Page 67 of An Irish Summer

“Collin Finegan, are you jealous?”

“Ach, me?” I raised my eyebrows. “Terribly,” he whispered, brushing his lips against my ear. His voice was so soft I could hardly hear it above the noise in the bar, which only made me lean in closer. “I really don’t fancy the thought of you with someone else.”

“Makes you wish you hadn’t delayed that gratification, huh?”

He faked a dagger to the heart. “Chelsea Gold, you are a cruel, cruel woman.”

“Ready for another round?” I flashed my biggest smile, putting another few inches of distance between us. I was beginning to understand why he liked teasing me so much, and I was suddenly finding it hard to resist. Especially when it made him look at me the way he was looking at me: like he wanted to drag me off the dance floor and back to the privacy of one of our bedrooms.

The caller started up another dance to a new tune blaring from the band, full of lively fiddles, lilting tin whistles, rollicking accordions, and thumping drums, and once again we crowded the dance floor. The rest of the songs blurred into one another, and I was finding comfort in the pace. When I focused on the dances, I had little time or energy to focus on anything else. Like how impossibly good this was for a firstdate—or any date—and how I was beginning to fear this fling wasn’t as casual as I thought.

So I channeled all my energy into the ceilidh. I studied the steps, how the words sounded with the Irish lilt, the way our bodies collided and pulled apart like magnets. I tried to memorize the faces of my various partners. I wondered if anyone, even briefly, thought I might belong here.

We’d traded partners with every song, so quite a few had passed without Collin and I finding each other on the dance floor. When we did, however, we crashed back into each other and found ourselves holding on just a bit too tight and for a second too long. His hands rested on my back inches lower than anyone else’s had, and we managed to keep our eyes locked on each other despite the endless twisting and turning.

When we took a break for another round of drinks, I was thankful for the time to recover. My voice was getting hoarse from laughing and shouting over the music, and my initial buzz was wearing off.

“Looked like you were getting the hang of it pretty quick,” Flo said, sidling up to me at the bar.

“She’s a natural,” Collin agreed before I could argue. “Looking more Irish by the day.”

“Don’t be fooled,” I said, trying to conceal my blush at the compliment. “It’s just the hair.” I shook my crimson waves for effect, and Collin ruffled them with his hand.

“Of course,” Collin said. “My mistake. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with all you’re learning from your lovely tour guide.”

“Didn’t you just say I was a natural?”

“What I should have said was you’re driving me crazy,” he said, shaking his head and sinking his teeth into his lower lip.

“We’re all still standing here, you know,” Flo interrupted, gesturing around to the collection of guests and hostel staff crowding the bar.

“Make yourself useful and go get us a table, then,” Collin said.

“Fine, but I’m taking this one with me.” Flo grabbed my hand and I had no choice but to follow, though I did sneak a glance over my shoulder just in time to catch Collin doing the same.

“I’m not sure if I ever properly introduced everyone,” Flo said as some of the others joined us at a high-top, “but I suppose you can do that yourselves.” When we didn’t move right away, she gestured to the lot of us as if to saygo on. We obeyed, shaking hands and sharing names we wouldn’t remember two minutes later. The mixture of accents made me instantly relieved I wasn’t the only out-of-towner, and the flush on everyone’s faces told me I wasn’t the only one winded by the exertion of learning the steps either.

“You’re the event planner, right?” a woman asked as I introduced myself. I wasn’t quite sure how to answer, especially since I wasn’t in the mood to think about work, but her shining brown eyes were too hopeful to ignore.

“I suppose I am,” I said, waiting anxiously for her request and wondering how she knew. One look at Flo and her smug grin, however, answered my question.

“I’m Fayola, by the way,” she said, and we exchanged polite smiles. “My friends and I are here to celebrate the end of our MBAs, and I was hoping you’d help us plan something special. We know those two do the outdoor and touristy stuff”—she tilted her head toward Collin and Lars—“but we’ve been told you’re the person we want.”

I glared at Flo, and she only winked in return.

“I’m sorry to ambush you at a ceilidh, and I know it’s short notice,” Fayola continued, “but we’d be so grateful if you could even point us in the right direction.”

With her hands clasped together and her friends looking on with the same hopeful gaze, how could I have said no?

“It would be my pleasure,” I said. “What sort of things do you like?”

“Getting dressed up.”

“Cocktails.”

“Being in bed early.”

“Outdoors.”

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