Page 11 of Tee’d Up For Trouble

My boarder woke me up…well, me and my lady parts.

I had gone downstairs to the pub and found himshirtlessin sweatpants, sweating as he drank water from a glass while he stood on thewrongside…my side of the bar. But I’d told him he could, so I couldn’t yell at him about it, now, could I?

He’d obviously gone running bright and early. It was only seven in the morning. Ronan wouldn’t be in until eight when he’d start getting ready for the lunch service, and the regulars would start strolling in when we opened at eleven.

“Good morning.” Jax set the glass of water on the bar.

“Good morning,” I murmured, watching his muscles ripple as he rotated his shoulders. When I thought of a golfer, I thought of a potbellied, old white man, with orange hair; I didn’t think they looked likehim.

Jax wasbuilt.

Broad shoulders tapered down to a trim, muscular waist, and his arms—Jesus, his arms—were roped with sinewy strength that spoke of hours of driving golf balls across pristine fairways. His chest was sculpted, his abs a defined roadmap that hinted at grueling workouts beyond just swinging a club. And those V-shaped lines disappearing into the waistband of those should-be-illegal low-slung sweatpants…well, they weren’t doing me any favors this early in the morning.

I blinked, forcing myself to look anywhere but at him, but my traitorous brain had other ideas, and for some Godforsaken reason, I found myself wondering how a man who spent most of his time on a golf course could look like he moonlighted as a Greek statue.

“Would you like coffee?” I asked and refrained from clearing my throat. The hell with him. I’d seen better-looking men, and they did nothing for me.

Jax Caldwell could go feck himself!

Or me? He could….

Feckin’ hell!

“No, thanks.” Jax shook his head. “I’m going to take a shower and go to the bakery. Get a scone as you suggested.”

Those dimples! They should be illegal, too.

But it wasn’t just how he looked. It was how he talked. He was polite. He wasn’t brash. He wasnice.He spoke to everyone last night, and how he’d taken care of Fiadh while her parents dealt with the wee one who was crying up a storm, had made every woman’s ovaries give out a low moan.

He was a stranger. He was rich. He drove a Porsche, and according to Google, he was from Charleston and came from old Southern American money. He’d won the PGA Championshiptwice, one of the youngest to do so. He also had cheated on his most recent girlfriend, a supermodel.

“Well, then…ah…have a nice day.” I hurried into the kitchen and waited to hear the sound of the creaky steps that Jax took to go to his room before I came back into the bar.

My vibrator stopped working a couple of months ago, and I had not bothered to replace it, which I now knew was a mistake. So, I decided to order one right away.

I didn’t have time to dwell on Jax (thank the Lord) because there was so much work to do. Cleaning, helping in the kitchen, doing inventory, restocking the bar, wiping down the tables, polishing the taps, making sure the kegs were connected correctly, double-checking the till, placing new orders for anything running low, sweeping out the front entrance, and, of course, wrangling Saoirse into helping Ronan prep the day’s menu without starting a kitchen fire. It was a Thursday, and we served roast chicken with champ, along with seeded brown bread, which Ronan baked. It was hearty and nutty, a real crowd-pleaser. For dessert, Ronan was making an apple tart with custard.

Ronan adjusted the menu with the seasons and always used locally available ingredients. In spring, while the chill still lingered in the air, he made nourishing meals to warm body and soul.

It wasn’t like I was paying attention, but my boarder went for breakfast and didn’t return for lunch, and by around five in the evening, I was wondering if the Yank had gotten himself lost.

The crowd had simmered down around four and would rise again at seven for dinner. I was taking the opportunity to wipe down the tables.

“You know, if you married me, you wouldn’t have to do hard labor,” Liam Murphy remarked.

“If I married you, I’d go to prison for killing you, and I would have to do harder labor,” I teased.

Liam had come to Ballybeg ten years ago with his wife, who’d died of breast cancer two years ago. Since then, he’d tried to live the best he could, but when he was hit with cancer, and after seeing what his wife went through with chemo, he decided against treatment. The doctors, I knew, had given him a few months at best, and he was spending a good part of them at The Banshee’s Rest.

“What’s the point, pet, when I got just a year…I want to live it here, not in a hospital.”

I was with him on that. Maggie had wanted to die at home—she’d been militant about it, and I’d supported her. My heart felt heavy because I still missed her—the grief, I knew, would lessen, but never fully disappear.

“Liam, you haven’t eaten a thing.” I rebuked him as I looked at his plate of roast chicken and champ. He’d eaten some of the champ but none of the chicken.

“Today is not a good day, lass,” he said quietly.

“You want something else?” I put a hand on his shoulder. He covered mine with his. “How about a milk tea? Something to soothe the stomach.”

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