Wild Irish_His Wild Bride

by LJ Garland

  Keep our secret, Sophie.

  A picture of her entering the bridal shop faded in.

  I can’t wait to make you mine.

  She stared at the screen, trying to process the video. She’d never received anything like this before. And as the truth of what she’d just seen seeped into her brain, her hands shook. That photo of her had been taken less than an hour ago. Whoever sent this knows I’m here. Her heart rabbited in her chest. She looked around to see who was watching her, but she stood alone in the dressing room. Who is he, and how does he know I’m here?

  Pinng!

  She jolted at the sudden sound then peered at the phone she clutched in her trembling fingers.

  Video Deleted

  Air rushed out of her lungs. Whoever sent the video set it to delete after I saw it. She chunked her cell on the chair. He…he doesn’t want any evidence left behind.

  She had to go. Now. He knew where she was, could be outside right this second waiting to kidnap her or shoot her or…worse. He may even be in the store already.

  Scurrying to the dressing room door, she peeked out. The place looked empty, but who knew if that was true? He could be anywhere, waiting, watching. After gathering the yards of white material making up the wedding gown skirt into her arms, she bolted from the room then stopped stock still.

  Where was she going? She couldn’t go out the front. The back.

  She made a beeline for the “Employees Only” door. But her damn stilettos tripped her up, and she staggered, almost tumbling to the floor. Righting herself, she kept running. Once off the sales floor, she wound her way through a maze of satin and tulle. Every few steps, she glanced over her shoulder. Though she didn’t scare easily, after the police encounter at the café and then forcing herself to put on a wedding dress, the photo of a laser sight on Hugh’s head had rattled her. Having the guts to get a story meant nothing with a rifle pointed at you. Dead would be dead…and then she’d be the story.

  At last finding the rear exit, she plowed through it and out into the alley. She looked left then right, having no clue which direction would be safest. Not wanting to know if whoever sent her the video had seen her escape out the back of the store, she chose the right and took off. At the end of the alley, she peeked around the corner then glanced over her shoulder.

  Is he watching me now?

  Chapter Two

  Dawson poured two glasses of Chablis then set them on the bar in front of the pretty blonde who’d ordered them for her and her girlfriend waiting at the corner table.

  “Thanks.” Her breathy word held way more than just gratitude. The blonde picked up the drinks, and, even though he turned to get a towel to wipe the bar top, he couldn’t help but appreciate the way her short skirt hugged her ass…all the way back to her table.

  Forget it, Dawson. You’ve run with that type of girl before.

  Yeah, but it was fun while it lasted. He tucked the towel beneath the bar.

  Right. A whole month. After she maxed your credit card, she moved on. Oh yeah…and stomped your heart.

  Moving to the back counter, he picked up a wineglass and lifted it to the light, making sure it shone like new money. Satisfied, he slid it onto the rack then grabbed the next glass and polished it.

  “Doing a fine job there,” Pat Collins, owner and namesake of Pat’s Irish Pub, said from his usual seat at the center of the long mahogany bar.

  Sitting on a stool at the far end, Frank Eglington snorted. “Yeah. For a MacKay.”

  Dawson held the current glass up to inspect it. “How’s that beer treatin’ ya, Frank?”

  The pub’s forty-something regular lifted his mug, downed the remainder then set it on the bar. “It’s empty.”

  “You want another?” Dawson slid the glass on the rack.

  “Yup.”

  “Then quit ragging my ass about my Scottish heritage. Otherwise, you’re going to have to wait another”—he glanced at his watch—“twenty minutes till Tristan comes in.”

  “W-wha?” The guy’s mouth gaped like a fish, indignant sputters falling out. “Pat, you hear what he just said?”

  “I did.” Pat chuckled then shrugged. “He’s the bartender. You best treat him right if you want to be served.”

  Frank wagged his head. “Never thought I’d see the day when a Scotty stood behind your bar.”

  “Nineteen more minutes,” Dawson warned. “Think you can make it?”

  The guy burred up, shoulders lifting to his ears as he hunched over the bar, cuddling his empty mug.

  Dawson set his dishtowel on the counter behind the bar. “My brother worked here before me.”

  “Still don’t know how he managed to talk Pat into it.”

  Dawson didn’t either. But Andy had promised to share the tale over a beer once they both returned to Cedar Valley.

  “One MacKay was bad enough,” the guy lamented. “But two?”

  “Huh.” He sauntered toward the man. “Guess my brother was wrong.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes. “About what?”

  “He said you were all right.”

  “Did he now?”

  “Uh-huh.” Okay, so Andy never said that exactly. But he did say “the regular who sits at the end of the bar sure likes his beer.” Drawing on his brother’s words of wisdom, Dawson grabbed a frosty mug. “I’ve been here a month now, Frank.” He pulled the guy’s favorite tap, “And every time I work the bar, you insult me, yet I still serve with a smile.” He set the beer on the counter, and, though foam slid down the side of the glass, he kept his fingers wrapped tight around the mug’s handle.

  Frank’s eyes glowed, and he licked his lips. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure at first. But Andy grew on me. He could take a good ribbing.”

  “That he can.” Dawson nodded. “So I have an idea. Let’s you and me cut to the chase. You want drinks. I want to learn all I can about how to run a bar. Let’s throw the past into a pile—the animosity, outrage, whatever else—and light a match to it. Start fresh.”

  The guy eyed the beer. “I can do that.”

  Dawson held out his hand. Frank stared at it a moment then accepted the offer and gave him a hearty shake. And that’s how you seal the deal. He slid the mug in front of the man. “This one’s on me.”

  Turning, he strolled away to finish polishing the last couple of wineglasses before his shift ended.

  “Nice work,” Pat murmured. “Every bit as savvy as your brother. He’s better behind the bar, but then you’re better with the books. Paddy says you’re doing well.”

  “You’ve got a great setup. And Paddy’s good explaining the finer points. He’s making my master’s project a piece of cake.” A few more months and he’d have his MBA, which the banks would look favorably upon—if he and Andy ever found a suitable location to open their Scottish pub and restaurant in Cedar Valley. His brother had sung his praises about Pat’s Irish Pub, Pat himself, and his children and grandchildren who helped run the place. Dawson could see why. They made everyone who walked through the front door feel like family.

  “Good, good.” He nodded.

  The blonde from the corner table sashayed up to the bar.

  Dawson moved down the bar to intercept her. “More wine for you and your friend?”

  She let loose a megawatt smile that could’ve powered all of Baltimore for a week. “No, but we did want to give you this.”

  She set a napkin with a twenty on top on the bar and slid it toward him. With a wink, she turned and walked away. Her friend joined her at the door, and, together, they left the pub.

  He took both the cash and napkin to the register and rang in the drinks then tossed the change into the tips jar. When he flipped the napkin over, he found their names—Maureen and Trish—along with a phone number.

  Nope. He tossed the napkin the garbage. Number one bartending rule: You don’t sleep with the customers. Or so he’d read online. Most of his bartending abilities came from college. The only reason he’d agreed to work at Pat’s Irish
Pub was because the timing meshed with his master’s project. But, if he and his brother were going to have a bar, he thought he should learn more about the business than balancing the books, paying salaries, and ordering supplies.

  “You got a girl?” Pat leaned against the bar.

  “Not at the moment.” Not since that one girl his junior year in college when he’d thought he was in love. What an idiot he’d been. Since then, he’d dated here and there, but no one serious. No one connected with him, or held his interest.

  “How old are you? Twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Och, lad. Getting a bit old for dallying with a lass’s heart, aren’t you?”

  Old? Twenty-seven isn’t old. “Who says it’s me doing the dallying?”

  Pat’s son, Tristan, came out from the back—thank God. Dawson didn’t like where the pub owner was going.

  “Hey, Dawson.” The guy gave the pub a once over then nodded and leaned against the bar. “Hey, Pop. I think I found a place that rents karaoke setups and a guy who can work the whole thing for us…if you still want to try that this weekend.” He drummed his fingers on the polished mahogany. “If not, I think I can still get a band in here on short notice.”

  He shook his head. “Let’s try this for a few weeks, see if we draw in new customers.”

  “You could set up some type of competition,” Dawson offered. “Have judges. Give some sort of prize.”

  Pat smiled. “I like the way you think. The chance at a prize will bring more people.”

  Tristan nodded. “And they’ll buy more drinks. Maybe eat at the restaurant, too.” He grabbed a pen from under the counter and scribbled on a napkin. “I’ll check into it. New customers is one thing, but too many people crammed in here and we’ll have the fire marshal paying us a visit.”

  “Okay, well, I’m heading out.” Dawson headed toward the back and the rear parking lot beyond.

  “Good work today,” Pat called.

  “See you Friday,” Tristan added.

  Two whole days off. Man, he sure looked forward to some time to explore Baltimore more. Three weeks and his three-month stint at Pat’s Irish Pub would end. He’d miss the place for sure.

  Before he could get out the back door, his phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID.

  Andy. “Hey, man. What’s up?”

  “How are things at the pub?”

  “Good.” The sounds of people chatting in the background flowed over the line. “Where are you?”

  Andy chuckled. “I took Maureen to Gondola for lunch.”

  Dawson’s mouth watered. The restaurant’s delicious fare was an icon of Cedar Valley. And their bread sticks were damn near addictive. “What are you having?”

  “I ordered the alfredo. Maureen’s getting the chicken parmesan.”

  His brother had met Maureen while working at Pat’s Irish Pub. The Irish girl had been so fresh off the boat she still smelled like shamrocks and Guinness. Or so his brother liked to joke. His serious, business-focused brother. Something about Maureen brought out a humorous side nobody ever expected. “Chicken parm is a great choice. With such great taste, how she ended up with you, I have no idea.”

  “Neither do I.” He sounded happy. Which was good. Andy deserved to be happy. Dawson just wished he could find a bit of it for himself, too. And he didn’t think going home to Cedar Valley, California, would give that to him.

  As a kid, he’d wanted to see the world. So, all through high school, he studied hard and played baseball. First baseman. He was pretty good, too. Between that and his SAT scores, he managed to catch a recruiter’s eye and ended up playing for the UGA Bulldogs for four years. Georgia had been about as far across the country as he could get, and he’d used that time to get his degree and spread his wings.

  Even before he’d finished his bachelors, the minor leagues had approached him. But between keeping his grades up, practices, and games, he’d burned out. He probably should’ve gone home then, but, instead, he’d explored the East Coast for a while. And, at some point, he’d ended up back at UGA, enrolled in their MBA program. Hell, he couldn’t even remember how that all happened.

  “I think I found a place for the pub.” His brother’s excitement vibrated through the line. “Remember the convenience store that blew up at our cousins’ weddings?”

  Their cousins, Kat and Brigit MacKay, had decided to have a double wedding. The big event had taken over the entire town. A couple months before that, the corner store had mysteriously exploded. Luckily, their granddad, Sean MacKay, who everyone called Mac and also happened to be the town fire chief, led the efforts to get the blaze under control before it got out of hand.

  Rumor had it a terrorist had been behind the heinous act. But Dawson wasn’t sure he bought it. Like most small towns, the gossip vine thrived.

  “I do remember.” He stepped out into the pub’s back parking lot, the fall sun reinvigorating him.

  “The place across the street, the one with the big windows and huge red awning out front…the owner is talking about putting it up for sale. Mary Corbin hooked me up.”

  “I’m sure she did.” As the local reporter for the Cedar Valley Gazette, Mary Corbin often knew what was happening in town before the people involved knew it themselves.

  “I talked to the owner. He’s giving us first shot at the place. So, finish up your MBA and get home.” Andy chuckled. “We’ve got a pub to open.”

  “Working on it.”

  A giggle came over the line, followed by his brother’s muffled response. Maureen was the perfect woman for Andy. The way they looked at each other…like they had some kind of deep connection. Like they “got” each other, like they understood each other on a deeper level. No woman had ever looked at Dawson like Maureen did Andy.

  His phone made a double-beep. “Hey, man. Sorry, but I gotta wind this up. My phone’s about to die.”

  “Okay, bro. Food’s here anyway. Talk to you later.”

  “Sounds good. Later.” He ended the call.

  Dawson stood in the parking lot soaking in the fall weather and remembering his visit home. The wedding. All the people. One relative came from Tahiti, a couple from Australia. One distant cousin worked at an animal preserve in Kenya. Even his parents had come home from Australia where they’d been on a photo expedition hoping to get a picture of whatever exotic or endangered animal in the Gondwana Rainforests that National Geographic wanted for their next issue. Hell, it’d looked like every MacKay in the world had made the trek to Cedar Valley to see Kat and Brigit’s weddings.

  And that’s when his brother had hit him with the idea. They’d been waiting for a table at Gondola for over an hour, and Andy had glanced around at everyone else waiting with them.

  “This is a crap ton of people.”

  Dawson snorted. “Yep.” His stomach growled. Would they get a table before midnight?

  “Hey.” He elbowed him. “Imagine how much money we could rake in if we had a bar here.”

  What is he talking about? “We have a bar. Down the street.”

  “Yeah, but that’s for firemen and police mostly.”

  Dawson shook his head. “Cedar Valley doesn’t need another bar.”

  “True.” Andy angled toward him. “A pub, then. Maybe with a restaurant. And a band.”

  “Sure. God knows this town could stand a few more places to eat.”

  “And drink.” His brother grinned. “Just think…with all these MacKays, we could’ve made enough to buy a place.”

  And though his statement had been akin to the much debated chicken-egg question, it somehow resonated on a deeper level. It did make sense. And in a few months, they would—

  Movement to his left caught Dawson’s attention. He frowned, trying to make sense of what was running into the parking lot. Long legs. A lot of flowy white fabric. And long auburn hair.

  “What the…?”

  Chapter Three

  Sophie glanced over her shoulder again. Had the person
who sent her that horrible video on PicTalk found her? Facing forward, she pushed ahead, the voluminous gown impeding her steps. How did anyone move in this thing?

  The alley emptied into a parking lot. Could she hide between the cars until she could figure out what to do next? This damn dress made her a million times more visible. As she scanned the lot, her gaze fell on a man standing near the back of a building.

  Her heart stuttered. Ohmigod! He’s found me!

  She backpedaled then stopped. Wait a sec, Sophie. How did he get here before you? How did he know you’d run this way? No way he could. Only answer? This guy wasn’t the one who sent her the video.

  She scurried into the parking lot. She had no car—Hugh had driven. And no phone—she’d left hers in the bridal shop. She needed help.

  Taking a chance, she lifted her hand and waved. “Hey!”

  He came toward her, concern on his face.

  He doesn’t look dangerous. “I need he—”

  She stepped on the edge of her dress, and, between the rogue tulle, pebbles peppering the parking lot, and her stiletto heel, her ankle gave.

  “Argh!” She pitched forward.

  But before she hit the pavement, strong arms saved her, tucking her against his hard chest. Tilting her head back, she peered up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

  “Are you okay?” His deep voice sent tingles dancing across her skin.

  “Umm….” Pull it together, Soph. You need to get out of here. Setting her palms on his chest, she pushed to get free from his embrace and stand on her own two feet. “I’m fine. I just need— Ow!”

  Pain shot up her calf, and she winced. He grasped her arm to steady her.

  “I think you may have twisted your ankle.”

  “I…” She tested her foot again. Another sharp twinge followed, and she grimaced. “Yes.” She glanced over her shoulder to see if her pursuer had found her. Thankfully, the alley behind her remained empty. Facing her rescuer, she again was taken with how his blue gaze seemed to drink her in. “I could use your help.”

  “Of course.” In a blink, he bent and scooped her into his arms, dress and all.