Page 12 of An Irish Summer

Wednesdays, I was beginning to learn from other staff members, and my own brief time manning the reception desk, were the

quietest. It seemed the people who called in advance had already booked their weekend trips, and the people who didn’t weren’t

yet close enough to the weekend to panic. The phones rang off and on, most of our guests were out and about, and I had a second

or two to myself to do what I came here to do.

I’d been combing every job site searching for something in event planning or general management for days, but was coming up

empty.

Had I known Helen and Jack were going to sell O’Shea’s when they retired, I would have been more diligent about networking,

or joining LinkedIn, or whatever else my corporate friends were doing. I would have made connections or leveraged my inner

circle or contacted alumni or whatever else they tell you to do before you graduate and move into the job market. I wouldn’t

have been so complacent.

This Wednesday morning, however, I scrolled long enough to find a posting for a senior events coordinator at a boutique hotel

called Hotel Blue just outside Boston.

It is near the water, and the website features a series of links that look like neon signs, only much classier than the ones in the Wanderer.

From the photos, it appears the lobby is cluttered with monstera plants and velour furniture, and there is a bar armed with colored glassware and a bartender with a mustache just beyond the reception desk.

Senior Events Coordinator sounded far more legitimate than any side work I’d done in event planning before, and I wondered

if I was even qualified for a job like this. If I had the experience necessary to be a “senior” or a “coordinator” of anything.

But there was a reason I opened the link in the first place, and a reason my heart was hammering in my chest, so I owed it

to myself to at least apply.

Just as I was conjuring every corporate buzzword imaginable to write a cover letter that made me sound qualified, Flo stuck

her head into the lobby.

“ Ciao, tesoro ,” she said.

“ Ciao , Flo.”

“Do you have a minute? My sous chef cut his hand, and I really need to get this buffet out.”

I looked from my computer screen to her pleading eyes, knowing well enough the answer around here was always yes. I closed

the document but bookmarked the job posting, promising myself I’d return to it later.

“Happy to help,” I said as she thanked me profusely in Italian and dragged me to the kitchen.

It wasn’t long before we were in a rhythm, scooping ground beef into heated buffet trays, chopping tomatoes, shredding lettuce,

and preparing other various fixings for a taco night.

“This is such a huge help,” Flo said later in the day as we laid out the buffet just in time for some stragglers to wander in for dinner. “I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything too important this morning.”

“To tell you the truth, I was job hunting,” I whispered, though no one in charge was around to hear me.

“Ooh,” she mused. “Any luck?”

“I found something just outside Boston,” I said, “but I’m not exactly qualified.”

“That’s not even a thing anymore,” she said, waving her hand like she was swatting a bug. “What’s the job?”

“It’s a boutique hotel looking for a senior events coordinator,” I said. “But I’ve only ever done event planning on the side,

and even that has been on a small scale, so I’m not sure I could do it full-time.”

“Where’s your confidence, huh? You’re an American woman with no confidence?”

“Is that a stereotype?” I laughed. “If so, I don’t think I got the memo.”

“Either way,” she said, ignoring my question, “if you can’t even convince me you’re qualified, how are you supposed to convince

them?”

She had a point. All I could do was groan in response and make a mental note to stop thinking of excuses not to apply. I did have event planning experience, and didn’t everyone start small? The posting didn’t say they were looking for someone with

extensive experience. It only said they were looking for someone creative, dedicated, passionate. Someone with exceptional

interpersonal skills and a sharp eye for trends. Someone detail-oriented and ambitious. Eager.

And those were boxes I could check. Hell, I was in Ireland planning bachelorette parties in a city I barely knew. That had to count for something.

“Did you always know you wanted to be a chef?” I asked. I’d been curious about Flo’s story since I met her in the hallway,

and now seemed as good a time as any to ask.

“Of course not,” she said. “I had no idea what I wanted to do. We just cooked all the time at home in Italy, and then when

I got here and they needed a cook I was decent at it, and I’ve been doing it ever since.”

“Wasn’t that scary?” I asked. “Just deciding to stay? Changing your life like that?”

“Not as scary as it would have been going home,” she said. “My head would have exploded if I stayed in my family’s house.

Too many opinions.”

“Is the Wanderer any different?” I asked. She hooted the kind of laugh that startled everyone in earshot, and I couldn’t help

but join her.

“You’re catching on quick,” she said. “At least there’s freedom at the Wanderer. No bossy dads or judgmental aunts to be found.”

“Only needy guests and nosy coworkers,” I said.

“Speaking of,” she said, and I knew exactly where she was going, “how was your day out in the country with Collin?”

I tried to keep my expression neutral and described our platonic, not romantic, day of hiking and picnicking. I left out any

mention of flirty glances or touching knees and kept it to seeing the lakes and driving down the freeway and learning a bit

of Irish history.

Flo hummed, tapping her fingers against her full lips, squinting her eyes. “Sounds like a date to me,” she said eventually,

to which I rolled my eyes.

“We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, yeah. When’s the next one?” she asked.

“Tomorrow, I’m guessing. According to the schedule posted in the staff room, that’s the next time we both have a day off.”

“Look at you, checking the schedule,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“Just trying to plan ahead,” I said. “I need to know when I can dedicate time to applying for jobs since I keep getting pulled

to do other things every time I try.” I nudged her so she would know I was joking, mostly.

“Well, you can confirm with him tonight,” she said.

“What’s tonight?” My only plans for tonight were to revisit the posting and be asleep before ten o’clock.

“Staff bonding,” she said. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

I had absolutely forgotten.

Lars mentioned something the other day about the staff getting together tonight for drinks and bar games, but I was so invested

in responding to an email from Ada about an apartment I couldn’t afford that I hadn’t really heard a word he said.

“Right, bonding,” I said, hardly able to hide that this was mostly new information to me.

“You totally forgot.”

“Shut up.”

“I can handle it from here,” she said, nodding toward the door. “Your shift is just about over and Wednesdays are quiet, so

you have some time to get ready.”

“This is something I need to get ready for?”

“You know what I mean.” She practically shooed me out of the room, and I raised my hands in surrender. I needed to wash my

hair anyway, and I was dying to get out of the work polo.

The staff wing was quiet, so I undressed in my room and wrapped myself in a towel to head into the bathroom instead of going

in my clothes.

I should have known the silence was too good to be true.

As soon as I turned away from my closed door, I bumped smack into Collin. Also in a towel.

“Oh my god,” I said, wishing my hands weren’t holding up my towel so I could cover my face in embarrassment. His laugh came

from somewhere low in his throat, and I knew my blush had turned to blotches across my chest, which was exposed. “I’m so sorry,”

I said.

“Happens all the time,” he said, shrugging. I envied his nonchalance. “Side effect of communal toilets.”

“I can wait,” I said. “You go first.”

“They’re communal, Chelsea,” he said. “We can both go.”

The longer we stood in the hallway, the harder it got to continue making eye contact. Especially when his shirtless body revealed

a new smattering of tattoos, including a eucalyptus branch just below his collarbone and what looked like an antique mirror

on the front of his ribs. I blinked a few times before I could catch the rest, determined not to make this interaction any

weirder.

“You’re right,” I said, despite how badly I wanted to disappear back into my room and wait until he was done. “That is what

communal means.” Duh.

“After you.” He held out his hand, and I followed the gesture on shaky legs. I’d been in the shower before at the same time

as other staff members, including Collin for all I knew, but it was much easier when I didn’t have to see them in towels beforehand.

I walked directly from the doorway into a stall, exhaling only once I was inside.

“I’m going to put music on,” Collin said loud enough for me to hear over the running water. “Hope that’s okay with you.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“I’m going to put music on,” he said again, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

Before I could say another word, Ed Sheeran’s “Galway Girl” blasted from Collin’s phone speakers and filled the bathroom.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I shouted from my stall, trying to hide my laughter. How could a man be so hot and so corny at

the same time?

“What?” he said. “A bloke can’t enjoy a little Ed Sheeran in the shower?”

“Guilty pleasure?”

“No one should ever feel guilty about pleasure,” he said.

I was glad he couldn’t see me, not only because I was naked, but because I was sure I was blushing like a teenager. I’d thought

our conversation had been light, but the deeper tone in his voice took us to a place I had no intention of going.

“Isn’t this song a little on the nose?” I said eventually, trying to get back on solid ground.