Page 35 of Go Luck Yourself
Dark amusement flashes in Loch’s eyes and I hold up a finger at him.
“Commitment,” I get out. “I made acommitment,and I honor my commitments. So I’m going to stay in St. Patrick’s Day until your Holiday and I’m going to be all smiles for the cameras and every tabloid that circulates is going to think we’re the closest of friends, and not a single second of it has to do withyou.I’m just the best liar you’ve ever met, and I fucking hate the tabloids thinking they can manipulate anyone. Even someone who’s an asshole.”
I barely manage to keep from fist pumping that I got all that out with only one tongue blunder.
Kris, 1—Whiskey, 0.
Or, er, maybe more like half and half.
The butler waltzes back into the room and trades our soup bowls for the second course like this is a totally normal dinner service and two of his charges aren’t yelling at each other.
A pile of herbed mashed potatoes covers a chunky stew, the beef so tender it disintegrates on my fork. Rosemary and garlic explode over my tongue, creamy butter from the potatoes, a savory-umami symphony from the stew.
Fucking hell,why is their food so good?
They’re the enemy. This should taste like dirt but I’m making a mental note to ask Renee to incorporate more Irish fare into our meals and I hate tipsy me for being a food whore.
We eat in silence. Again.
Utensils clink.
The butler refills our glasses and I am truly winded by how much whiskey Loch is putting away; meanwhile, I had two glasses, piled in meat and potatoes, and the edges of the room are still carouseling. At least he doesn’t make his every sip a challenge. Only whenIdrink does he need to show off.
Last course. Finally. Dessert, crumbly shortbread with a martini glass of something brown and creamy.
“Is this… chocolate milk?” I can’t help but ask.
Siobhán starts to answer when Loch jumps in with, “Yeah. Chocolate milk. For the shortbread.”
He’s obviously lying. They wouldn’t poison me. Would they?
Fine. Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than the whiskey.
I pick up the martini glass and, holding his gaze, I chug it in three quick swallows.
More whiskey.
It’s Irish cream.
Loch sips his glass delicately with a wicked leer. “Sorry, boyo.Irishchocolate milk.”
I sit there for a second, trying to guess how much whiskey was in there, then, a beat later,feelinghow much whiskey was in there.
The room is a little brighter, a little warmer, a little spinnier.
“Fuck me,” I groan to my plate.
Loch doesn’t hesitate. “Only if you say please.”
That warmth intensifies, the spin gyrates more.
All that sugar and whiskey and my sensitive reaction to alcohol? I am going to be hungover tomorrow.
And then run a 5k.
Awesome. Just. Fan-fucking-tastic.
And I haven’t asked any of my esteemed fellow diners a question even adjacent to finding out if they might be the one stealing joy from us. No, I’ve been too busy picking at Loch and getting properly sloshed.
