Page 4 of Delectable Soul

I get up to use the toilet, and stop in front of the far window. It’s closed. Thinking back to last night, I could swear I opened it.

* * *

Around eleven, Granda drives his ancient car at a snail’s pace all the way into town, parking outside of The Jammy Captain, a pub I remember from my childhood. He used to take me here for lunch and darts with his friends, and I’d eat my weight in chips. We make our way in, and his friends holler his name from the other side of the bar. Although they all look older, I remember each one like I just saw them yesterday.

“Seamus!” Mr. McClaren shouts as he thwacks his cane into the floor.

“Get your gammy arse over here!” Mr. Monroe yells, causing the other patrons to shake their heads and laugh. Granda and his friends garnered the moniker of the Wiley Old Coots Club, and have obviously kept it up while I was away.

“You brought your granddaughter?” Mr. Shaughnessy asks, in a more reserved voice. “The next James Joyce!”

“Ya fluthered eejits, shut your bakes and calm down,” Granda shouts as we make our way over to two empty seats.

“Do you remember me, young lady?” a gentleman with a flat cap asks from the opposite end of the table. “It’s been donkey’s years since we’ve seen you.”

“Of course I do, Mr. McCormick. How are you?” Niall McCormick has been a close friend of Granda’s for years. How could I forget him?

“I’m well. Very sorry to hear of your husband’s passing, but so glad you could join us today,” he says solemnly.

“Thank you,” I squeak, looking down at my shoes. It’s still uncomfortable talking about it, even though it’s been six months.

They get the hint, and no one mentions Daire for the rest of the meal. The conversation eventually picks up again, and it’s like the Irish inquisition. Over a few pints of Guinness, they ask me how school went, and if I have any pets. Because a pet cat would be a balm to my soul, according to Mr. Shaughnessy. Mr. McClaren asks about my writing, inquiring if I’ve got anything in the works. His wife and daughter have read all of my books and say they can’t wait for the next one. I don’t have the heart to tell him I haven’t had inspiration since Daire passed. All in all, it’s a good meal, but the last thing I want to do is spend the afternoon getting grilled by a bunch of old heads.

“Granda, have another pint. I’m going to go to the bookstore across the street and pick out a few things to read while I’m here,” I say as I hastily make my exit, crossing the street and traveling down a few shoppes until I can see the display window.

I stare into the window, spying some romance and mystery novels that look interesting.I’ll have to check those out.This store has always been here, but the inside seems packed from wall to wall with more aisles of books. I have so many memories of coming here and deliberating on what book to buy. Sometimes Granda and I would take turns reading the mysteries we bought aloud to each other in his sitting room. He’d always figure out who the murderer was before the halfway mark. That’s something he and Daire had in common. The few times we visited Granda, Daire had only beat him to it once, when we read L.J. Ross’Holy Island.

I shake the memory from my mind. It’s too hard to think about Daire, even if it’s about good times. Because even the good memories serve as a reminder that he isn’t here with me. We won’t make any more of them together.

As I walk into the store, I’m hit with the distinct smell of books. Paper and ink can be a heady combination. It’s freezing in here, so I pull my sweater out of my bag and make my way down the aisles, looking for something interesting. Most of what I read are e-books, but sometimes I just want a physical book in my hand. Nothing beats the feeling of a crisp page from a new book on your fingertips—it’s a completely different experience. I see a sign for paranormal romance books.It would be nice to escape reality for a while.Most of what I write is contemporary romance thrillers, so this could be a good change of pace.

Immediately, a black and red cover with a thick girl in dark leather catches my eye. I’ve never read anything by M. Bonnet, but this seems like a good read. I love seeing women who look like me on book covers.

“Have you read this book?” a deep, raspy male voice says. I look up and see a man so handsome that he takes my breath away.

His beautiful, vibrant red hair matches a closely trimmed beard. Dark green eyes peer down at me behind thick-rimmed black glasses…and he has a long way to peer down. His Roman nose gives him a rugged look, like he’s been in a few scraps. He has to be over 6’5” making me feel tiny in comparison. His height and thick, muscular build are a complete juxtaposition to the nerd vibe he gives off.

“No, I’ve never heard of it before. The cover caught my eye.”

I can’t help but stare intohiseyes. They’re a forest green, with little flecks of yellow and hazel toward the center.They remind me of Daire’s.A little voice inside me warns me to stay away from him, turn around and never look back, but he draws me in. I want to get to know him better.

“It’s the first book in a series about this young woman who doesn’t know she’s magical, and she meets these guys who end up turning her life upside down. Two of them are demons, one is a Greek god, and the other is a hellbound creature,” the man says. His voice is deep and gravelly, and it makes me feel flustered. “A great read if you feel like getting lost in another world for a while.”

“That’s the p-plan,” I stutter.

I was never good at talking to people, trying to blend into the background so no one noticed me. But now that I am a widow, every interaction just seems weird and tainted by my loss and grief. But this man is a stranger. There’s no way he’d know I am an awkward twenty-three year old widow. He couldn’t possibly feel sorry for me. The thought of talking to an attractive stranger who didn’t know me is actually freeing, even exhilarating. I catch him smiling down at me, and I blush.Is this nameless stranger flirting with me?

“I’m being rude. My name is Hunter Black,” the man says as he extends his hand. I jostle my purse and book around, shaking his hand and trying to make eye contact so I’m less awkward. “I’m sorry if I’m bothering you.”

He shrugs as he throws me a warm, genuine smile. Something about him seems so familiar, I just can’t help but want to talk to him. Maybe I’m just being insecure and feeling guilty. He seems so nice.

“No, not at all. I’m Fiadh Donahue. Sorry, I’m just shy. But I love talking about books. I’m actually a writer,” I blurt.Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I must sound like such a fool.

“What’s your pen name? What do you write?” he inquires. Not the way other people ask half-heartedly, to try to make conversation. He actually sounds interested.

“My books are mostly romantic thrillers and a few raunchy rom-coms. M. O’Hara.”

“Wait, did you writeUnder the Alder Tree?!”

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