Page 93 of One Night Only
He laughs. “I have secrets now, do I?” But his smile drops as he spies something across the room. “Patrick Mahony,” he calls. “One cheese roll per person. Or you drop another ten bucks into the bucket.” He waits until Patrick backs away from the plate before turning back to me. “Every time with that man.”
I smirk, looking around the bar. I don’t know how successful a singles event it is. Most people seemed to have split off into smaller groups, chatting and playing games over their lunch, but a few have paired off together, talking quietly among the chaos. I feel a stab of longing at the sight of them. They make it look so simple. Maybe it will be easier when I’m seventy. Maybe then I won’t second-guess every one of my instincts.
“You’ve gone quiet,” Declan says.
I shake my head, dragging my gaze back to him. “I was thinking I should bring my dad to one of these things.”
“We host them twice a year. He could come along next time.”
“Maybe.”
“How’s he doing anyway?”
“Dad? He’s okay.”
“Does he date?”
“Not since Mom. A bit of that’s my fault,” I say with a forced smile. “Moody teenage Sarah wasn’t keen on her dad seeing other women.”
“None of what happened was your fault.”
“I know,” I say lightly. “I’m kidding.”
“Are you?”
I don’t respond and Declan watches me for a moment, fiddling with the microphone. “You ever poured a pint?”
“I… No.”
“Come on then.” He slaps the bar, straightening with a hop. “Time for your free drink.”
“We don’t have to—”
“You start with a clean glass,” he says, flipping one in his hand. “Dry and cool. Come on,” he repeats when I don’t move. “Tilt it at a forty-five-degree angle, just like so.”
I push myself off the bar and take the glass. He guides my other hand to the tap but doesn’t linger, stepping back to put space between us.
“Now,” he says. “Straighten the glass slowly as you start to pour… Yep, so the exact opposite of what you’re doing.”
“This is slow.”
“Ireland slow, not New York slow. Move.”
I stand back as he demonstrates. “You make it look easy.”
“You just need the practice. Also I’m very good at it.” He sets the glass beside us. “Two-part pour,” he explains and I have to smile at the enthusiasm still radiating from him.
“You really won’t miss this?”
He shrugs, leaning back against the counter as he waits for the Guinness to settle. “It’s the people more than anything. I won’t miss the hours. Or the drunks. Or cleaning up all manner of bodily fluids at two in the morning. I definitely won’t miss St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Yikes,” I wince.
“But times like this? Yeah, I’ll miss this.”
I watch him for a moment, trying to figure it out. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” I say finally. “Where did that idea even come from?”
“The tour company?”
