Page 55 of Go Luck Yourself
I frown. The prevalence of the signage makes it look more like a festival for Green Hills rather than a St. Patrick’s Day charity race.
Finn pushes between me and Loch. “I’ll be in the speaker’s tent. I assume you’re gonna miss my speech?”
“Always, lovey.” Loch gives an insolent smile.
She flips him off over her shoulder as she weaves into the crowd.
“Speech?” I ask.
Siobhán loops her arm with Loch’s, her nose already pink in the chill air. “Finn always gives a wee talk. She’s on the charity’s board.”
“And every year, she manages to make a worthy cause sound dull as old scissors,” Loch says.
“Be nice,” Siobhán counters. “I’mgonna support my only sister.”
“That’s why I have two of you. So I do na have to be so loyal.”
She smacks the back of his head. “Keep on with that attitude,Lochlann, and I will na be at the finish line to cheer you. I’ll be there for Kris.”
Loch raises his eyebrows. “Pardon?”
I smirk.
“Oh, maybe I should do that anyway.” Siobhán’s smile is toying. “I might hit a shop and make up a big lovely banner with his name just to see ya get that crease in your forehead. Oh, yeah, that’s the one.”
My smirk blows into a wide grin.
Loch shoves her. “Get off, maggot.”
She skips away, hands in the pockets of her deep green coat, blonde hair a splash of light as she vanishes into the festival.
I lean towards Loch. “So, in case there’s any confusion, I like her best.”
I say it to egg him on, as per usual, but something retracts in his eyes. Or hardens, maybe? It’s a shocking enough change that I pull back and feel like I should apologize.
Which is annoying.
“Donna be goin’ after my sister,” he barks. His accent churns so thick that I almost think he’s speaking in Irish.
“I… had no plans to.”
“Well. That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said this whole trip.”
“Your accent is almost unintelligible when you’re really angry.”
The skin along his cheekbones goes as red as his beard. “I am not angry,” he enunciates.
“Okay, that’s worse.”
“What’s worse?”
“You not having any accent at all.”
He rolls his eyes. “Let’s get signed in.”
The race tent is set up not far into the park, and other runners are queued in front of it, waiting for bibs. We join them, and more oddness cracks through—we’re standing in a line. I get that there are tons of normal people around, but shouldn’t there be an area for the St. Patrick’s Day ruling families? No one’s even calling out in greeting to Loch. Not that that’s too unusual, this being such a big event, but surelysomeonehere knows the Crown Prince of St. Patrick’s Day?
And there’s so many signs for Green Hills Distillery. A massive one hangs on the back wall of this sign-in booth, the logo an illustration of gently sloping emerald fields. The slogan is written around it in bold, square font:Tradition. Heritage. Legacy.
