Page 3

Chapter Three

Maeve

I rish pubs were in a whole different league than the bars I’d been to in America. They were warm and intimate, almost always with live music and intermingling between patrons.

Tonight, the pub down the block from McCrum’s Curios, was especially lively.

As an introvert, I wouldn’t normally be so keen to talk to strangers. But these were locals, people who would hopefully turn into customers once I opened the shop. If I could even bring myself to open the shop.

I’d been back in Ireland almost two weeks now, and I couldn’t seem to make myself officially open McCrum’s again.

Something felt off.

I had a feeling the store wasn’t ready to open yet and, for whatever reason, I decided to honor that. Plus, that allowed me more time to read and draw and heal.

With the extra time, I’d also re-familiarized myself with the shop and the building. I’d even taken to calling it Balor. I didn’t believe that the topaz hidden beneath the kitten painting was actually Balor’s evil eye, but it felt nice giving the store a name.

It was like the shop was a friend and family member. I needed that now more than ever.

Plus, giving the store a name and talking to it helped me feel more at ease. Because there was a vague ominous feeling I got from being in the shop alone…

I’d done a general inventory—or tried to—of the stock, and I’d taken so much of it to the charity shops.

When I’d come back, it was like I hadn’t made a dent at all.

I couldn’t find any records of my grandparents ever buying any new stock.

And now that I was thinking about it, when I lived here during my teen years I couldn’t remember a single time that I’d seen them buying anything, from anyone.

It just magically appeared.

Talking to the store, asking for its opinion and advice. Magical regenerating antiques. Maybe in the wake of all the tragedy I’d suffered, I was losing all my marbles.

Fuck me. I really needed a drink. No, what I really needed was to get laid.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten any cock. My romance novels—even the smutty monster ones—and dildo weren’t cutting it anymore. I was feral, to the point where I was going out on one of the busiest drinking nights in Cork. All for the chance at finally getting some.

“What’s yer name?”

The voice, with its traces of northern origin, had me glancing up from my ale to find a ginger-haired man with a lopsided smile looming over my table, a glass of beer in his hand. Oof, a red-head. There was something about that coppery hue on men that twisted up my insides.

I swallowed, my cheeks heating. “Oh, uh. Maeve.”

His bushy brows shot up at my answer. “Ah, the accent. Yer American?”

With my nod, he sat himself at the other end of my table, placing his drink in front of him. “Here for an authentic St. Patrick’s Day? Well, if yer looking for corned beef and green beer, ya won’t find any of that here.”

I took a drink of my beer and shot the man a patronizing look. “I’m aware that the holiday traditions are a bit different here than in the States. I’m Irish-American. Moved back here a couple of weeks ago.”

“Moved back? Fer what?”

“I inherited my grandparents’ antique shop.”

I wasn’t sure if it was all the body heat, or the attention from this cute guy making me warm. Whatever it was, the warmth had me tugging off my coat.

The man’s eyes rounded when his attention dropped to the logo on my sweater.

In preparation for the grand-reopening of the store, I’d gotten McCrum’s Curios branded shirts and sweaters.

I’d drawn the logo myself, modeling the shamrock with the eyeball after the stained glass on the store’s front door.

“Wait. McCrum’s Curios?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

The man nearly choked on his beer. “Heard of it? Are ya coddin’ me?”

“Uh—”

“Wait. Grandparents, ya said? Is yer name Maeve McCrum?”

I blinked. “You know me?”

He lit up, like I’d just told him I personally knew the pope and could put in a good word for him. “Well, ain’t that grand? I know of ye. Everyone does. McCrum’s Curios is a bit of a local legend. Especially after what happened.”

My smile melted when I realized what he meant.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” I mumbled into my glass and took another drink.

“My condolences,” he said after a minute or two of silence, his tone more dower than before.

“Thanks.” I forced a smile and took another drink.

“My name’s Conor. Please, let me get ya another ale.”

I accepted. The more I drank, the easier it was to forget about the fact that this man knew me from the murder investigation surrounding my family and my shop. And for whatever reason, that seemed to excite him. Maybe he was one of those true crime junkies.

By the time I downed my third ale, I didn’t give a fuck how he knew me. He was cute, and with how long it had been since getting laid, that was enough for me.

“So, what did ya do today to celebrate St. Paddy’s Day then, Maeve McCrum? See the Cork St. Parade? Kiss the Blarney stone?”

I wrinkled my nose. “The Blarney stone? Hell no, locals pee all over that thing.”

Conor laughed, and the sound echoed off the pub’s old stone walls, like it was a part of the music from the live band in the corner. “That’s what makes it lucky.”

“Yeah, well, this is enough celebration for me.” I gestured to my beer. “It was between this and staying back at my shop, talking to the store like some kind of crazy person.”

“Ya… talk to yer store? What, like it’s a person?”

I shrugged. “Might as well be with how old it is. It has secrets and scars just like any human. And it’s the closest thing I have to family, now that my grandparents are gone.”

My candidness was usually a turn off for American men, but Conor nodded in sympathy and bought me another beer. “Ye know, the whole city mourned your grandparents after what happened. It was all over the news. Terrible tragedy.”

By some miracle, probably with help from the alcohol, I managed a smile. It was nice that I’d run into someone who took interest in the shop. He seemed like a genuine fan. The only part that struck me as odd was that he’d never been inside the store.

“I’d love to see it!” he gushed, when I’d mentioned I’d just moved in. He shot up from his chair, practically buzzing with excitement and held out a hand for me to take. “C’mon. Give me a tour, what do ya say?”

“The McCrum clover!” Conor gaped at the stained glass window as I unlocked the door.

“Uh, yep. Family legend, I guess. The store’s supposed to be lucky.

” As soon as the notion to tell Conor about the king of the giants and his evil eye popped into my head, I dismissed it.

The guy would never stop gushing if I did.

He was nice enough, but he hadn’t stopped talking about all the rumors surrounding my store the entire walk here.

This type of guy was someone I’d never go for if I was looking for anything long term. But all I wanted was a meaningless hookup. I needed the distraction, and someone to talk to that wasn’t Gilly or the shop.

What I probably needed was a new therapist, but for now, as drunk as I was, fucking this random guy would have to do.

Once we were inside, Conor’s jaw dropped.

“You’re acting like you’ve never seen an antique store before,” I said, slinging my purse on the arm of a random chair.

“G’way outta that!” He dismissed me with a hand wave. “This place is grand!”

Admittedly, my date’s enthusiasm was infectious. I loved my home, but my feelings were complicated. These walls had seen too much blood and pain.

It was refreshing, seeing it through the eyes of someone else. It reminded me of the first time when I visited with my parents for Christmas when I was six. Coming from our duplex in Boston, stepping into McCrum’s was like falling into a fairytale.

I smiled. “It is nice, isn’t it? Messy as fuck, but it’s been like that my whole life.”

“Can ya show me the back of the store?”

“Oh, um. How about I give you the tour upstairs? I can show you my room. It hasn't changed much since I was a teenager, so you’ll have to ignore the One Direction posters—” Before I could finish my sentence, Conor gripped my arms and pushed me against the wall.

Hot lips crashed down on mine in a frantic, sloppy kiss that had my head spinning. His pelvis pressed against me, and the hardness in his pants jabbed me in just the right place, pushing a breathy moan from my lips.

Fuck. I needed it bad.

Conor ripped away from me with a gasp as the store shook and groaned. “What is that? An earthquake or something?”

“It’s just the building. It’s old. It does that sometimes,” I panted, tugging at his shirt and pressing on my tiptoes to reach his lips.

“R–right.” He bent back down, kissing me again with that same urgency as before.

Taking me by the waist, he guided me backward, making me think he was guiding me toward one of the many sofas scattered around. Instead, my butt hit hard wood and I broke our kiss to take in my surroundings.

Conor had pushed me against the register counter. Anger shot through me, realizing that he’d distracted me to indulge his request to see the sales counter.

The anger fizzled out as soon as he lifted me up on the counter and pushed his tongue into my mouth.

Okay, so this guy was kind of pushy. But I needed to get laid.

I’d use him tonight, get myself off and never see him again.

He’d told me he was a regular at the pub down the street.

Good thing there were plenty of other pubs in this neighborhood.

This kiss was deep and passionate. At first. Something seemed to be dragging Conor’s focus away from me. I opened my eyes to see him stroking his fingers over the bloodstains on the counter.

“Is this where yer grandfather died?”

I froze. Something in my body language probably confirmed it, because he continued “It happened right here! So cool.”

I jerked my head back, disgust twisting my face. “What do you mean, cool? ”

Conor wasn’t paying attention to me. I realized it hadn’t been me he was interested in this whole night.

He bit his lip, practically fondling the bloodstain. “There’s rumors ya know. That it wasn’t robbers who broke in, but cultists. Pagans who worship the old gods, looking to open the portal into the Otherworld and start life over, away from modern Ireland.”

“Why would cultists break into an old antique shop and murder my grandparents?”

“Rumor has it that they’re guarding an old artifact, something with magical power that could help gain access to the Otherworld.”

“Where did you hear about that?” I snapped, the urge to punch him in the throat building with every second.

“It’s everywhere. Irish folk love their stories. I can only imagine what everyone back at the pub will say when they hear I rode the last McCrum on the very counter her grandfather bled out. That’ll be a tale to get me a few free rounds for sure.”