Page 86 of Tee’d Up For Trouble

“Good girl.” He kissed my hair, and I fell asleep smiling because I was happy.

CHAPTER33

Jax

Iwas expecting it, so I wasn’t surprised to see Gil’s name flash on my phone as I sat out on The Banshee’s Rest small terrace that Ronan and I had set up because the weather changed. It was just a few wooden picnic tables we’d scrubbed clean, with mismatched cushions that Dee had picked up from a thrift shop in Ennis to give it some charm.

Potted flowers—daffodils, tulips, and some early-blooming pansies—lined the edges of the space, brightening the gray stone patio with splashes of yellow, red, and purple.

The tables were spaced just far enough apart that you could have a private conversation if you spokeveryquietly, and we’d strung fairy lights overhead, crisscrossing from the pub’s eaves to the stone wall that bordered the terrace. When the sun dipped low, the lights made the whole space feel like magic, especially on a clear spring evening.

The air still had a bit of a chill to it—this was April in Ireland, after all—but when the sun was out and the wind was calm, you couldn’t ask for a better spot to sip a pint and watch the world go by.

I answered my phone, knowing this wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation. “Gil.”

His voice came through the line like a shotgun blast. “Jax, what the hell is going on in Ballybeg? The council is panicking. I’ve got lawyers calling me about new zoning laws, public pressure campaigns, and rumors of laws being drafted to stop projects like mine dead in their tracks. Care to explain?”

I took a sip of my pint to buy myself a second. “Sounds like you’ve been busy,” I said, keeping my voice calm.

“I think, son, it’s you who have been busy,” Gil quipped. “I’m on damage control, you little shit. You think I don’t know you’re the one behind all the noise? Ballybeg’s council was in my pocket a month ago, and now they’re ready to throw the whole project into the bin.”

“Well—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Talking to ESPN and Sports Illustrated about your freaking love life?”

“Hey, don’t forget the features inGolf Digest,Golf Monthly, andThe Athletic,” I reminded him. “And I’m talking to top golf influencers next week. You know Peter Finch and Ricky Shiels?”

“Son of a bitch.”

“They’ll have Ballybeg plastered all over their feeds and reels. And not to mention, I am going to be on several podcasts.”

“Yeah, that asshole from The Fried Egg got in touch with me, wanting to ask questions about why I’m fucking over your girlfriend’s village. It’s a clusterfuck.” Big Gil was annoyed as hell, and it was music to my ears.

I wasn’t sure if any of this would work, but he’d just now told me it had because he’s most probably lost the city council. I wanted to jump up and down, but I kept my cool. No point making an enemy out of a man like Big Gil.

“Your first mistake was working with Cillian O’Farrell, who doesn’t know his ass from a bunker. He’s been selling you a fairy tale, and Ballybeg was going to be hard work, and you’d be fucking over people.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, the sound of Gil breathing heavily like he was trying to rein himself in. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I looked at the data and?—”

“It’s lawsuits waiting to happen. You saw the coverage of the protests. And now there’s an investigation on how Cillian manipulated the evaluation so the land taxes would go up, and you’d pay more and make his commission bigger.”

That got through to Gil. Money always did.

“You’re saying he fabricated the land price?” Gil asked.

“Something like that. He worked with someone in the county office to fuck everyone in Ballybeg over. You’d have sunk millions into this thing just to have it all blow up in your face.”

“And what makes you think you’re such an expert now?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Perfect bait!“Because I talked to someone whoisan expert. Fiona Hennessey. She’s a developer down in Cork, and she showed me some properties that are a hell of a lot better suited for what you’re trying to do. Better infrastructure, less resistance from the locals, and no zoning nightmares to deal with. Honestly, it’s a win-win for everyone.”

There was another pause, and I could almost hear the gears turning in Gil’s head. “I’ve heard of Fiona Hennessey. What’s her angle?”

“Her angle is making money without pissing off half the Irish countryside,” I remarked. “She doesn’t care about Ballybeg—hell, she probably thinks I’m insane for fighting this hard to protect it. But she’s got the data to back up the properties that are up for sale, Gil. I can send you her contact info, and you can see for yourself.”

“I have her contact info.”

“Then use it, for fuck’s sake,” I snapped.

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