“No can do, I have a conference call with the community-outreach team at Severin Robotics in ten minutes, so it’s now or never,” he said.
“Fine,” I growled. Leave it to Knightley to catch me at my worst. I propped the phone up on a nearby shelf while I tried to wipe the thick black trails off my cheek.
“Makeup, huh?” he asked. “I’ve never seen you wear that much makeup.”
“Well, you’ve never seen me on a date,” I pointed out. I finished cleaning off the mess that was formerly my eyeliner and frowned.
“Oh, someone’s got a hot date tonight?” he asked. “Do tell. Did you bag yourself a leprechaun at the end of the rainbow?”
I frowned at the phone and said, “Shut up.” He smirked.
I turned back to my reflection and wondered if I should wash my other eye and just go with mascara or if another attempt at a cat eye with the eyeliner would be worth it.
“Martin, the clock is ticking here,” he said.
“Yeah, yeah, give me a second,” I said.
He sighed and propped his chin on his hand while he watched me. I decided to go for the cat eye.
“They say less is more,” he said. “If that helps.”
“It doesn’t,” I snapped. “I watched a YouTube tutorial to get this right, but I don’t think my eyes match to begin with.”
He studied me. “What are you talking about?”
I turned to face the phone. “I think my right eye droops a little in the corner.”
“What, like you’ve had a stroke?” he asked. He stared at me hard.
I glared. “No, Knightley, it’s the corner of your mouth that droops after a stroke.”
“I think it’s both,” he said. “And your eyes are perfectly matched. It’s just that one is all gooped up and the other isn’t. You have pretty eyes—you don’t need to make yourself look like a cat or smoky or glittery or whatever it is you girls think is trending.”
I hesitated. “Are you sure? Because this is a very important date.”
“I’m positive,” he said. “But lipstick is important. No pressure, but make it a good color, like cherry red.”
“What? How is lipstick important but eyeliner isn’t?” I asked.
“Men don’t think about kissing your eyeball,” he said. “But lips? Lips will stay on a man’s mind for days, weeks, possibly years.”
“Gotcha.” I washed the liner off my other eye and patted my face dry. “Okay, what did you call about?”
“In anticipation of my conference call, I was going over your proposal,” he said. “It’s good, but the fundraising incentives you’ve come up with for the employees—you know, the weekend-getaway prizes, the free dinners, the cancer screenings—it’s all very . . .”
“What?” I pumped my mascara wand and looked at him. “What were you going to say?”
“Pedestrian,” he said. “Movie tickets or a new television as prizes for getting donations to support them in a bike-a-thon or have them sell raffle tickets is so meh.”
I rolled my eyes. “Those are all tried-and-true methods for employee engagement, especially as the company departments will be competing against each other for the yet-to-be-named grand prize.”
He didn’t say anything, and when I glanced over at my phone, he was yawning a big fakey yawn.
I gritted my teeth. “Listen, I am not going to have this go the way of the Overexposure Media Group ask.”
He winced. That was the only time we’d ever worked together, and it had been an unmitigated disaster. Frankly, I was still surprised that Aidan had kept us on after losing that ask.
“Overexposure Media Group tanked because we didn’t appreciate each other’s unique working styles,” he said.
“Among other things,” I said. I refused to mention “the incident.”
“In anticipation of this, I did some reading up on workplace personalities.”
Oh, this should be good. I gave my phone side-eye. “Really? And what personality am I?”
“You’re a guardian,” he said. “You like meticulously detailed, strategic plans executed with precision.”
“Because they work,” I retorted.
“Whereas I am a pioneer,” he said, ignoring me. “We’re all about the big idea, more theory, less detail, and imagination is the key.”
“Agreed,” I said. “Except that’s not why our ask from Overexposure Media Group failed.” He opened his mouth to speak, but I plowed on. “It failed because you thought doing videos of our staff rapping about cancer prevention while getting cancer screenings in the ACC mobile unit was a great idea.”
“It was a great idea,” he argued. “It could have gone viral.”
“Yeah, except you neglected to tell me that’s what we were doing. I thought it was supposed to be an ensemble piece where I said one line while standing by the machine. News flash—I can’t rap, especially not while getting a mammogram!” All right, fine, I brought up “the incident.”
“No, you really can’t,” he agreed. He pressed his lips together as if trying not to laugh. “In my defense, I thought mammograms were just like an X-ray. I figured you could rap the lines I’d given you while getting a chest X-ray like Davis on my team did for lung cancer. I had no idea they smashed your, you know, between plates of glass.” He looked pained.
“Do not make light of this,” I said. “Imagine my shock when you appeared from behind the curtain while I was in a hospital johnny with a boob on the loose.”
“I swear I didn’t see anything.” He blinked, the picture of innocence.
“So you said . . . repeatedly.” I hadn’t believed him. To his credit, he’d never spoken of “the incident” to anyone and neither had the technician, but for months afterward just seeing Knightley across the room had caused me to suffer a hot-faced case of extreme mortification. I couldn’t look the man in the eye for months. “Honestly, do men really not know what’s entailed in a mammogram?”
“Well, I do now,” Knightley said. His voice sounded strangled, and he lost the battle and started laughing. Looking back on that unfortunate day, I really couldn’t blame him. I must have made quite the picture. I wasn’t sure who had been more horrified—me, the technician, or Knightley. I snorted, almost laughed, but then frowned.
“We lost twenty-five thousand dollars on your big idea because of your lack of proper planning and communication skills. The videos that you did manage to produce were . . . not good.” I felt I should get points for not saying they were terrible. They really were.
“We were just doing a pilot. I still say Overexposure Media Group could have taken that rapping video idea and run with it,” he said.
“Instead, they ran away from it.”
“Brutal.”
I sighed. I wasn’t trying to bust him down, truly. Although I was still mad about the Overexposure Media Group debacle. Knightley was imaginative, and his team had come up with some terrific campaigns, but Severin’s was just too big to treat lightly. Still, we were stuck working together. I glanced at his face and asked, “Okay, Knightley, what would you do to engage Severin?”
He immediately perked up. “Play to the company’s strengths,” he said.
“Such as?” I leaned toward the mirror as I used the wand to apply my mascara. I pressed my tongue to my upper lip as I concentrated on coating each lash.
“They’re a robotics company,” he said.
“Um. No duh.”
“BattleBots!” he yelled, and I stabbed myself in the eye with my mascara wand.
“Ow!” I blinked and put the side of my finger under my lashes so I wouldn’t smudge my makeup again. “Damn it! Really, Knightley? Really?”
“Sorry,” he said. “But I get excited thinking about it. This could be huge. Company-wide robots battling for domination. It could raise money for charity by having people spons
or their favorite bot, which could cause a social media frenzy as we livestream the battles built by different departments in the company.”
“How do you figure? Isn’t it just tech nerds who enjoy that stuff?”
He didn’t say anything, and I glanced at my phone again. He looked offended. “Tech nerds? I’ll have you know I was the captain of my robotics team in college.”
“Of course you were,” I said. Then I snorted.
“And I was cool,” he insisted.
“If you say so.” I shrugged. A small smile curved my lips as I reached for my lipstick, which just happened to be in a deep red that matched my sweater, not cherry red but close. I made my lips into an O and slid the creamy color first over my top lip and then over the bottom, then I grabbed a tissue and blotted them, making a pucker in the mirror and then smiling to make sure the shade complemented me but didn’t get on my teeth. It was perfect.
I turned back to my phone to find Jason staring at me as if he was actually enjoying looking at me, a first. “Good choice, Martin. You look very . . . nice.”
“Nice?” I raised an eyebrow. “Thanks, Knightley. Very nice was exactly what I was going for.”
“You look good, Martin, and you know it,” he said. “I’m not going to tell you that you’re a heart attack in red, or it’ll go to your head and there’ll be no working with you.”
“Thank you,” I said. I felt my face get a little warm at the compliment, and I smiled. It was the first time I’d ever actually smiled at him with anything other than malice.
He blinked. Then he frowned. “Just who is it that you’re going on this date with?”
“None of your business.”
“Does anyone know you’re going?”
“Yes, the person I’m going with.”
“Martin, you’re alone in a foreign country,” he said. “What if the guy is a serial killer or a rapist or a drunk?”
I laughed. “He’s not. He’s an old friend, and we’re getting together for dinner. There’s no need to worry.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You sound worried.”
“Nope, not me,” he said. “But Aidan might be when I tell him you’re on a date.”
“Aidan doesn’t worry about anything,” I said. “He believes in the power of the universe. Speaking of Aidan, how is he?”
“He believes in the power of the universe,” Jason said, repeating my words as an answer, and I laughed. “He seems all right. He’s signing on for a fairly aggressive treatment. The toughest part will likely be losing his hair.”
“Oh, poor Aidan, I’ve watched that hair grow for seven years,” I said. “I can’t really picture him without it.”
“I know, but he’s making the best choice.”
“Keep me posted?”
“Promise,” he said. He hesitated and then asked, “Listen, not to be a badger, but does anyone over there know you’re going on a date?”
“And we’re back to that,” I said.
“I just think it’s always good to have a backup plan, in case the date goes badly,” he said. “I always have my friends check on me about an hour or two into a date to make sure I don’t need an emergency excuse to leave because my hookup turned into a raging psychopath.”
“You are a horrible person.”
“I prefer realistic. It’s a war out there, and you need a wingman,” he said. He glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Tell you what, I’ll call you in exactly two hours to give you an out if you need one.”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “He really is an old friend. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m calling,” he said. “And you’d better answer, or I’ll call the local police. Finn’s Hollow, right?”
“Are you always this bossy?” I asked. “Because I have to say, it’s not working for me.”
“I prefer pushy and overbearing,” he said. “And no, I’m never like this, but I need your help on the Severin campaign, so it’s in my best interest to make certain you don’t get left for dead in a bog in the wilds of Ireland.”
“Ah, now it’s all coming into focus,” I said. “You need me.”
“I don’t need you,” he said. “I need your help in understanding your incredibly long-winded campaign proposal. There’s a difference.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Now go take yourself out on your hot date, but you’d better answer your phone,” he said. “Trust me, if the guy tries to get you to join a druid cult or something, you’ll want to hear from me.”
“Good night, Jason,” I said. I held up my finger, indicating I was about to hang up.
“Bye—”
I pressed END CALL. Druid cult? I laughed. Then I thought about his BattleBots idea. No, we were not doing that. I’d have to call Aidan and have him squash that idea. I had meticulously planned out the next three years of fundraising opportunities for the employees of Severin Robotics, and they did not include battling robots. Honestly, it was like Knightley was a grown man trapped inside a middle schooler’s body.
I stepped back from the mirror and checked my appearance one more time. Hair was properly curled, mascara was on and not smudged, lipstick was on point. Sweater was warm and hugged my curves, and my jeans and boots were casual but flattering. I pulled on my thick wool coat and grabbed my shoulder bag, tucking my phone inside as I went.
I locked the cottage door behind me, feeling a dizzying combo of excited and nervous but mostly the former. It was the same fluttery feeling I’d had when Colin recognized me. That was what I was looking for, what I wanted to remember: that feeling of being wholly alive.
Was that how my dad felt when he looked at Sheri? If so, I could understand why he’d been drawn in. The law of attraction. It was impossible to resist. Feeling as if I might understand my father’s hasty marriage—just a little, not a lot, because really, a proposal after two weeks was still bonkers—I headed to the pub.
I arrived at six o’clock on the dot because that was my nature. I always got antsy if I was late. I hoped Colin was on time, as I didn’t want to look too eager. I couldn’t remember if he was a timely sort of guy or not, but I dreaded the idea of sitting in the pub, waiting for him, wondering if he would show up. I needn’t have worried. As I walked in the door, he swooped down on me with a giant bear hug.
“You’re here!” he cried. “Brilliant. I’d half convinced myself that I’d imagined you.”
I laughed as the cold air pushed me into the warm pub full of chatter and laughter, the rich smell of a peat fire, and something delicious frying in the back kitchen.
“Come on—I’ve got a snug for us in the back,” he said. He took my hand and led me through the tables.
It was obvious that most of the patrons were tourists, with a sprinkling of locals thrown in to keep the place authentic.
“Oy, Colin,” Michael called from behind the bar. “I see you found our fair Chelsea.”
I waved and Michael smiled, but his gaze darted to Colin with concern. I wondered what that was about.
“Aye, I did,” Colin called. He turned to me. “What can I bring you?”
“Whatever you’re having, or a pint of the black stuff is fine.”
“Guinness it is. I’ll be right back,” he said as he handed me into the booth, kissing me on the head as he did so. I thought it was a ridiculously sweet gesture, as if I was something rare and precious. There hadn’t been a lot of that in my life over the past few years, and it touched me.
He returned with a pint for each of us, but instead of sliding into the opposite side of the booth, he sat with me so we were side by side. He lifted his glass and held it up, waiting for me to do the same.
“There are good ships, there are wood ships, there are ships that sail the sea, but the best ships are friendships, and may they ever be,” he said. We clinked glasses.
“Sláinte,” I said. Then I took a fortifying gulp of beer.
“You remembered.” He looked pleased. “What other words that I taught you do you still know?”
“Not much. Dia dhuit,” I said. I was hesitant about my pronunciation of the greeting after all this time. “That’s about all I remember, honestly. Well, that and a few swears. For some reason those stuck with me.”
Colin laughed. It was a deep rumble that came up from his belly and made me laugh, too. “That’s about all you need, I expect.”
We were both silent, smiling at each other, taking in the subtle differences the years had made.
“I ordered fish-and-chips for us,” he said. “I remembered that was your favorite. I hope you haven’t gone vegetarian on me.”
“Well, actually,” I said. He looked alarmed, and I couldn’t keep up the pretense. I grinned. “I’m kidding. Fish-and-chips is still my favorite.”
Colin blew out a breath. His blue eyes when they met mine glinted with the same mischievous twinkle I remembered from our youth.
“You look amazing,” he said.
“You do, too. You haven’t aged a day, and you’re working for Mrs. O’Brien—I want to hear all about it,” I said. “Are you happy on the farm? Is life good?”
“ ’Tis grand,” he said. “Better than I ever expected it could be. I have so many blessings, which I’m dyin’ to tell you about, but you’re the visitor. I want to hear about you first.”
“I don’t know where to start,” I said. It was true. It felt as if a lifetime had passed during the last seven years.
Michael stopped by our table with two plates loaded with fish-and-chips: lightly battered slabs of fish piled on top of a heap of chips, a.k.a. French fries, with a mound of mashed peas on the side. I realized I was starving and reached for the bottle of malt vinegar to douse my fish with while draping my napkin in my lap.
“This looks amazing,” I said to Michael. “There’s nothing like pub grub.”
“That’s the truth of it,” Michael agreed with an easy smile. “Can I get you anythin’ else?”
“Two more pints,” Colin said.
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