Page 52 of Bracing The Storm

“They must love your hot cross buns,” I say to her.

She beams at me, revealing perfect teeth. “They do. But they love news, rumors, and a bit of gossip even more. Nothing everhappens around here. A few weeks ago, we had a lost cow stopping traffic for an hour. It was the talk of the month.”

I laugh. “Sounds like a great place to live.”

She pats my hand with a smile. I swear I can see the unspoken question in her eyes.

Why don’t you?

Yes, why don’t I?

The Irish are almost too welcoming. The Walsh residence is a paid-off dream come true. There’s nothing but worries and problems waiting for me back home.

And then there’s Patrick.

Because, let’s face it, this isn’t about me suddenly seeing the appeal in enjoying the quaint life. It’s about him. I don’t know what’s happening to me, why my little world seems to center around him. But the prospect of packing up my bags and never seeing him again is almost as scary as the realization that he’s started to take up all my brain space.

It’s freaking me out.

“Let’s keep you hydrated, shall we?” Sinead pushes a pint of beer into my hand and scans the room for a free table. There isn’t one.

“You, ladies, want a seat?” a pimply, red-haired kid who can’t be older than eighteen points at his lap.

Sinead slaps him upside the head playfully. “Maybe once you’re out of your diapers, Matty.”

He guffaws like she’s just told the joke of the year while his eyes shine with so much infatuation I wouldn’t be surprised if you could see them glowing all the way from Australia.

I throw her a sideways glance and realize sheisa sight with her long mane of red hair and emerald-green eyes. My threat radar pings up a little as I remember the way she talked about Patrick. It wasn’t anything in particular, just little nuances here and there, like the way she brushed her hair out of her eyes orthe way she seemed to reminiscence. But it was enough to hint at something in the past. Whatever happened between Patrick and her, I can only hope it wasn’t serious enough to last until feelings developed because in that case I would stand no chance against her.

Sinead nudges me in the ribs and points at two youngsters snaking their way to the bar. “I think they’re going to order. Bleeding amateurs. The place is packed almost every night and seats are a rare commodity. Everyone knows you come in early, orderbeforeyou occupy a table, and do not get up from your seat unless there’s a fire. Otherwise, it’s finder’s keepers around here. Let’s go take their seats.”

“What? No, Sinead. We can’t do that.”

Ignoring my protest, she grabs hold of my arm and pulls me after her, elbowing her way through the crowd. If she’s a little raucous people don’t seem to mind. Somehow, no one seems to mind anything at all.

She stops at a corner table and plops down into the free seat.

I hesitate as I scan the distance to the bar. “Should we really? I don’t want people to think I’m causing trouble.”

She laughs and pushes the chair toward me with her booted foot. “People around here like a bit of trouble almost as much as they love gossip. Some of them maybe even more. Now, sit down.”

“I’m waiting for—” I gesture in the direction of the entrance, unsure what to say. My lawyer? My date? A good-looking guy I’ll be rejecting by the end of the evening because Patrick’s sneaked his way into my system and suddenly no one else seems to do it for me anymore?

“Duncan Ellis?” She nods knowingly. I raise my brows in question. She continues, as though she can read my mind. “Patrick told me. Don’t worry about him. He’ll find us. Now, be quiet. I think we’re about to start.”

A male voice clears his throat into a microphone. I crane my neck to get a glimpse of the stage, but a broad guy is obstructing my view.

“Let’s get this evening rolling!” the voice says. “Lots of great talent here tonight. Lads, make sure to get drunkafterputting your vote in. We wouldn’t want the ladies and their wet panties to crown The Storm as the winner another year in a row. I say enough is enough. No offense, mate.”

“None taken,” a deep male voice responds, though I can’t be sure because a few women have started to screech and whistle, and the whole crowd suddenly joins in, yelling, “Storm. Storm. Storm.”

No idea who this Storm is but he must be quite the hit around here. I take a sip of my ale and then gulp down half the glass because thisisthe best beer I’ve ever had. Not that I’m a connoisseur or anything.

“Thirsty, ey? I can already tell you’ll fit right in.” Sinead laughs. “Drink up. There’s more where that’s coming from. The Four Bells is known as the well that never dries up.”

I don’t know whether she’s joking, but I don’t get a chance to ask. The live music resumes and I find myself listening. It’s just a few guitar strings, but the melody carries something with it that speaks to me. A male voice joins in, the voice deep yet soft and strangely captivating. I don’t know what it is about it that makes me put my glass down, falling silent just like the rest of the pub’s visitors seem to have.

Everyone seems to listen intently, mesmerized.

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