned me that St. Patrick’s Day is a bastardization of what it is in Dublin. Last week he painted the double lines on the road out front bright green. He’s been paying a huge fine to the city for years for the stunt, but smiles while the police write him his summons and calls the whole thing good advertising.
He’s a good man, Francie is, making sure one of his bartenders has the night off to celebrate—works his arse off to make up for the missing man, keeping supplies up and things under control with the patrons.
The stacks of cups coming from the storeroom grabs my attention well before I see Francie. At least people make space letting him through. Maybe it’s the realization that if they don’t, then the shite beer he’s tinted green stops flowing.
I reach for a wad of bills and the next pitcher, chuckling at Finn laid out across the bar top giving a peck to a girl. I’ve seen her in here once before, the night I arrived and laid my heart out for Francie.
She laughs at Finn and his moves , comfortable with him—but maybe not entirely comfortable in her skin with the way she’s tugging at her shirt. When her friend leans in—her lips puckered at Finn, I see him pause like a deer in the headlights. He fancies himself a ladies’ man, but generally can’t hide the bit of surprise when his plans actually work.
Time passes in a blur of people and pitchers, flirting and laughing—until it doesn’t. I don’t see the lead up to it, but some knobhead just shoved some blond thing, spilling her beer down the front of her friend. The poor girl is soaked.
I am over the bar and plowing through people before things can escalate—or because I can’t stand that shite and have to make him apologize for being an arse. It’s not until I turn to check on the poor girl drenched in beer that I see it’s her . And I’m about to mop the towel across her soaked chest. Thank Christ, I stop myself just before I have my hands on her gorgeous tits, overflowing from her tiny shirt.
She’s fighting tears, looking absolutely miserable. My heart clenches and I want to protect her—give her some cover. So, I pull her in tight behind me as we make our way through to the back of the bar.
“What d’ye do, give her the biggest shirt ye could find?” Finn quips as I pass behind him getting back to work after helping her .
“It was the first one I grabbed. Thought it’d do fine.” That’s not at all true. Something about her being exposed after all of that bothered me. She didn’t look particularly comfortable in the tight shirt she was in before it was plastered to her round, perfect tits. Jesus —I covered her up so no one would be thinking of her that way.
Reaching for the next pitcher, I get back into the rhythm of the bar. “What happened anyway? I didn’t see.”
Things have settled a bit and we’re able to stand side by side and chat for a moment. Finn’s cheeks go full red as I tell him what I saw and he starts cursing switching to Gaelic for the full effect. “—and Francie threw him out, yeah? Lissy’s okay?” His jaw ticks and eyes dart around the room.
“He did—he’s gone, mate.” I follow his line of sight and see her smiling at her friend finally relaxing a bit. “What’s her story? She’s gorgeous.”
“Don’t. Just leave that alone. She’s special.” He makes a good effort of puffing up his chest and trying to make sure I know he’s serious.
“Right.” No way I’m intimidated by this pup, but we’re obviously done talking for now. Scanning the room, I can’t help but to find her in the crowd—her pull magnetic.
She’s beautiful—gorgeous, really. Auburn hair cascades in a mass of curls down her back. I think of the silky strand that passed through my fingers in the storeroom—and her deep green eyes.
I fill several more pitchers answering the same question I’ve heard all night long. You’re new here, right? So, are you really Irish? The accent and a little bit of flirting can accomplish just about anything I need it to, and the girls here are drawn to it like flies to honey. My tip jar is full up again, and there’s still hours yet to go.
The night feels like it’ll never end. Pushing my hair back again and holding it there, I glance slowly around the room, hoping to see it starting to clear out. I’m completely disappointed to see it’s just as packed as it has been since we opened today. My gaze bounces around the room until I find her.
Finn mentioned her name, but that was hours and hundreds of pitchers ago. I wonder about her story, trying to work it out in my mind as I think about the timid, self-conscious way she holds herself. The way Francie and Finn seem to wrap her up and look out for her. The photographer in me wants to capture her image. Tease out the sadness she holds in her eyes. This girl is absolutely gorgeous. Stunning. But she’s seen some troubles.
She darts her gaze away from me, back to the conversation flowing around her. I can’t help my smile and shake my head, chuckling under my breath. As much as I was working her out in my mind, I just busted her checking me out. And that’s okay. I like that she was looking at me. The idea that maybe she’s trying to figure out my story as well. I don’t want to think of that tonight.
It’s coming on four in the morning when Francie finally starts ushering the last of the people out the door. I head to the back and put the keg of Guinness back on tap and pour one for myself and Finn. There’s no way I’m closing out this night without having at least one. Francie’s shrill whistle hits me from where he’s shuffling people out the front door. He nods at the tap with a little bit of longing in his eye, so I pull a pint for him as well.
Coming around the bar, with three pints in one hand and snagging a bag of rubbish with the other, I do a quick scan and see the last handful of people heading for the door. What I don’t see is the blur of luscious curves coming out of the storage room. I have no time to move—barely time to brace myself—I drop the trash, and wrap my arm around the stumbling girl to keep her from falling.
Again .
“Ohmygod, shit. Ohmygod.”
The minute I realize who I’ve got my arm wrapped around, I pull her a little closer, hold on a little tighter. “You’re alright, then?” Her arms are trapped between us, one hand pressed flat to my chest. Everywhere we’re pressed together, from hip to shoulder, tingles like there’s some kind of current running between us.
Slowly, she tilts her head back and looks up at me, her eyes wide and sparkling. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s three.” I smile down at her, not quite ready to let her go. Her brows pinch together as she purses her lips, confusion washing over her perfect features. “I’ve saved you three times tonight.”
“You have.” She straightens, pulling away from me. “Thank you…really. I…I—um, thank you, for everything.” Her voice is soft and shy. I keep my arm wrapped round her a bit longer than I need to, because I want to. But when I finally let her go, I feel the loss of her body pressed up against me far more than I should. She steps back with an awkward smile quirking at her lips.
“G’night, then.”
“Good night.” She turns away, going straight to Finn and Francie, hugging them and gracing each with a kiss on the cheek. Her attention briefly lands on me as she and her friend trip out the door a little unsteady on their feet. Arms linked and heads tilted together like they’re sharing a secret.
“Francie.” I prop the door open with my shoulder, letting the early morning air sweep through the pub. I watch the two girls walk away, the streetlights spotlighting their path as they go. “They’re alright walking home this late, yeah?”
He stands on the walkway out in front of his pub; his pint in one hand and the other stroking his beard as he narrows his eyes on the girls. Several blocks away now, she turns and waves before disappearing into the small apartment building. “She knows I’ve got her back.” Francie fixes me with a pointed stare, brows pinched in earnest.
That message is delivered loud and clear.