Page 17 of An Irish Summer

I had the rest of the week to make some calls and solidify the schedule, so I made a to-do list to keep myself organized. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right.

Besides, something had to pass the time between now and Friday.

Chapter 7

By Thursday, I had a detailed itinerary for the bachelorette party printed on lilac paper and gift bags stuffed with things I pulled together from what I could find in the storage closet. Lori was so excited I had organized their weekend that she gave me the green light to use whatever I could find, so I collected soaps that had been donated by a local shop but never used, white cotton slippers, stacks of coupons for local eateries, and plastic sunglasses. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best I could do on short notice.

The women were set to check in tomorrow night, but I was assured I didn’t have to be around to meet them since it was my day off. The itinerary had all the details, and Lars was working so he could give any additional recommendations.

Once the arrangements were made and everything had been settled, I had nothing else to do but wait for tomorrow to come. And not for the hen do.

I had spent most nights this week tossing and turning alongside the creaking floorboards and groaning pipes, trying not to listen for sounds down the hall. Especially from room five, which I saw Collin duck into the other night for the first time.

“I can’t believe you’re going on a date already,” Ada had said onthe phone one night when I told her about my impending plans. “You haven’t been on a date since what’s-his-face. That tech start-up guy? The one who only talked about himself and his mom?”

“It’s not a date,” I had told her for what had to have been the hundredth time, ignoring the reminder of my last one. “He’s just, I don’t know, showing me around Ireland or whatever.”

“Chels, seriously, how can anyone be pissed about that? You have a personal tour guide. A really hot one. What’s the problem?”

“You haven’t even seen him,” I’d reminded her. “You don’t know if he’s hot.”

“Chelsea Gold,” she’d said. “He’s Irish. And he has tattoos. And green eyes and messy hair and he’s a bartender. I don’t have to see him to know he’s hot.”

I’d regretted everything I’d told her about Collin, but somehow I couldn’t have stopped myself.

“It doesn’t matter either way,” I’d said. “The problem is that heishot, and I’m just out here while I sort my life out. My focus for this summer is solely filling a gap in my résumé and finding a job and an apartment back home. Which means no men for me this summer. And no men ever who don’t fit into the married-by-thirty-five-home-in-the-Boston-suburbs plan for the future.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

As much as I loved Ada, sometimes she made me want to smack my head into the wall.

It also made me miss her. And the rest of my life at home. The only full-time positions in Boston I’d seen posted all week were a breakfast attendant at a hotel near the airport and a server at a local banquet hall.

I woke up on Friday before my alarm and spent the extra time standing in front of my open wardrobe, staring mindlessly atmy clothes. Collin and I had agreed to meet in the lobby at nine with no other instructions, so I hadn’t the slightest clue how to dress.

After checking the weather app a dozen times despite the fact Ireland often saw four seasons in a day (which I now knew was no longer just an idiom), I settled on a white cotton T-shirt, straight-leg jeans with rips in the knees, and a pair of sneakers. A classic.

I put my hair in a ponytail, then took it down, then put it back up. I was being ridiculous. We were probably just going to be hiking around or looking at the ruins of some castle. I had no one to impress, so it didn’t matter at all what I looked like.

I took my hair back down from the ponytail and headed to the lobby with five minutes to spare. Collin was already down there, sitting with his feet on the coffee table and dragging a toothpick back and forth between his teeth.

“You look like a farmer,” I said.

“I look like you,” he said, looking up and down at both of our outfits. He too was in jeans and a white T-shirt, only he had an army-green flannel layered on top and a battered pair of boots on his feet.

“One of us has to change,” I said.

“Well, I look too good to change, so it can’t be me,” he said. “And you also look too good to change, so it looks like we’re stuck like this. Are ya ready?”

The compliment sounded so natural coming out of his mouth I almost missed it. I clenched the inside of my lip between my teeth to avoid grinning and nodded toward the door.

“Lead the way.”

“My specialty.” He smiled, staring at me for an extra second before leaning down to grab a wicker basket I hadn’t noticed before.

“What’s in the basket?” I asked, following him toward the door.

“The usual,” he said. “Bleach, knives, zip ties—”

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