Page 5 of Bracing The Storm

He does not strike me as the friendliest person on earth, but at this point I’ll take grumpy and sarcastic over killer any time.

“Thanks.” I almost choke on the word and struggle to my feet, avoiding his outstretched hand.

“Suit yourself.” He reaches his truck in a few long strides and plops down in the driver’s seat. I hurry after him to make sure he doesn’t desert me. I might not know the guy but, from what I’ve gathered so far, first impressions and all that, I wouldn’t put it past him.

“Wait. I need to get my baggage.” I look at him, almost expecting him to offer his help, but fat chance. I frown. His face is turned away from me. Either he hasn’t heard me or he’s deliberately ignoring me.

“Please don’t inconvenience yourself on my behalf,” I mumble and proceed to gather my baggage off the road.

“Throw it in the boot,” he calls out.

“What?”

“The cargo area of a car,” the guy says. “What’s wrong with you? You don’t speak English?”

“Oh, you mean thetrunk? My English skills are just fine.” I shoot him a venomous look, which I hope he can see, as I’m slowly beginning to realize Irish English in addition to that accent of his is a completely foreign language to me, ranking right up there with Chinese and German.

Stifling a groan, I lift my suitcase and haul it into the trunk, mumbling, “Chivalry isn’t dead after all. Who would have guessed?”

“Done?” he asks as soon as I hop into the passenger seat.

“Yes. I’m glad you didn’t inconvenience yourself on my behalf.” I throw him another look but his face is turned away from me again and it’s too dark to make out much. “Do you know the fastest way to—” I fish for the letter inside my handbag when he cuts me short.

“You’re the strainséir who’s waiting for a pickup?”

I raise my eyebrows, wondering what the heck he just said.

“Thestranger,” he clarifies. “The stranger who needs to be picked up.” He says the last part like I have the intelligence of a toddler and might get lost on the way from the kitchen to the bathroom.

“Yes,” I say calmly, imitating his tone. “I am the stranger who’s not familiar with this place because she’s never been here before.”

“Good. I was just making sure I have the right person. Can’t risk picking up a murderer, you know.”

“Yes, because I absolutely look like one. I also just so happen to carry heavy suitcases with me everywhere,” I mutter under my breath, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.

He starts the engine and makes a U-turn, which sends my insides into painful knots every time he hits the brakes with more fervor than necessary.

“So, you know where Gleann Searúill is? You do know where to take me?” I ask.

He lets out a breath that sounds like a mixture between a scoff and a sigh, which makes me assume he knows exactly where to go and finds it offensive that I even dared question his knowledge of local directions. “There’s only one way and it goes in the right direction.”

“Of course. That makes perfect sense.”

“You really need to work on your pronunciation,” the guy says. “No wonder the driver didn’t understand a word.”

Huh!

I bite my tongue hard before something offensive does slip out. It’s not like me to offend people, but there’s something about this guy that really pushes my buttons.

Time to change the subject, and what better way to suck up to the locals than by proclaiming Ireland is an impressive place? It’s not even a lie. From what I’ve seen so far, the scenery is both unusual and stunning.

I wait until my stomach has settled a little before I resume the conversation.

“It’s very quiet here. Almost tranquil. Reminds me a bit of yoga without the physical exertion.” I laugh at my own attempt to infuse some much-needed humor into the situation.

He mumbles something indefinable and turns on the music.

So much for making small talk. That about sums up all of his interest in pursuing any sort of conversation.

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