MJ sipped a gin and tonic at the bar. Ten in the morning was a bit early, but it was technically noon back home. Lisa decided to sneak in one more spa treatment and MJ declined, knowing she’d be unable to truly relax. They planned to have a long, expensive dinner tonight, before turning in for their ridiculously early flight—with an eternally long layover in Denver—but a free trip was a free trip. Waiting for the day to pass made her feel adrift, untethered, and a bit wild. She watched her ice melt. A hand slipped into her field of vision and set down a small box. A small Chanel box. An open, small Chanel box containing the Ring.
She looked up at Doyle, who was leaning on the bar next to her, admiring her with his dancing blue eyes as if there was nothing else he wanted to look at more than her.
“How did you know?”
“You forget, I know people. You’d be surprised what a few extra tips here and there can get you.”
“That’s still creepy—you know that, right?”
He shrugged and she resisted rolling her eyes. “Please tell me you didn’t harass poor Clare—she was delightful.”
“I assure you, Clare was well compensated for assisting me.”
He nudged the box toward her.
“I can’t accept that,” MJ said as she pointed at the box. She was looking at his face, so she noticed the tiniest of flinches. He didn’t expect that answer, or had hoped for a different one. If she hadn’t been playing so much poker, she never would have noticed it, but watching people this way was becoming second nature.
“It’s not a gift. It’s a wager, right,” Doyle said, his lips wrapping around the words, drawing her eyes to them.
MJ’s eyebrow rose.
“Heads-up,” Doyle continued. “You win, you get the ring.”
MJ smiled. The thrill of the game kicked in—and how could it not with such a perfectly sparkly pot?
“And what do you win? I can’t afford to match that bet.”
Doyle’s mouth twitched upward; his eyes crinkled.
“A kiss.” He lifted one finger. MJ shook her head.
“So, I could win an extravagant fifteen-thousand-dollar ring and all you could get is a kiss? From me?”
He nodded.
Her pulse rushed, thrilled at the idea of owning the beautiful ring. The possible kiss had nothing to do with it, right? She looked at his lips, soft and easy to smile. Everything about Doyle was new to her, and exciting. If they kissed, she didn’t know what would happen next. No preset choreography.
She turned to him, uncrossed her legs, and stood in front of him, inches from his face.
“Challenge accepted. But we’ll have to play now—Lisa and I have dinner plans.”
Doyle nodded and grinned his approval. MJ looked around the bar. At this time of the day it was quiet. Each table had a bowl of pretzels. “I have a deck of cards. Let’s play here. Pretzels for chips.”
She cut her teeth on poker playing with bar snacks. She could win this. “A little unorthodox, but I like it. Let’s go, then.”
They settled into a corner booth, and MJ split up the pretzels evenly between the two of them. Doyle ate the odd one, salt lingering on his lips. Would his lips taste salty? She shouldn’t want to know.
MJ dealt the cards, but more than one game was afoot. With each hand, Doyle brushed his lips, or licked them, or bit them.
His stupid ploy was working; he was slowly taking all her pretzels. MJ gave her head a little shake and switched her focus to his hands. She thought she knew his tell. He’d pop a chip from the center of his palm when he was bluffing. That’s where her advantage lay. His hands arranged his pretzels into neat lines, then into stacks, then back into lines. As he would with a chip, he tried to roll one across his knuckles, which was when she realized her mistake. He couldn’t do his tell with pretzels, couldn’t pop one out from the palm of his hand. She’d have to outplay him the old-fashioned way.
But she had lost this hand as well, her pile getting progressively smaller. Plus Doyle kept eating them, making the available pots tinier and tinier.
MJ picked up a pretzel to flip between her fingers as Doyle dealt the next hand. She missed having real chips to flip and clink, never mind the advantage it gave her over Doyle. His hands shuffled the cards, barely touching them as they arched and shushed. Tiny movements, yet creating so much chaos.
She’d need to change up her play if she wanted to beat him, but how? MJ crushed her pretzel.
“Pressure getting to you?” he said. “You can always concede.” He arched an eyebrow at her. MJ swallowed.
“No, I’ve just decided it’s time to end it.”
She peeked at her cards, a seven and a two, off suit—the worst possible poker hand. She pushed all her pretzels into the middle.
“All in,” she said, folding her hands in front of her, using her thumb to rub against her tattoo.
Doyle’s eyes caught her thumb movement and he grinned. Without looking at his cards, he said, “Call.” He flipped over a jack and a ten.
Damn.
“Are you going to show me? I showed you mine,” he said.
She didn’t want to. He’d think she was an idiot card player for going all in with a seven-two off suited, or worse, that she wanted to lose so she had to kiss him.
“You may as well flip them, love. I know you have shite.” MJ gave him a baffled look—how could he know? “You tap your tattoo when you bluff. I noticed it during the tournament.”
Double damn.
She thought she knew his tell, when he knew hers as well. Nothing to do but play it out. Poker was a game of luck, too. MJ flipped her top card, the seven. Doyle raised an eyebrow. She flipped over the second card, the two. He laughed out loud, then clasped his hands together.
“Brilliant!”
Her stomach leapt in anticipation and her mouth went dry. She expected him to make some ridiculous comment about foreplay, but then his brow furrowed and his shoulders stood at attention. Could he be as conflicted as she was?
Doyle dealt the flop. Two kings and a ten. The ice in his glass clinked as he took a sip of whiskey.
He set the turn down—a seven. They both had two pairs. Doyle had tens and kings, and MJ had kings and sevens. They looked at each other, neither exactly sure how they wanted it to resolve.
They both watched as he slowly laid the final card on the table. MJ’s heart clunked to a stop. A three. She had lost. Somehow, she didn’t think she’d really lose. Both pairs of eyes blinked at the outcome.
“And that is that, right,” Doyle said.
It’s just a bet. Besides, she had to uphold her end of the bargain—honor among gamblers and all.
Their eyes met as his hand trembled and reached to cover hers on the bench between them. MJ looked down to where they touched. His hand covered her wedding ring so she couldn’t see it. Her eyes lifted back to his heartbreakingly blue ones. He was just as caught between the past and the future, and he wasn’t finding any answers at the poker tables, either.
MJ started to pull her hand away, but he tightened his hold. Doyle rubbed his thumb across her wrist, circling her tattoo. But the intimacy of the gesture only reminded her of Chris, so she pulled her hand away completely, touching her wedding ring with her right hand. Doyle’s shoulders slumped and his eyes closed. They were both so alone . . . but maybe they didn’t have to be.
She slid closer to him so their hips were touching and reached out with one hand to curl around the back of his neck, pulling his lips to hers. She could smell his skin—freshwater and smoky peat. Her eyes fluttered shut as her lips made contact, soft and warm, like a sun-drenched peach and good whiskey.
It was new and different and . . .
Horribly dull.
She leaned in closer, pressing against him while he slipped a hand into her hair. Each noise in the restaurant amplified, clamoring for her to stop the kiss and look when she heard whispers and what sounded like Doyle’s name. Unable to stop herself, she started to laugh.
Doyle sq
uished his eyebrows together and opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He was handsome. He was charming. But kissing him was like the never-ending pasta bowl from the Olive Garden—perfectly adequate, but not what she really wanted and ultimately regretful.
“I’m sorry,” MJ said. “That was . . .” She searched for the right word. “Bland.”
He leaned back against the cushions and held the hand that had just been in her hair against his chest.
“I’m so glad you said it. I may as well have been kissing my sister.”
MJ snorted.
“It wasn’t that awful.” She looked at him and started laughing again. “Okay, it was. I’m a one-man woman and you aren’t him.”
“Thank God for that.”
She put her head on his shoulder. “What are we going to do now?”
“Well, it appears I have a ring to return.”
MJ sighed as she looked at the pretty sparkles dancing against black velvet.
“It is lovely. Good-bye, beautiful.” MJ sighed and sat up straight so she could look him in the face. “I’ve just realized, I don’t even know where in Ireland you come from.”
His lips curved up in a small, tight smile.
“Lisdoonvarna. It’s in County Clare on the west side. Close to the Cliffs of Moher.” Doyle’s eyes grew distant, looking through time to his memories. “I’m the eldest of eight and my mum and da’ own the village pub. It’s been in our family for generations. I grew up pouring pints of Guinness and listening to the village gossip.”
MJ leaned toward him. She didn’t expect to actually have something in common with him: they were both born and raised at the tap.
“What happened?”
“Fiona happened.”
“It’s always a woman, isn’t it?” MJ said.
“Always.” Doyle tapped his thumb on his lips, taking in MJ’s reactions, deciding whether he should share the rest of the tale. MJ waited patiently, holding his gaze.
“Fiona was my childhood love. I was certain I would marry her and we’d be together forever, running the pub like my parents do, having a barrel of little ones.”
Doyle closed his eyes at the memory, pausing to take a sip of water, and continued.
“And we did. Almost. We married young—I was twenty-two, she was twenty-one. I thought she was happy. Then the day before our first anniversary, she left, leaving just a note with some nonsense about wanting more.” Doyle had lowered his eyes and scooped up a handful of pretzels.
“Wait . . . are you still married?”
Doyle’s mouth twisted into a wry smile.
“Technically.”
“Why?”
“Divorce is still a last resort in Ireland. Most couples go their own ways until someone wants to get remarried.”
“How did you get here?” MJ enjoyed this deep dive into Doyle—he was so much more than she expected. And a much better friend than lover.
His voice quavered. “I started drinking a bit more than I should have and playing poker with the local crew in the back of the pub. I buried my heartbreak with gambling, whiskey, and women—bit of a cliché, really. But I discovered my years of listening and observing in a pub paid off.”
MJ’s heart went out to him—she knew how that felt.
But the moment was interrupted when her phone started buzzing. She flipped it over to see the name, glanced back at Doyle, and said, “It’s my son—he never calls. I need to take this.”
Doyle nodded his head. “Of course.”
“Honey, what’s up?” she asked.
“Mom?” His voiced sounded scratchy—more little boy than young man.
“I’m here. What’s going on?”
“You need to come home, Mom. Now.”
Panic raced through all the possible options: car accidents, drugs, fire.
“What happened?”
“I was in Dad’s office on his computer and I found something.”
“What did you find, Tommy?” Her tone had taken on an edge.
“He has divorce papers in there. Are you getting a divorce? Is that why you’re in Vegas? Because you don’t want to be married anymore?”
The D-word echoed in her head. Divorce. MJ wrapped her free hand around her stomach and folded over as much as the booth would allow.
“Mom?”
“I’m here.” She shook her head, then slid off the bench, gesturing to Doyle to follow. A frown on his face had replaced the introspection of a few moments ago. “I’ll be on the next flight home.”
She picked up the pace as they left the restaurant. Doyle jogged ahead to get the elevator. She signaled with her hands what floor she needed.
“I’m scared, Mom.”
“It’s just a misunderstanding, baby. I’ll be home soon and I’ll talk it out with your dad. I love you.”
“Hurry home.”
MJ’s heart broke for herself and her son. But she had to keep it together until she could get home and talk to Chris. MJ texted Lisa.
MJ: Come back to the room. We’ve got to go to the airport now. Tommy found divorce papers.
Her phone pinged back immediately.
Lisa: On my way. I’ll call the airlines, you start packing.
She flung open the door to their hotel room and tossed the phone on the bed, not registering that Doyle still followed her. She crammed clothes from the closet into the half-full suitcase.
“What happened?” Doyle said, walking around to the bed.
MJ went into the bathroom. She returned a minute later with her arms full of toiletries, no time to waste repacking her toothbrush kit.
Doyle moved in front of her and put his hands gently on her cheeks so they made eye contact. “Hey, what happened?”
MJ blinked, as if he were a speck of dust on her eyeball that would go away if she blinked enough. He didn’t.
“It appears my husband has divorce papers on his computer. I need to go home. Now.”
Doyle frowned as he watched her collect stray items and toss them into her overflowing suitcase. She could tell the hotel to ship anything she forgot. Closing the suitcase and jumping on top of it, she stuffed anything sticking out back inside. She tried to zip it shut but couldn’t keep it closed and zip it at the same time.
“Can you help me?”
MJ hopped onto the luggage, wobbling to keep her balance while Doyle zipped it shut.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Nothing,” MJ sighed, and yanked the suitcase off the bed and started pacing while she waited for Lisa to return.
Doyle pulled out his phone. “Give me a moment.”
MJ walked to the large window, willing herself to cross time and space to get back home. To hug her frantic boy and kiss her husband. She had to make this right. It couldn’t be over. She couldn’t lose him. It didn’t seem real. Or maybe now it was too real. Lisa burst into the room and rushed to MJ, hugging her tight.
“I called, but there isn’t anything else that leaves earlier than our current flight. We’ll just have to tough it out. I’m sorry.”
MJ couldn’t wait that long—with the layover, they wouldn’t be home until late tomorrow afternoon; her skin itched for action, to get home now.
Doyle closed the phone and walked to them.
“The hotel will take you home on their plane. They can be wheels-up by six.”
MJ whimpered in relief.
“But how?”
“I’m a very good customer.”
That good luck had to be an omen. If she got home fast enough, she could fix this. She would finally explain everything to Chris. Her body trembled with energy to keep moving forward, keep moving toward home, keep moving toward Chris. One thing had gone right. More had to follow, right? All she needed were a few more lucky breaks.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As the jet pulled into the private hangar, MJ shook Lisa awake. Once one eye was confirmed open, MJ said, “We’re here. They’re going to drop us off at your car in the parking structure.
”
Lisa nodded—still not ready to talk—then folded the soft cashmere blanket, and set it on one of the few squishy leather chairs that populated the cabin.
“I could get used to traveling like this,” Lisa finally said, sipping the cold bottle of water the attendant had delivered right before descent.
MJ could only nod. As soon as the plane stopped moving, she unbuckled and paced in the small area. Like a well-oiled machine, the crew opened the doors and got their luggage ready to go. A car waited in the hangar to whisk them to Lisa’s SUV. She would need to send Doyle a cheese basket, at least, even though she would never be able to repay him properly for all he had done for her. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be getting off this plane ready to fight for her marriage. The flirtation made her realize it was Chris or nothing.
They had landed right before midnight. Through the open hangar doors, she could see a light, warm April rain, the kind that promised lush grass and blooming flowers in the morning and made the air smell like earth and growing things.
Once settled in the driver’s seat, Lisa zoomed through the empty highways to get MJ home as quickly as possible—while still obeying all posted speed limits, of course. After the nonstop noise and lights of Vegas, midnight Milwaukee seemed sleepy and very dark in comparison. The farther west they drove, the darker and sleepier the city became. And the closer to home, the faster she wanted to speed through the streets.
At last, Lisa pulled into MJ’s driveway. The house was dark, no one inside expecting her until tomorrow. She ached to run into the house and wake everyone up. With a quick wave to Lisa, she grabbed her suitcase and walked through the door.
Daisy woofed once when MJ entered the dark house, then trotted to give her a proper tail-wagging greeting. She had the dog, at least. Daisy walked halfway through her open legs and stopped, waiting for MJ to bend over and hug her around the middle. She buried her face in Daisy’s fur, wanting to hear the reassuring thump-thump of her doggy heart.
Easing the door shut, she snicked the lock. Other than the refrigerator hum and the ice clunking in the ice maker, the house was quiet. What did she expect at one in the morning? She set her suitcase in the laundry room and pulled out her pajamas. Might as well change clothes down here so she didn’t wake up Chris.
Luck, Love & Lemon Pie Page 19