Page 13 of Tee’d Up For Trouble

Ronan came in then with the tea for Liam. He probably had heard Cillian and was here to make sure he was kicked out on his arse if he as much as breathed wrong.

“Ah, if it ain’t the golden boy of the let’s-ruin-Ballybeg brigade.” He set down the tea in front of Liam.

“I see that your pitbull is still here.” Cillian’s eyes flashed anger. They’d come to fisticuffs a few months ago when Cillian had made disparaging statements about certain parts of my body.

“Pitbull with sharp teeth.” Ronan snarled for effect.

Liam chuckled.

The O’Malley brothers at the other end of the bar guffawed.

In general, a smattering of laughter ran through the place.

“No matter.” Cillian turned to me and winked. “You know the vote is all but a done deal, don’t you, Dee?”

Aoife folded her arms. “I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re not from here, Aoife,” I threw at her and then glared at Cillian. “It’s a bit early for a victory lap, don’t you think?”

“Regardless. I’m not here to see you but….” Cillian looked around.

“Dee, maybe the arsehole is here for a pint of Guinness to wash down that load of shite he’s been spreading about his ‘community-friendly development’?” Aislin Boyle, who was at one of the tables with her ma, celebrating her eightieth, called out.

Aoife’s lips curved into a condescending smile. “Now, now, Aislin. No need to be hostile. Change can be a good thing. You know, progress?”

“Is that what you call bulldozing farmland and sticking a shopping center where the cows used to graze?” I shot back.

Aoife opened her mouth to reply, but Cillian, the feckin’ diplomat, held up a hand.

“We didn’t come here to argue,” he said smoothly. “Why don’t we calm down?”

His condescension put my back up,aye, but it did.

“You know, maybe we can be cordial. Aoife, sweetheart, take a seat.” They both sat at the bar. “It’s chicken night.” He read the board. “Is the food as good now as I remember?”

He had the nerve to bring up the food. My sister, Maggie, had cooked for this pub every day until the cancer got too bad. The food was still good—thanks to Ronan’s talent in the kitchen—but hearing Cillian talk about it like some nostalgic curiosity made me want to launch a pint at his head. Especially since the bastard had blamedmefor his cheating, saying I spent too much time with Maggie.

Didn’t you know? A man, apparently, had needs.

I grabbed a clean glass and pulled his drink patiently. “Pint of Guinness, was it?” I asked my tone all sugar and acid.

Before he could answer, the pub door swung open, and in walked Jax Caldwell—rain-dampened, flushed, and carrying himself like he was the Lord himself.

Where the hell had he been all day? I thought angrily and then did a mental head slap ‘cause I sounded like a bloody wife, which I wasn’t.

“Ah, there he is!” Cillian’s voice boomed, all false charm. “The man of the hour! Jax Caldwell in Ballybeg of all places.”

What the feckin’ fuck?

I should’ve known. Cillian wasn’t here to poke at me, he was here for business, to lure Jax into his scheme to mow down Ballybeg.

Jax blinked, clearly not expecting the attention, but his easy smile didn’t falter. “Ah, hello.”

Cillian rushed to him, his hand extended. He was ready to kiss the man’s ring, for God’s sake.

Jax looked at his hand and shook it hesitantly. “Ah…who are you?”

“Cillian O’Farrell. I am the Vice President of Projects for Irish Dream Developments.”

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