Page 7 of Gorilla in the Groove (Shamrock Safari Shifters #3)

Mick was fairly certain Irina had said the competitors' bus left Cork at ten, which meant they wouldn't be in Kinsale until eleven.

He was in Kinsale by ten o'clock, himself.

Just in case. He drove out to Charles Fort, a spectacular fort built in the shape of a starburst. There was loads of parking available at that hour, so he parked and he took himself for a walk through the fort while waiting for the dancers to arrive.

It had been ages since he'd walked through the place, not since he was a kid.

It was in better nick than he remembered.

Last time he'd been through, the restoration of the fort had been underway, but loads had been accomplished since then, and it was both easier and more difficult to see how people had lived and worked in the space for centuries.

Literally centuries—it had been built in the late sixteen hundreds, and used up until the Irish Civil War not much more than a hundred years ago now.

He climbed up to the Devil's Bastion—one of the bits of the fort that pointed out toward the ocean—and grinned into the brisk morning wind and the soft light falling over the sea.

Gulls screamed as they rode the updrafts and dove for fish, sometimes looking as if they'd dive straight into one of the sailboats spilling out of the town's protected harbor.

This was what he missed, traveling around Europe.

The cool fresh sea air and the scent of salt and fish.

That and the cadence of the Irish accent.

Although he'd developed a sudden fondness for an American accent, now that he thought about it. He didn't want to be a creep, but he also wanted to see Irina again, so he clambered back down and headed for the open, green square that he imagined the photo shoot would be done at.

He was right: there were dozens of dancers, men and women alike, gathered in grinning bunches as a hoarse-voiced photographer tried to direct them to their ideal locations.

Irina stood a little alone, watching with a small smile, but with her arms wrapped around herself and her expression a bit lost. She lit up, though, when she saw Mick, and waved hopefully.

Our mate is happy to see us , Mick's gorilla announced contentedly. But she looks sad, otherwise.

I think she's really nervous to be traveling alone, Mick replied.

He'd been traveling Europe on his own since he was about fifteen, but he had the impression a lot of Americans stuck closer to home.

Of course, he also had the even vaguer impression that most US states were loads bigger than the whole island of Ireland, and that that the five biggest states or so took up about the same amount of land as Europe did.

And those states weren't even right next to each other the way they'd have to be to cover Europe.

Mick guessed if he had to travel as far as Russia was from Ireland before he even got out of the country, he might be nervous, too.

Distances in those sizes meant absolutely nothing to his gorilla, which gazed at him with the gentle bemusement of a parent listening to a four year old relate their dreams. When it felt Mick was done, it suggested, Go talk to our mate, very patiently.

That was a fine idea. Mick decided to pretend it was his own fine idea, and went over to Irina, who looked ridiculously pretty in an American flag t-shirt and jeans.

Her hair was up in a ponytail, but not full of curls, and she shoved her hands in her pockets as he approached.

"You looked like you were scared to come say hi. "

"I was—" He couldn't exactly say 'discussing it with my gorilla.' "—debating with myself whether you'd want me to."

"Of course I would! Do! I'm really happy you're here." Irina smiled up at him, the sweetest, shyest little smile he'd ever seen, and Mick felt his heart melt like an ice cream in the sunshine.

"You look great," he told her sincerely. "I thought you'd all be in your getups, though."

Irina laughed. "So did I, but since we don't have anything else on today, and there aren't any really convenient changing facilities here, they decided we could just dress like regular people.

But they asked us to…" She waved at her shirt, then at the dozens of other dancers standing around, many of whom were in similar outfits, or colors that made it reasonably easy to guess what country they might be representing.

"We're doing big group photos and then all the various countries who are here, and then some individual pictures, I guess.

I met a girl from Nigeria, and an Australian, and two women from Japan!

" Her eyes were round, clearly impressed and delighted.

"I think I feel less bad about not doing so well last night.

It doesn't seem to matter as much now that I've talked to a few more people from all over the world who have come here to do Irish dancing together. "

Mick still thought she'd been robbed, but it didn't seem like the time to say so.

"I'm glad you're feeling better. It's grand," he admitted, glancing toward the other competitors.

"Seeing people from all over take an interest in the dancing like this, I mean.

I'd no idea there was so much passion for it, really.

Ah, there you go, he's wanting you to all line up now, I'll get out of your way. "

Irina reached for his hand as he stepped back, and an electric thrill sizzled through Mick as their fingers brushed. "You'll stay, right? I mean, we still have a date to see Kinsale after the photo shoot, right? I could go see it with the tour, but I'd much rather spend the time with you."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Mick promised. "I'll take myself out of the way so there's not this great lug in the background of all your pictures, but I'm yours for?—"

Ever, his gorilla prompted.

That was true, but a bit much to say to a woman he'd just met. "—for the afternoon."

"Amazing. I can't wait." Irina bounced off to do the pictures, and for the next ninety minutes or so Mick stayed out of the way, but still watched.

There was a sour-faced man in his fifties who was apparently one of the judges, and who stood watching the entire photo shoot with a glare, as if he wanted it all to be over with.

Mick sidled up to him and nodded at the gathering. "What's all this about, then?"

The older man, who was slight but strong-looking in the way that dancers often were, looked him up and down dismissively. "They're participants in an international dance competition."

Well, if the man thought Mick was useless already, he'd lean into that. "Naw," he said, doing his best to sound thick and impressed. "What kind of dance? I've two left feet, my own self."

"I'm sure you do," the man said under his breath.

We could thump him, Mick's gorilla suggested mildly as the man went on, "Irish dance. Bloody competitors from all over the world, getting in on an Irish tradition."

Thumping him sounded like a pretty good idea, but Mick decided they'd probably better not. "Ah sure though, isn't it grand to have people interested? Keep the tradition alive and all?"

"There's plenty of dancers in Ireland to do that," the man snapped.

"Are they allowed to compete in this?" Mick knew they were, since he'd seen county dancers being named in the performance the night before, but this fella didn't need to know he knew that.

"Sure and there's half of them from Ireland," the man said grudgingly. "And they'll take away the trophies, I'm sure, but still, I could do without the rest of them horning in."

Mick nodded solemnly. "Not that it would be much of an international competition if there weren't international competitors."

The judge gave him a hard look. "There'd be competitors from the North, and that'd be enough."

That was technically true, since the island of Ireland consisted of two countries, all of which were Ireland but part of which was also Britain.

"There's that, I suppose," Mick said neutrally.

"Well, good luck to them, then, and thanks for your time.

" He backed off, giving the judge plenty of space, and returned to watching the photography session.

Everybody, including Irina, was obviously having a good time, though every once in a while she glanced his way as if to reassure herself he was still there. Mick loved those little check-ins, and wondered if she even knew she was doing it.

She knows she likes us, his gorilla said. That's all that matters.

At last the dancers were released from the photo shoot, and Irina came bouncing back Mick's way, a smile on her face. "They showed us our head shots. I loved mine. I thought I looked really cute."

Mick grinned down at her. "Of course you did. So are the lot of you a team, is that it? All the Americans together like?"

"Oh, no." Irina shook her head, ponytail swinging.

"It's every man for himself out there. A dog eat dog world.

There are five of us. Americans, I mean.

Regional champions, because it turns out there are a lot of Irish dancers in the US.

Most other places only have one or two representatives.

India has three, though, and like I said, there are two women from Japan. "

"I don't see as many men, though?" They'd fallen into step together, wandering toward the old fort walls, although Mick had to keep an eye on his pace so he didn't outrun Irina.

"There never are, in dance. There are about fifteen of them here, I think, which is quite a lot, out of a hundred. Most of my classes never had any." Irina looked Mick up and down with an impish smile. "I don't suppose you'd like to start?"

Mick laughed. "I'd break the stage, jumping up and down on it like that. All those lads are little things, compared to me."

"And we don't do lifts the way ballet does." Irina grinned up at him. "Probably just as well. You'd throw people through the rafters."

We wouldn't throw our mate through the rafters! Mick's gorilla said in alarm. Only anyone who threatened her.

We're not throwing anybody through the rafters, Mick promised.

Good. The gorilla paused. What are rafters?

Mick fought down another laugh, then realized Irina's comment was worth one, and let it out. "A wee little thing like you? I would so. But I'd rather not."

"Not unless I can cling to the rafters like a monkey," Irina agreed, then, turning her gaze to the fort, added, "This place is amazing. I mean, it's older than my entire country."

"And it's the new fort!"

"What!"

"C'mere so." Mick led Irina up to the ramparts, gesturing to the far side of the harbor. "Over there is James Fort, a hundred years older than this one. There was something else there before it, too, but these ones, they're both star forts, did they tell you about that on the tour?"

"No, they were mostly trying to keep us together so we could be photographed. What's a star fort?"

"You see how the bit we're on sticks out from the rest?

" Mick gestured at how the walls angled out from the main hexagon of the fort's walls, then waved toward the other two bastions that did the same thing.

"James Fort is a bit like this too, and from above they look a bit like a star.

The shape of them meant cannon balls rolled along the angles and lost power instead of cracking straight through.

Charles Fort here was built expecting enemy attack from the sea, which is why it's so well-fortified on this side.

Unfortunately for the lads building the thing, right about as they finished it, cannon range was extended, so the enemy just went…

" He turned around, pointing toward the hills above the fort on the landward side.

"Up there. And shot straight over the walls into the fort with their new, fancy cannons. "

"No!"

"There's not a word of a lie in it."

Irina clapped her hands over her face. "What's the saying? You're always prepared for the last war?"

Mick nodded, glancing skyward, where clouds scuttled across the blue at a fast clip. "Though at home here in Ireland I think of it as always being prepared for yesterday's weather."

"Oh, no, is it going to rain?" Irina looked up, but Mick shook his head, smiling.

"I don't think so. Well. It's Ireland, so, yes. But probably not right away. It's just I can't count the number of times I've expected today to be like yesterday and dressed either too warm or too cold for it."

"I'm from Washington State, so the temperatures are a lot like they seem to be here, but my town doesn't get much rain, so it's harder to dress wrong for the weather, I think." Wind came up and caught her ponytail, flaring it around her face, and she smoothed it absently.

"Washington State? That's where Seattle is, isn't it? I thought it rained loads there."

"It doesn't rain as much as people think, it just rains all the time ." Irina squinted. "That's true but sounds wrong. I mean, it doesn't rain hard, but it's misty a lot."

Mick barked a laugh of recognition. "Ah. A fine soft day, we'd say."

"That sounds about right. But anyway, I'm not from Seattle. I live a couple hours away, across the Sound in a town called Sequim."

" Squim? "

"Know how last night you were telling me there's separated by a common language, and then there's the fact that Irish is actually a separate one?

" Irina twisted her ponytail over her shoulder.

The wind blew it in her face again immediately and Mick fought the urge to brush it back again for her.

"Sequim is a local word, or at least, derived from one.

It means 'shooting place,' basically. It was good hunting grounds for the S'Klallam tribes who live on the peninsula. "

"Aaah, I should have known better than to be bold about a town name. God knows the Irish have enough odd-sounding ones of our own. Here now, will we go into town? I've a car, I could drive you back. We could have lunch and hire a boat for the afternoon? Do you sail at all?"

"Actually yes! I haven't since I was a kid, but we used to go out on the Sound. I'd love to go here. That would be a real memory to take home with me."

Mick's heart gave an unexpected pang at the reminder that Irina wasn't planning on staying.

It would have to work out somehow—probably America needed DJs too—but the thought of her going back home to Sequim made his chest hurt.

He took a deep breath, though, and offered a gallant, "I'll do my best to make it special. "