Page 92 of Tee’d Up For Trouble

“Now, who’s going to pay for this?”

Cormac O’Murphy, who had met every problem a body could come up with, raised his hand. “And how do you plan to pay for all this, Yank? Golf courses aren’t exactly cheap, you know.”

“Now, Cormac, don’t start with that,” Dee warned.

“I’m just sayin’ that I don’t like some rich yank throwing his money around Ballybeg as if he owns it,” Cormac grumbled.

“Jax is one of us now, Cormac.” Mrs. Nolan slapped the back of the barber’s head. “Now stop being a feckin’ eejit and let the man talk.”

“I’ll cover the upfront costs.” I met Cormac’s gaze. “I’ll reach out to some of my sponsors to see if they’ll back the project, which we will run as a nonprofit.”

“Will there be jobs?” Darragh Nolan, Eileen’s nephew, asked.

“Yeah, of course. This will be a Ballybeg initiative that we’ll set on Dee’s land. We’ll have all kinds of jobs, won’t we, Dee?”

“We’ll need to maintain the course, build the cabins, I mean…I don’t even know all the work that we’ll have to do.” Dee was hopping with excitement, just as everyone else was.

“I mow everyone’s lawn.” Darragh stood up as if going for a job interview. “You’ll need a man to keep the grass in order, Jax, and I’m your man for it.”

“Hired.” I felt my heart grow three sizes. Had I ever felt like this before? Ever felt at home like this amongst people who cared about each other?

Speaking of caring for each other, there was one sodding Irishman who could go fuck himself up, and he certainly did while he crashed our happy gathering.

The laughter was still rippling through the pub when the door slammed open so hard it rattled the windows. Every head turned toward the entrance as Cillian O’Farrell, looking like he’d crawled out of hell, walked in. His suit jacket was rumpled, his tie half-undone, and there was a wild, desperate look in his eyes that made most everyone pause mid-sip.

“Ah, Christ,” Ronan muttered under his breath.

Cillian stumbled inside, his cheeks flushed, and his mouth twisted in anger.

“There you are, Jax feckin’ Caldwell,” Cillian spat, his voice slurring slightly. “Big man, aren’t ya? Ballybeg’s bloody savior.”

I’d been in enough bar fights in my younger days to recognize when someone was spoiling for one, and Cillian looked like he was ready to swing at the first person who crossed him.

“Cillian, don’t do this.” Dee stepped forward, and I put a hand on her shoulder, fuck, no, was she putting herself in front of a drunk eejit.

“This is all your fault for leaving me in the first place,” he snapped, pointing a finger at her.

“Stop being a feckin’ gobshite, Cillian and get the feck out of here,” Seamus shouted.

“Stay out of this.” Cillian swayed where he stood.

At this rate, he’d crash before he landed a punch, which would be the best possible outcome of this ridiculous showdown.

“This Yank waltzed in here with his deep pockets, and now look at me. I’m under feckin’ investigation. My uncle fired me. Aoife’s left me…sheleft me. And Fiona Hennessey stole the Shamrock Global Venture deal right out from under me.”

Ronan put a hand on Cillian’s shoulder. “You need to go home and sleep it off.”

“We shouldn’t let him drive like this,” Eileen Nolan warned.

I looked pointedly at Dee. “He’s not sleeping upstairs.”

She made a face. “I wasn’t about to suggest that.”

“Sure you weren’t.”

She shrugged. She hated the gobshite, but she wasn’t mean. Prickly, my Dee could be, but she had the biggest heart.

Cillian stumbled into Ronan and said pitifully, “I’ve got no home, mate. No job. No future. They took all that from me.”

---