Page 89 of Tee’d Up For Trouble

“I know. But you’ll come back to me.”

“Every time. Maybe you can come and watch me play.”

I kissed him softly. “I’d love to.”

He smiled, his hand sliding around my waist as he pulled me to my feet. “Good. Now, dance with me.”

“Out here?”

“Out here.” He spun me into his arms, and before I knew it, we were swaying under the stars, the faint music from the pub drifting through the night air.

I let myself relax. The fight was over, spring was in the air, and I was in the arms of the man I loved.

And even though I knew he’d have to leave soon, I also knew he’d come back. Because Ballybeg wasn’t just my home anymore; it was his, too.

I was going to suggest we sneak away and head to bed when Ronan came running outside. “Dee,” he called out.

“What?”

“It’s Liam,” he said sadly.

“No.” I shook my head. “No,” I repeated.

Ronan’s expression didn’t change, and the weight of loss hit me like a punch to the gut. Liam Murphy, the man who had grumbled over his pints and pinched my arse more times than I cared to count, was gone.

I felt Jax step up beside me, his hand warm and steady on my back. “Let’s get you inside. Ronan, who do we call?’

“I called the garda, but the doctor is in there, so….”

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak. Liam had been part of this village for longer than I’d been alive. He was one of the cornerstones of Ballybeg, the kind of man you thought would live forever simply because you couldn’t imagine the place without him.

“He died while he was at a party at The Banshee’s Rest,” Jax said softly, “And I know he pinched your arse today, I saw him do it.”

I chuckled.

“He died happy, Dee.”

I nodded and let him hold my hand so we could go back inside the pub and say goodbye to an old friend.

* * *

We gave Liam Murphy a proper Irish send-off.

We held his wake at The Banshee’s Rest, and every inch of space was filled with people who’d come to say goodbye to him. A photo of him—grinning broadly, a pint of Guinness in one hand and a bottle of Irish whiskey in the other—was propped up on the bar next to a small bouquet of wildflowers.

“So, what’s an Irish wake like?” Jax had asked me that morning.

“They’re loud, messy, filled with drink, stories, and laughter…and tears,” I told him and added, “You’ll love it.”

As we all toasted our drinks to Liam, the stories started to be told.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Liam fell into the Shannon and claimed he’d been trying to fish with his bare hands?” Liam Ryan said.

“Bare hands, my arse,” Seamus cut in. “The man was three sheets to the wind and chasing a duck, and you all know it.”

The room erupted with the kind of laughter that made your ribs ache. I couldn’t help but smile despite the sadness twisting in my chest.

Liam didn’t have much family. He and his wife didn’t have children, and when she passed, he’d made The Banshee’s Rest his home, a lot like Angus and so many others had. Family he may not have had, but he had all of us.

---