Proper Irish (Jaded Lily #1)

by Zeia Jameson

  “Why did you attend if you knew you’d hate it so much? You don’t strike me as one to conform.”

  “Because I love me dad and I respect him even though he’s let other people control him like a puppet for some time now. He’s a good man. A good business man. But he is too kind and proud and doesn’t want to fail. I try to support him no matter what.”

  “That’s some kind of loyalty. From you both.”

  “That what family does for one another.”

  I pause, watching his expression undulate. Pain looms in his eyes. Heartache.

  I clear my throat to move on with the conversation.

  “What do you suggest we serve?” I ask.

  “Real Irish food.”

  “Such as?”

  “I can show you if you come to dinner with me tonight. I know a place.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Yesterday this guy was yelling in my face, and today he’s asking me to dinner.

  He leans into me, my ass pressed against the desk. My breath hitches and my heart pounds. Irrationally, I prepare myself for another verbal attack. Or a kiss.

  “I am sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. And I am sorry about laughing at you when you fell. I thought you were . . . I thought you were just like her.”

  I swallow hard. “I’m not.”

  “I see that now.” He lifts his hand and brushes my hair behind my left ear. He runs his hand over the small scratches that lingered from my battle with the magnolia tree. “And I’m sorry you ran into that tree the other day.”

  I blush at the knowledge that he saw me there. “I, uh…”

  He shakes his head to dismiss what I have to say. “Have dinner with me. I’ll show you Irish food.”

  Is that some sort of innuendo?

  “I know a great place. Authentic. You can trust me. I’m the mayor’s son, after all.”

  Valid enough of a point for me. I nod in acceptance of his invitation. “I’ll go. For the cuisine. And if you tell me what to do for this event, I can convince Mrs.—uh, Victoria—to change it. I promise.”

  His face is inches from mine. His eyes, connected with mine. We are suspended in the moment, our chests heaving in sync.

  He places his hand on my shoulder. “I believe you.”

  I shudder and reach blindly for my binder. Once I find the corner, I grab it and slide it toward me. I turn to close it, clearing my throat yet again. “I have to go. Sorry.”

  He chuckles. He knows he’s affected me in some way.

  I say nothing more and head toward the exit. He gently grabs my arm at the elbow. “Tonight? Meet me here? Is eight o’clock good for you?”

  “Yes. I will be here.”

  “See you then.”

  I make my way through the shop, passing Luca as I leave. “See ya later, Luca.”

  “See ya, snake charmer.”

  “Something’s gotten into you. What aren’t you telling me?” Kerry asks suspiciously.

  We’re perusing the aisles of a discount fabric shop. A customer requested custom, handmade linen napkins, and she insisted there was nothing online that would satisfy her idea. So we’re meeting with her this afternoon to provide swatch samples that she can choose from. I called Lenore, a seamstress I know, and she agreed to make the fifteen hundred napkins—for a price, of course. I told her that would not be a problem.

  Despite the headache of the task, I’m practically skipping down the aisles, with a stupid grin plastered on my face. “What? I have no idea what you are talking about.” I speak through my smile.

  Kerry stops walking and crosses her arms. “Spill it, bitch, or I’m going to leave you to do this alone.”

  I turn to her and attempt to straighten my lips. But I can’t. I’m eating dinner with Padraig tonight, and while I still cannot figure out what it is about him that makes me flutter, I can’t stop smiling all the same.

  “If I tell you, you’re going to think I’m an idiot, and I’d prefer for you to not think that of me.”

  “Fine. See you tomorrow. Have fun picking out farm-themed linens on your own.” She moves her sunglasses from the top of her head to her face and begins walking away.

  “Okay!” I plead. “I’ll tell you, but I warned you. It’s going to sound insane.”

  “Try me.”

  “I went to see Padraig—”

  “After he yelled at you at that bitch’s house?” she interrupts.

  “Yes. Because what he said to me just before I left stuck with me, and he was right. If I’m going to plan around something that has significant heritage details, I need to get those details right.”

  “Why is that so important to you? It’s just a party for drunk people.”

  “Because his dad is Irish, and I think the man who is representing our city should be proud of his heritage and not cower to what everyone else expects of him.”

  “Stella, that isn’t really your place . . .”

  “I’m making it my place. It’s important.”

  “Because of Padraig?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you so hell-bent on getting him to like you?”

  “I don’t care if he likes me. I just want him to respect me.”

  “Again, why? And secondly, you do care if he likes you, otherwise you wouldn’t be skipping like a schoolgirl through a fabric warehouse.”

  I roll my eyes and exhale. “Honestly, I don’t know. There was something soft in his face when we were talking in the garden. And him talking to the rose lady on the waterfront? I have this pull in my chest that tells me I need to get to know him better.”

  “Okay. I don’t understand it, but I accept it. But if that asshole breaks your heart, I’m going to murder him with a tattoo gun.”

  “It’s not even like that. There will be no heart breaking.”

  “Mm-hmm. Let’s move on. You went to see him and what?”

  “I went to see him and asked for his help in putting together something more authentic.”

  “And?”

  “He gave me some design ideas and then asked me to eat some traditional Irish food with him . . . tonight.”

  “Whoa! Where is he taking you? You’ve been to every pub there is around here.”

  I shrug. “He didn’t say.”

  “You’re going to an unknown location with a volatile Irishman? Are you out of your mind?”

  “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “Okay, sweets, but you better have your phone within reach at all times.”

  “I will. Now, if you’re done with the judgment, can we get back to this stupid project? We’re meeting her in an hour.”

  “Are you out of your mind? How dare you come to me with this. The party is only a few weeks away, and you want to do a completely different theme? Where do you get off?”

  I take a deep breath. I’ve just approached Victoria with the idea to change up the details of the event to be more traditional.

  “Mrs. MacNamara,” I begin, trying not to cringe when calling her that. Knowing that Padraig hates that she is called Mrs. MacNamara has made me quite conscious of saying her name. I can picture the disgust on his face in my head when I address her as such. But I have to, to her face at least. “I am not trying to insult you or any of your ideas. I’ve been thinking, and I thought that maybe Mayor MacNamara might want to show the patrons of the city a little bit more of his heritage.”

  “Why on earth would he want to do that?”

  “Because he’s proud of where he is from?”

  She thinks for half a second and then shakes her head. “Absolutely not,” she exclaims. “We are too far into the planning of this for us to make changes. It’ll be a disaster for sure. I’ll be the laughing stock.”

  I give her a calming look. If I’m going to convince her that changing up the party is for her benefit, I need to show her I’m on her side. “Mrs. MacNamara, there have been . . . rumors. And while I don’t pay too much attention to the buzz of elite society, it m
ay be of concern to you. It seems that some of your guests are hoping for a more formal social gathering. More Vanderbilt, less Gatsby.”

  I expect more of a reaction to my last statement, but I’m not sure she understands my references. Instead, she stills and whispers, “Where did you hear that?”

  I lean in. “My assistant, Kerry, was in The Ancient Olive, and while you know I’d rather not name names . . .”

  “Of course,” she interrupts, accepting my discretion.

  “Two very affluent women who are on your guest list were discussing it. One of them mentioned a more traditional cuisine, for starters.”

  “But my canapes—”

  “I know,” I express with feigned disappointment. “But I’ve talked with the caterer, and he assures me that we can use those same canapes for your Spring Social. They’ll still be a hit. They won’t offer them to anyone else.” I plant this notion in her head, basically solidifying the caterer’s future business with her. This is a promise I made to Phillipe when I practically begged him on the phone.

  “But what will the menu be, then?”

  I think about my upcoming dinner with Padraig, where I’m hoping to get answers. “I’m meeting with a . . . consultant this evening to come up with a menu. Don’t worry, no additional fees associated. Please, just trust me, Mrs. MacNamara. My name is on the line here. I will not let you down.”

  She crosses her arms and stands in thought for a moment, the front of her heel tapping as if it’s assisting in her decision. She gives me a heavy, stern look. “Fine. But I swear, if this does not work, I assure you that you will never work in this town again.”

  “I understand.”

  If I can’t do this how I want to and make the decisions I think are best for the event and the mayor, then I’m not sure I want to be in the business anyway.

  “Hi, Luca,” I say as I burst through the door of Jaded Lily, the tattoo shop. Luca gives me a surprised, quizzical look.

  “You look way too happy to be in a tattoo shop.”

  “Is Padraig here?”

  He shakes his head. “But he said he’d be back very soon.”

  I’m floating on cloud nine and grinning from ear to ear. I can’t wait to tell Padraig how I convinced Victoria to adjust the details of the party. I’m giddy. I can’t stand still. I rock forward and back from my toes to my heels, swinging my arms, clapping my hands together in front and then in back.

  “Are you high?” Luca asks.

  “No. I just have some really exciting news that I can’t wait to share with . . .”

  The bell above the door chimes. It’s Padraig. He’s not wearing his normal sleeveless T-shirt and loose-fitting jeans. Instead, he’s wearing charcoal-gray slacks and a button-down shirt. I stop rocking and swaying and look down at my attire. I feel a little underdressed with my maxi dress, simple cardigan, and Chuck Taylors.

  He approaches me. “Aoibhinn,” he says with a loud exhale. I try to decipher whether that was English. A quick mental run through my vocabulary is not registering anything familiar.

  He smiles, reacting to my confusion. “You look lovely.” He simultaneously hands me the small bouquet of multicolored daisies that he walked in with and leans in to place a kiss on my cheek. It was a maneuver I didn’t expect, and it causes me to flush.

  “Thank you.” I bring the flowers to my nose. The clean, earthy smell is one of my favorites.

  “Ready to have the best food you’ve ever tasted?”

  “Indeed!”

  “Apparently she’s got good news for you, too,” Luca butts in. Padraig looks to him with a raised brow and then back to me. “Really?”

  I nod. My stomach grumbles, which causes me to let out a giggle. “Yes. I do. But it can wait until we get to the restaurant.”

  He holds his hand out for me to take. “Shall we?”

  I take his hand, and we head on our way.

  “Have fun, kids,” Luca says as we exit the store.

  We walk a few blocks through Warren and Columbia Squares. The historical part of Savannah is made up of twenty-two squares that provide an element of charm and scenery you cannot find anywhere else. The design of each square is unique in its own way, and most of them include some artifact of historical significance.

  Dusk is beginning to settle in. Tiny moths begin to swirl around the street lamps.

  “How long have you lived in Savannah?” I ask.

  “Since I was nine.”

  “Soooo, how many years?” I pry with a smirk.

  He looks up to the sky, doing the math. “Eighteen years.” He looks down to me with a grin. He knew my agenda. “What about you? How long have you been here?”

  “Almost seven years. I went to SCAD and stuck around after I graduated.”

  SCAD—Savannah College of Art and Design. One of the most prestigious and progressive art schools in the country. I had loved every minute I spent learning there.

  “So you’re twenty-four? Twenty-five?”

  I chuckle. “You really have no manners, do you?”

  Genuine confusion covers his face. “Whaddya mean? What’d I say?”

  “You don’t know that you aren’t supposed to ask a woman her age? Very rude.”

  “What? Why? It’s a general curiosity. And you just . . .” His voice becomes defensive.

  I place my hand gently on his arm. “Relax. I’m only teasing you. It doesn’t bother me. You just might want to remember that for your future conversations with other women. I’m twenty-five, by the way.”

  His posture relaxes. “Aye, women are so . . . difficult.”

  I look down at my feet. “I know. I don’t even understand them sometimes.”

  He laughs and looks at me with adoration in his expression. I smile back. We continue to walk and fall into a comfortable rhythm. We walk past the Colonial Park Cemetery, where tourists are taking photos in desperate attempts to capture apparitions, and we discuss the legends that are told during ghost tours here—about the hauntings that frequently occur among the tombstones.

  Still hand in hand as we stroll for another block, Padraig slows our pace and finally stops. “This is us.”

  I peer up at the gorgeous, brick row house. The raised stoop is encased with an ornate, decorative wrought iron railing, a curving staircase extending from the edge, inviting us up.

  I look at Padraig. “This isn’t a restaurant.”

  “Never said we were going to a restaurant. I just said I was going to feed you good food. Come on.” He waves his hand in the direction of the door. We ascend the steps of what I’m positive is half of a duplex condo. Padraig opens the heavy-looking wooden door without knocking. I have no idea what is going on. I’m so confused. He closes the door behind me once I enter. I smell the most amazing aroma coming from a nearby room—I assume it is the kitchen.

  “Mam, we’re here.”

  A woman rounds the corner, wiping her hands on her apron. She’s tall, like Padraig, and slender. She has fair skin covered with freckles and dark burnt-orange hair twisted into a bun on the top of her head. Her facial features resemble Padraig’s with a little more age. But not much. She’s stunning.

  “Oh, love!” she says as she approaches Padraig. She rests her hands on both sides of his face, kissing each of his cheeks.

  “Mam,” he says, embracing her in a hug. He pulls from the embrace and looks in my direction. “This is Stella.”

  “Nice to meet you, Stella.” She pulls me in for a hug before I know what is happening.

  “Stella, this is my mother, Moira MacNamara.”

  I hold out my hand. “Pleased to meet you. I had no idea we were visiting you tonight, or I’d have brought some wine or a dessert.”

  “Nonsense. We have everything we need here,” she says, accent thick.

  “Me mam here is the best Irish chef in the city. In the country. In the world. No way I could take you anywhere else.”

  She smiles at him lovingly and places a hand delicately on his jaw. The look he g
ives her in return melts my heart. I can tell in his face that his mother is the most important person in the world to him. No wonder he almost ripped my head off when I mentioned her at the bar.

  “Everything is almost ready. Come, come.”

  “Whatever you are making, Mrs. MacNamara, smells delightful.”

  Shit. I called her Mrs. MacNamara. Should I have called her Ms. MacNamara? But MacNamara is her married name . . . but she’s not married . . .

  “Ease your head, child.” My expression must be giving away my guilt over my faux pas. “Just call me Moira.”

  “Okay,” I say, trying to wave off my embarrassment. She turns and walks away. Padraig follows, and I fall into step as well. We enter the kitchen, and the rich smells of bread, beer, and potatoes enhance. My stomach constricts in hunger, acting as if it’s never received a meal before. To my right is a baker’s table filled with platters and bowls of food. It looks like this poor woman has been cooking for days, which is impossible because Padraig only asked me to dinner late this morning.

  “Mrs. . . . Moira! How on earth? There is so much food here!”

  Padraig approaches the counter. He picks up a bunch of leeks. “Do these need to be sliced?”

  “Yes, love. Please.”

  “Mam is a bit of an overachiever,” Padraig says. Moira swats his arm. “I told her light and casual. This is light and casual.” He shrugs and I chuckle. I watch him for a moment, chopping the leeks. He didn’t ask if she needed help; he just came in and began assisting. I admire that about him. He’s thoughtful.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes, love. There is some cider in the chiller. Will you retrieve it and pour us each a glass? The mugs and cups are in the cupboard to the left.”

  I follow her instructions and hand a mug of cold cider to her and to Padraig before picking up my own to taste. I’m not sure I’ve ever had cold cider before. I take a sip, but it is hardly cold. It burns going down my throat all the way to my stomach, causing me to cough. My eyes water. Moira nudges Padraig in the side with her elbow, both of them turning to look at me with wicked humor.