Page 26 of An Irish Summer

“What comes after hurling?”

“You think I plan that far in advance?” He raised his eyebrows, and I did the same, calling his bluff. “We’re driving the Wild Atlantic Way,” he said, fighting a crooked smile.

“If I win, I get to drive,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to learn to drive on the left side so much as I knew my suggestion would irk him, but I was glad I said it.

“Absolutely not,” he said immediately. “Unless you can afford to buy me a new truck after you crash this one.”

“What makes you so sure I’m gonna crash it?”

“You do a lot of driving on the left side of the road in Boston, do ya? Besides, I’d have to teach you to drive stick first, and it would be a whole thing.”

“If you’re scared you’re going to lose, Collin, you could just say so,” I said, taking my place back on the line. I watched over my shoulder as he dragged his fingers through his hair, looking toward the ceiling for some sort of reprieve.

“You’re on, then,” he said. “And if I win, you don’t even thinkabout getting behind the wheel for the rest of the time you’re here.”

“Which is only the rest of the summer,” I reminded him.

“So you say.” I rolled my eyes, which made him laugh.

“Do we have a deal?” he said, echoing his question from that first night in the bar.

“We do.” I clinked my glass against his, and we both downed most of our drinks in a few gulps.

We went shot for shot for the rest of the game, alternating on the top of the leaderboard and talking just enough shit to still be able to back it up. By the time we got down to the bull’s-eye shot, I was two points ahead.

“You put up a good fight, you know,” I said, watching him step to the line for his last shot.

“Catch yourself on,” he snapped. He squared his shoulders, and I watched the way they rose and fell as he took a deep breath. His shirt pulled gently between them, and the top of another tattoo peeked out above the collar, just at the base of his neck.

After another dramatic breath he threw the dart, and we both watched as it stuck in the board two inches to the left of the bull’s-eye. He brought his knuckles to his teeth, letting out a groan that dissolved every ounce of concentration I had left.

I swept my hair from my shoulders, trying to look nonchalant but really needing to cool myself down. “I take it you aren’t used to losing,” I said, trading places.

“I haven’t lost yet,” he said. “If you shoot anywhere in the green, we’re going into overtime.”

“Won’t be necessary,” I said. I aimed the dart, painfully aware he was just inches from my back. The second before the dart left my fingers, he whispered so close to my ear I could feel his lips.

“Don’t miss.”

The dart went flying, and not in the direction of the bull’s-eye. It landed on the border of the red and green, and we both gasped loud enough to draw the attention of the crowd.

“That’s green!” Collin shouted, pointing at the board.

“If by green you mean red,” I argued. We both approached to take a closer look, Collin just over my shoulder as we studied the dart. It would have only taken a second to make the call from this distance, but we stood there for what felt like an hour.

It was red.

I turned around to gloat and found myself pinned in the space between Collin and the board.

“Anything you’d like to say to me?” I asked, expecting him to confirm it was, in fact, in the red.

“There are a lot of things I’d like to say to you,” he said, yanking the dart from the board. I swallowed hard, probably loud enough for him to hear, but said nothing. “Starting with the fact you’re a bleedin’ melter, Chelsea.”

“I swear you make these words up,” I said. “Should I be offended or flattered?”

“It means you drive me insane,” he said. “So I guess the choice is yours.”

“In that case, I’m going with flattered.”

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