Page 4 of Tee’d Up For Trouble

“Yeah,” I grumbled. She had a point.

Paddy finished his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I’m gonna take his vehicle to the garage, Dee, and see what’s what. He needs a room for the night, and he’ll be outta your hair before ye can say feck off back to America.”

“I’d never say that!” Dee protested before her eyes lingered on me for a moment as if trying to figure out what to do with me. Then, with a dismissive shrug, added, “Room’s upstairs. Don’t expect much. The sheets are clean, but the walls are thin. And if you’re looking for tea service or room service or service of any kind, you’re about fifty miles too far west for that kind of craic. The room’s gonna cost you seventy-five euros a night, and you can pay when you leave.”

“Got it.” This woman was a riot, even if I did feel like I’d walked into the Irish version ofTwin Peaks.

“Oh.” She was already halfway down the bar. “And if you touch my whiskey stash, I’ll know.”

Oh, Wild Cat, there are other things I’d like to touch….

“Is it any good? The whiskey, I mean?” I drawled cheekily.

“Oh, it’s the best you’ll never taste,” she shot back, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “I don’t think I’ll be wastin’ it on the likes of you, Yank.”

We’ll see about that, Wild Cat.

Paddy slapped my shoulder. “Welcome to Ballybeg.”

CHAPTER2

Dee

It was bad enough that I had to deal with that useless whiskey supplier earlier. Now, on top of that, I’d been saddled with the human equivalent of a golden retriever in a golf cap. Sunshine charm radiating off him like heat from a fire. A smile so wide and white it probably blinded small children back in America, where he’d crawled out of.

Women probably threw themselves at the yank. Oh, I could see that. He was a charmer. All that gorgeous hair once he removed that PGA cap. Blue-blue-blue eyes and a body that said, “I’m not your pot-bellied Uncle Don who plays golf—I’m sexy-as-sin Jax.”

What kind of name was that, really? A Yankee name, that’s what that was.

I didn’t think he was one of the resort people—oh, but he could be, couldn’t he? They may have sent him over to spy on us. That thought amused me. The resort people,thoseYankees, didn’t think we were enough of a threat to mount such a stratagem.

Jax and I climbed the stairs, and they creaked, just like they’d been for the past hundred years. My mam, God rest her soul, had started to rent out the rooms upstairs when she and my da bought the farm—so we became The Banshee’s Rest Pub& Inn.

The inn had housed drunks, husbands who were kicked out of their homes, lost tourists, and now, apparently, a professional golfer. Unlike Paddy, I was familiar with golfing being a popular sport, especially with all the golf courses we had in Ireland—but then our Padraig lived in his bubble. Ask him about a car engine, and he’d talk your ear off. Ask him about beer, and he’d be able to tell you the hops, the malt, and the exact year the brewery changed their feckin’ formula—but ask him about anything else, and you’d get a grunt and a shrug, that is, if you’re lucky.

As we reached the landing, I saw his shoes. Designer sneakers? Really? The brand was Balenciaga. That pair could probably pay my mortgage on the farm for a few months.

It wasn’t like I had a problem with money. I liked the damn stuff just as much as the next person; I just didn’t understand why a body would need so much of it. I mean, just enough to have a home, eat and drink, and maybe go on a vacation here and there—what else was there?

Apparently, designer shoes, I thought caustically.

And he called me ma’am, like I was somebody’s granny shuffling around in orthopedic shoes…or the fecking Queen. But he said it with an American accent, so it sounded weird, too.

I glanced over my shoulder as I shoved open the door to one of the four rooms we had. “Here we are.”

He stepped inside, looking around like he was touring a bloody museum. The room was small, sure, but it was clean. A Queen-size bed sat against the far wall, its quilt patched with a hundred shades of green and blue. A small dresser sat under the window, and a framed photo of the Cliffs of Moher hung on the wall, slightly crooked because I hadn’t gotten around to fixing it.

“This is very cozy,” he said, sounding like feckin’ Rhett Butler fromGone With The Wind.

He walked past me to the window and looked out. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell he was thinking.

“Wow,” he murmured, almost reverently.

I rolled my eyes, though my heart fluttered with pride. “It’s just a view,” I remarked flippantly. But I knew that it wasn’tjustanything. The room looked out over the rolling green hills of Ballybeg, dotted with dry-stone walls that zigzagged like old scars across the land. In the distance, you could just make out the edge of the cliffs, rising against the crashing waves of the Atlantic. The sea shimmered like silver in the late morning light, the kind of wild beauty that made you catch your breath no matter how many times you’d seen it.Wow,was indeed right.

“It’s stunning.” He glanced back at me.

“It’s raining.”

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