Page 3 of Christmas with the Irish Devil
When he finally steps back, he gestures at the canapés with an almost formal bow. “You’ve done something remarkable here,” he says.
I feel a flush rise to my face, sudden and uncontrollable. “It’s just food,” I say, defensive.
He shakes his head. “It’s memory. It’s invention. It’s worth the price of admission.” He gives a little salute with his glass—seltzer, I notice, not alcohol. “Thank you, Aoife Kelly. Now, if you would give me a moment…”
Without explaining what he intends to do with the moment, he walks away, vanishing into the crowd, and I am left staring at the almost-empty platter, feeling as if a very small, very significant tornado has passed through my station.
I catch Maggie looking at me, wide-eyed. “Who was that?” she whispers.
“Just a man with good taste,” I say, but it feels like a lie, or at least not the whole truth. I set about restocking the bread, but my hands are steadier now, and I’m smiling so hard my face hurts.
Minutes later, Declan reappears at my station as if conjured, a bottle of Pol Roger and two flutes in hand, and without a word,he uncorks the champagne with the careless elegance of a man who’s done it on the deck of a yacht in rough weather. The pop is less dramatic than expected, almost gentle. A few heads swivel our way, but no one approaches. He fills both glasses, hands one to me, and says, “You never got to taste.”
I hesitate. The student part of me is screaming about professionalism, about boundaries and decorum and every other thing we’re meant to internalize if we want to survive in hospitality. The real part of me—the part that’s been on fire since he started talking about bread—wants to see where this goes. I take the glass. His fingers linger on the stem just a fraction longer than necessary. It isn’t accidental. I look up at his face—the small, controlled smile, the eyes trained on mine with a precision that feels surgical. There is a pull, a gravity, and for a split second, I am sure of nothing except that I will regret it if I look away first.
“To surviving the night,” I say, raising my glass. The champagne is cold, bright, and tastes like possibility.
“To making it interesting,” he counters, and we clink, the sound small but resonant.
The jazz trio has shifted into something old and Celtic, an Irish waltz that runs under the conversation like an exposed vein. I know the tune. My mother used to hum it when she thought I was sleeping. The nostalgia should be a warning sign, but instead it sharpens the moment. The room seems quieter, the lights less clinical.
Declan leans on the table, close but not crowding. “You always this disciplined?” he asks. “Or is it just tonight?”
“Depends,” I say. “Some people are worth breaking rules for.”
He grins, more with his eyes than his mouth. “You think I’m one of those people?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” But I have, and he knows it.
He nods at the dance floor, where the stragglers have finally given up on pretense and started to sway, loose-limbed and oblivious to the melting sorbet of the evening. “Dance with me.”
I could say no. I could list a dozen reasons—my feet hurt, I need to clean up, I don’t dance with strangers at work events. But the words don’t come.
Instead, I drain the last of my champagne, set the flute down, and say, “Lead the way.”
He doesn’t touch me until we’re in the middle of the floor, surrounded by people too invested in their own dramas to notice us. Then he takes my hand—again, a moment longer than necessary—and rests his other hand lightly on my waist. He is a better dancer than I expected, moving with a rhythm that’s confident but not controlling. I can feel every part of him, every intention, in the space between our bodies.
We don’t talk at first. The music does all the work. I let myself go, just a little, and realize I haven’t felt this free since I was a teenager sneaking wine at family weddings.
The song fades, replaced by something louder and more brash. We don’t stop moving. He spins me once, slow and easy, and I laugh. When the band takes a break, we drift to the edge of the room, flushed and breathing fast. He asks, “What will you do when this is over?”
I think about it—the cleaning, the paperwork, the quiet bus ride home through streets slick with melting snow. I shrug. “Probably go home. Start dough for tomorrow’s loaves. Try to forget about the billionaires.”
He looks at me, studying. “You know, there’s a bakery in Dublin that’s been in the same family for two centuries. They make bread the old way. The real way.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this an invitation?”
He smiles. “It’s an observation. And maybe a wish.”
I should walk away. I should. But I don’t.
Instead, I ask, “How’s their Guinness bread?”
“Terrible,” he says. “Yours is better.”
I don’t remember who moves first. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s him, maybe it’s the universe refusing to waste a good opportunity. But our faces are close now, and the kiss—when it happens—is simple, nothing like the fireworks or sugar-rush of teen TV shows, but slow and certain, like the feeling you get when you cut into a cake and know, from the first slice, that you got it right. When it ends, he brushes a crumb of something imaginary from my cheek and says, “Sláinte, Aoife Kelly.”
The party is still going, but I am already somewhere else.
