Page 13 of An Irish Summer

“It’s a classic,” he said. “You don’t have to read so much into everything, you know.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Did I?

“I’m not arguing with you from the shower,” I said. “Showering is supposed to be relaxing.”

“It would be if you didn’t insist on arguing with me,” he said, effectively shutting me up. I had a whole night of him ahead

of me and if I was going to survive, I needed to pace myself.

He shut off the water first, so I stalled long enough to hear him leave the bathroom before getting out myself. I looked in the hallway to make sure the coast was clear, then shuffled into my room.

I spent more time trying to forget what Collin looked like half naked than I did getting ready, and frankly, I failed at both.

I forgot to put product in my hair, so my curls were unruly, and the image of Collin seemed to be burned on the back of my

eyelids. Eventually I threw on a pair of loose ripped jeans and a battered crew neck sweatshirt from college and headed down

the hall to collect Flo.

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” she said as soon as she opened the door.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s how you can get away with wearing house clothes outside the house,” she said.

“Some of us don’t have a choice,” I said, looking down at my old sweatshirt and hoping its vibe was more curated vintage than

just old. “We don’t all have your style.” She twirled in her doorway, flaunting a pair of cotton overalls and a patterned

headscarf. I snapped my fingers in applause, and she looped her arm through mine to lead us downstairs.

Most of the staff were already gathered in the bar, pulling their own pints and distributing pool cues. I was beginning to

recognize everyone, and people stopped looking at me like I was a stranger.

I followed Flo to the bar, watching gratefully as she mixed us two gin and tonics. Helen had said there would be discounted

drinks when she pitched this job, but I hadn’t seen anyone on staff pay for one since I’d been here, so I was beginning to

gather “discounted” really meant “free.” She should have led with that.

“It’s nice to see you with clothes on,” Collin said from over my shoulder, just loud enough for Flo to hear. She swallowed a mouthful of gin down the wrong pipe, and her coughing fit broke the tension.

I shot him a glare, but he didn’t seem to care at all. “We ran into each other on the way to the shower earlier,” I said to

Flo as soon as she calmed down. “Traumatizing for all parties, really.”

“I’ll let you two work on healing, then,” she said, slipping out from behind the bar. I wanted to grab her arm and beg her

to stay, but I knew she wouldn’t even if I asked.

I turned to face Collin at the exact moment he leaned over me for something behind the bar, bringing us nose to nose. He smelled

like shampoo and fire, and it reminded me of a candle my dad used to burn around the holidays.

I was standing as still as possible, trying to appear composed, when he produced a pint glass filled with darts from behind

my back.

“Fancy a game?” he asked, still only inches from my face.

“Depends,” I said. “Do you fancy losing?”

“Aye,” he said. “Think you’re jammy, do ya?”

“You think I need luck to beat you?” I asked, thankful I overheard that bit of slang from a guest last week.

“There’s only one way to find out,” he said, handing me half the darts. I hadn’t played much since college, but I used to

be a decent shot. If only I could steady my nerves.

I stepped up to the line, squinting one eye and aiming for the board.

“I took off tomorrow,” Collin said just before I released the dart.

I dropped my arm to my side and turned to face him.

“I know you’re off tomorrow, and it’s almost been a week since Glendalough already,” he explained.

“I think we’re overdue for our next adventure.

” I wondered how he had time and energy to take me all over the country on his days off when that was quite literally exactly what he did on the days he was working, but I didn’t ask.

If this was just an extension of his job, I didn’t want to know.

I narrowed my eyes, but I couldn’t suppress my smile enough to look intimidating “Are you trying to throw off my game?”

“Is it working?”

I squeezed the dart in my hand, wishing I could turn the point on him instead. “No,” I said, turning and throwing the dart

straight into the board. It landed less than a centimeter from where I was aiming, and I threw a glance over my shoulder before

I scored it in chalk on the wall. I still had it.

He clucked his tongue, taking a slow sip of his beer and watching me as I returned to the line. “Looks like it might be myself

who needs the luck, after all,” he said.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Let’s put a wager on it, then, shall we?” He twirled the dart in his fingers like a drumstick, leaning against a high-top

table. I’d only shot once but I was feeling confident, so I accepted.

“What’s on tomorrow’s agenda?” I asked, looking for inspiration for the bet.

“I,” he said, taking another swig, “am taking you to a hurling match.” I furrowed my eyebrows, wordlessly asking, What the hell is a hurling match? “It’s a traditional Irish sport,” he explained. “Kind of like lacrosse, maybe, if I tried to compare it to something you have

in America. You’ll like it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He threw the dart, which landed nearly right on top of mine. “Do you trust me?”

“For now,” I said. He hadn’t given me any reason not to, and I couldn’t deny how good it felt to let someone else make all the plans for once.

“Good.” He smiled. “Everyone likes hurling. Even a pox like yerself.”

“I’m not a pox,” I said, despite having no idea what it meant. Although from his tone, I could tell it wasn’t good.

“Keep telling yourself that, darling.”

“Let’s go double or nothing, then,” I said, my irritation sparking my competitive edge. “You have to win darts and pick the

winner of the hurling match to win the bet.”

“A proper competition,” he said. “I like the way you think. What’s the wager?”

“What comes after hurling?”

“You think I plan that far in advance?” He raised his eyebrows, and I did the same, calling his bluff. “We’re driving the

Wild Atlantic Way,” he said, fighting a crooked smile.

“If I win, I get to drive,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to learn to drive on the left side so much as I knew my

suggestion would irk him, but I was glad I said it.

“Absolutely not,” he said immediately. “Unless you can afford to buy me a new truck after you crash this one.”

“What makes you so sure I’m gonna crash it?”

“You do a lot of driving on the left side of the road in Boston, do ya? Besides, I’d have to teach you to drive stick first,

and it would be a whole thing.”

“If you’re scared you’re going to lose, Collin, you could just say so,” I said, taking my place back on the line. I watched

over my shoulder as he dragged his fingers through his hair, looking toward the ceiling for some sort of reprieve.

“You’re on, then,” he said. “And if I win, you don’t even think about getting behind the wheel for the rest of the time you’re here.”

“Which is only the rest of the summer,” I reminded him.

“So you say.” I rolled my eyes, which made him laugh.

“Do we have a deal?” he said, echoing his question from that first night in the bar.

“We do.” I clinked my glass against his, and we both downed most of our drinks in a few gulps.

We went shot for shot for the rest of the game, alternating on the top of the leaderboard and talking just enough shit to

still be able to back it up. By the time we got down to the bull’s-eye shot, I was two points ahead.

“You put up a good fight, you know,” I said, watching him step to the line for his last shot.

“Catch yourself on,” he snapped. He squared his shoulders, and I watched the way they rose and fell as he took a deep breath.

His shirt pulled gently between them, and the top of another tattoo peeked out above the collar, just at the base of his neck.

After another dramatic breath he threw the dart, and we both watched as it stuck in the board two inches to the left of the

bull’s-eye. He brought his knuckles to his teeth, letting out a groan that dissolved every ounce of concentration I had left.

I swept my hair from my shoulders, trying to look nonchalant but really needing to cool myself down. “I take it you aren’t

used to losing,” I said, trading places.

“I haven’t lost yet,” he said. “If you shoot anywhere in the green, we’re going into overtime.”

“Won’t be necessary,” I said. I aimed the dart, painfully aware he was just inches from my back. The second before the dart

left my fingers, he whispered so close to my ear I could feel his lips.

“Don’t miss.”

The dart went flying, and not in the direction of the bull’s-eye. It landed on the border of the red and green, and we both

gasped loud enough to draw the attention of the crowd.

“That’s green!” Collin shouted, pointing at the board.

“If by green you mean red,” I argued. We both approached to take a closer look, Collin just over my shoulder as we studied

the dart. It would have only taken a second to make the call from this distance, but we stood there for what felt like an

hour.

It was red.

I turned around to gloat and found myself pinned in the space between Collin and the board.

“Anything you’d like to say to me?” I asked, expecting him to confirm it was, in fact, in the red.

“There are a lot of things I’d like to say to you,” he said, yanking the dart from the board. I swallowed hard, probably loud

enough for him to hear, but said nothing. “Starting with the fact you’re a bleedin’ melter, Chelsea.”

“I swear you make these words up,” I said. “Should I be offended or flattered?”

“It means you drive me insane,” he said. “So I guess the choice is yours.”

“In that case, I’m going with flattered.”

“Do you want another drink?” he asked, collecting my empty cup and heading toward the bar. “I don’t know about you, but I

need another one.”

“Every good celebration requires a drink,” I said, smiling in response to his gritted teeth.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself there. We still have tomorrow. It’s anyone’s game.”

“Spoken like a true loser.”

“Do you want the drink or not?” he asked, holding two glasses behind the bar. I made a zipping motion across my lips, throwing

away the imaginary key. “Attagirl,” he said.

“What are you making?” I asked after a minute of watching him mix a cocktail.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Let me guess... you think I’ll like it?”

“Clever girl.” He smiled. Once the drink was poured, he stuck a straw into the glass, plugged one side, then dripped a few

drops into his mouth. He let them settle on his tongue while I watched with bated breath.

“Well?” I asked.

“Too bitter,” he said.

“I like bitter.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“Let me taste it.”

I assumed he would hand me the glass, but instead he collected another few drops inside the straw and stretched it out to

me. He brought his other hand to my chin, tilting it up with the tips of his fingers. Before I could even clock what was happening,

in a public bar, no less, I steadied his hand with my own, opened my mouth, and drank from the straw. His hand was warm beneath

my chin and the drink was cool.

The intimacy of such a mundane moment illuminated the path we were heading down, and I feared I was already in too deep to

turn around.

“Well?” he asked. His eyes sparkled even under the fluorescent lights of the bar, and I knew it wasn’t the cocktail that had

gone straight to my head.

“Too bitter,” I said. Too bitter indeed.