by K. A. Tucker
“I’m sorry. I distracted him,” she says. Rowen’s gaze shifts between the two of us, settling on the scab over her bottom lip. It’s bad, but not bad enough for stitches from what I can see. Purple-bruised skin peeks out from the sleeve of her flowery pink blouse. That’s my fault. I hit her hard when I took her down. Not that I had much of a choice.
“Right.” Rowen leaves for the other side of the bar so he doesn’t have to watch me as I dump the entire pint and start over. I can’t serve an imperfect Guinness pour to a customer. But few things piss him off and I know inside that head of his, he’s screaming sacrilege. If there was anything our father taught us to believe in besides an independent Ireland, it’s that wasting beer is downright blasphemous.
I grab another glass and start over, feeling her eyes on me the entire time.
“So . . . River.” She has a soft voice. Her accent is a hundred times more charming than that of the American girls I usually meet. Maybe that’s because they’re usually drunk and yelling by the time I start talking to them.
And now she knows my name. Bloody hell. Won’t take long for them to find me with that, should she share it.
“Yeah.” I set the glass down on the counter to settle while I move on to another one, trying to quell the panic still burning inside. “My mother couldn’t make it to the hospital in time and ended up having me in the backseat of the car, next to Castletown River.” I’ve told the story of my unusual name so many times it rolls off my tongue.
“That’s sweet.”
“Right . . . sweet.” I smirk despite everything. “Better than being named Castletown.”
She smiles, pushing back a strand of her long hair—a pretty warm brown, like the cinnamon bark Ma likes to stick in her tea sometimes. I don’t remember it being so long, but then again I don’t remember much except her wild, green eyes—the color of a crisp cucumber’s flesh—and how soft the skin on her legs was, when I slid my hands along them, checking for shrapnel wounds.
She’s more beautiful than I remember.
Beautiful in that wholesome all-American girl way that the movies teach us about. Perfect, symmetrical features, smooth skin, straight, white teeth. Long, dark lashes that help trap my gaze. I can’t even tell if she’s wearing makeup. She’s definitely not wearing too much.
Of course I’ve met enough American tourists to know that that’s a Hollywood illusion, that they come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of brazenness, just like people around here. This girl, though . . .
She shouldn’t be here. She’s the only one, aside from Aengus, who can put me in the Green when the bomb went off.
“Well . . .” She takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. “Hello, River.” A dainty hand stretches out toward me and I’m compelled to take it, to hold it. “I’m Amber.” She blinks several times, her eyes suddenly wet, tears brimming at the corners. “I needed to say thank you.” The words she doesn’t say out loud hang between us as a tear spills down her cheeks.
Bloody hell. I can’t have this girl crying at the bar without raising questions. Maybe I should lead her to the back, where there’s privacy. . . .
A few irritated plucks of a guitar announce that Collin is now impatiently waiting. He’ll start getting obnoxious soon, and probably draw attention to the crying American bird in front of me.
So I do the only thing I can think to do. I reach out with my free hand and steal the tear with my thumb. “No need,” I promise her, leaving her knuckles with a brief kiss before freeing myself from her grasp and settling it on the bar in front of her. “Selma!”
I pour Collin’s pint while Amber tries to compose herself in my peripherals, carefully dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a napkin from the bar.
Selma swoops in with her tray not ten seconds later.
“That one’s for Collin. Get it to him first so he’ll shut up.”
I can hear the small printer behind me churning, spitting out new drink orders from the other waitresses, but I ignore them for the moment to give all my attention to this creature in front of me, who’s staring up at me like I’m some sort of knight in shining armor. She’s composed herself again, at least. “How are you enjoying Ireland so far?” It’s a stupid question to ask her, all things considered, but it’s all I can think of.
A slight frown furrows her smooth skin, even as she smiles. “Good. Fine. Well, to be honest, I haven’t really been anywhere since . . .” She swallows hard and averts her gaze around us. “ . . . since I got here.” She shrugs in a “you know” way.
Anger boils inside me. Fucking Aengus. This poor girl’s holiday is probably ruined. She’s forever going to remember Ireland for a pipe bomb. I’m surprised she hasn’t hopped on a plane and gone home already.
“Listen . . .” I lean forward slightly, catching a whiff of spicy floral perfume. “What happened that day? That was one in a million. You should be more worried about our transit system.”
Her lips break into a wide, gorgeous smile, deep dimples forming on each cheek. “I believe you. Those double-decker buses move fast.”
I grab the drink orders from the printer and lay them out. She quietly watches me fill two pints and set them on the counter. “So, what can I get ya?”
“I actually—” She cuts herself off, hesitates, and then, looking around, makes a decision. Her voice drops and she leans in. “I have a few questions.” She rushes to add, “Just for me. I just need to talk to someone about what happened. And you’re the only one I can do that with.”
Of course she has questions. What the hell am I going to say? If I were a dick, like Aengus, I’d either yell at her or throw out a few choice innuendos that would make most well-mannered birds cringe in disgust and run away. But I don’t have the heart to do either. “I only have one question,” I counter, stalling.
She waits, her eyes widening, worry mixing with curiosity.
“Will it be Guinness or Smithwick’s?”
“Oh.” She smiles, and then frowns, her nose wrinkling. “My friends made me try a Guinness before I left and I wasn’t a big fan.”
“You tried it in America?” I chuckle and grab a glass. “Take a seat then.”
She does, perching herself on a stool, her gaze taking everything in. Collin tests a few notes on his harmonica, grabbing her attention. “Is he going to play real Irish music? I’ve heard places like this usually do.”
Places like “this.” I can’t help but chuckle. She looks like a little doll, perched prim and proper in the middle of this kip. Completely out of her element. I’m sure the only bars she’s heard about are the upscale ones in Temple Bar. They do play live Irish music. They also gouge the tourists’ wallets. “I guess you’ll have to stay and see, won’t you?”
A sparkle of excitement twinkles in her eyes but she says nothing, her gaze drifting over my arms as I finish pouring and set the pint in front of her. I lean across the bar, resting on my elbows. “Do you trust me?” I ask, half in jest.
She bites the inside of her cheek and then nods.
Concern pricks my conscience. Yes, I may have dove in front of a bomb for her, but, really, she should be a bit more wary of me. Yet it’s that trust, that admiration that radiates from her as she watches me, that’s reeling me in tighter by the second, making me lean forward even closer, ignoring the printer that keeps churning with orders. “Go on, then . . . Try it. This one’s on me.”
A small bloom of red touches her cheeks and I wonder what that’s about, as she brings the glass to her mouth to take the tiniest sip. A caramel froth mustache decorates her top lip when she pulls it away, smiling. When she catches me staring at it—at her lips—her cheeks brighten even more.
“Better than what you’ve had before, right?”
She nods, swiping at the foam with her thumb. Thoughts flicker across her face. “How did you know?”
“Because Guinness doesn’t travel well. Everyone says it’s better when poured at home.”
She leans in, settling a shre
wd gaze on me, her voice low and suddenly so serious. “That’s not what I meant.”
In the blink of an eye, we’re back to the Green. I still don’t know what to say, so I peel away from the counter and grab a few orders to stall. The bar’s filling up quick. Soon I’ll have customers banking either side of us and this conversation won’t be able to continue. I could drag it out, let her walk out of here without any answers at all. I could let her form her own conclusions.
Likely they’d be bad.
Maybe they’d be right.
“I was jogging in the park,” I finally say. “I saw a guy drop it in the grass before you came running.”
“I didn’t see anyone else.” Her pretty brow pinches in thought. “Then again, I didn’t see you either. I guess I was more focused on my map.” A pause. “How did you know it was going to go off when it did?”
“I didn’t,” I lie. “I saw it and I saw you, and I ran as fast as I could.” My gaze drifts over that creamy, perfect skin, that long neck, those slender arms. What would she have looked like, shredded by flying plastic?
“But why wouldn’t you stay and tell the police? The . . . gardai.” She tests that word out on her tongue with a cute scowl.
Selma slides in then to grab napkins and more drink orders, stalling the conversation. I wait until she’s gone to lean over the bar again, this time closer. Close enough to avoid ears, close enough to catch the smell of spearmint on her breath. I remember it now. It’s all coming back to me, the feel of her beneath me on that grass. The terror that stopped my heart as I ran for her, believing I wouldn’t make it. The overwhelming relief I felt when I knew she’d be okay.
When I don’t answer, she pushes. “You saw the guy who did it. You could identify him.” She watches me and I can’t help but think that this innocent-looking American bird is weighing my answers with the skill of someone who can see through bullshit.
So I decide on a skewed version of the truth. “What if I don’t want that person knowing who I am, or that I could put him in prison?” I’m sure she’s read the papers. They didn’t waste time throwing out suspect groups. One, in particular. Pipe bombs are one of their signature methods, after all. She can’t be so ignorant as to not understand the dangers associated with those three little letters that mean so much when combined. IRA.
She nods slowly. “You’re scared of what he may do to you.”
“And to my family.” Now it’s my turn to ask a question. “What did you tell the gardai about me?”
A flash of guilt fills her face. “They were asking me a lot of questions and inspecting my backpack. At first, I’m pretty sure they thought I set the bomb and was pretending to be a victim.”
“You’re joking.” I definitely didn’t see that coming, but I guess female bombers aren’t unheard of. Especially young, innocent-looking ones.
“I wasn’t hurt, right? Other than this gash on my lip.” She touches it lightly with her fingertip, drawing my attention to it again. She’s got a wide mouth and plump lips, the kind that can’t handle a bright lipstick without looking clownish.
The kind that I like.
She shrugs. “So I told them that a man with an Irish accent saved my life. I said you knocked me down before the blast. But I told them I didn’t remember anything else.” Her gaze roams my face until her cheeks flush and she ducks away with a coy smile. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was flirting with me.
A string of notes finally catches my attention. Collin, beginning the first of many cheery Irish jigs. In the minutes while I was lost in conversation, regulars lined themselves up at the bar, perched on their stools, and waved for my attention. Delaney’s regulars aren’t patient when it comes to that first, cold after-work pint.
“River! You planning on working at all today?” Rowen hollers, glancing at Amber again with a knowing smirk.
“Go ahead.” She dismisses me with a smile. “I don’t want to keep you.”
I stall, torn between my job and what I really want to do—get to know this American more. Even though I know that’s a piss-poor idea. It’s best that I let her walk out of here and never look back. Definitely best for me. But also best for her. She doesn’t know me and I’m guessing, by the pretty little silver chains around her neck and the bangles on her wrist and the way she looks so put together, that if it hadn’t been for what I’d done for her, she might not be peering at me in that awestruck way.
“I’m glad to see you’re fine, Amber,” I finally offer.
She bites her bottom lip, stirring my blood. “Same here. I mean, with you. That you’re fine,” she stumbles over her words. Is she always this shy?
“Make sure you see all of Ireland while you’re here. It’s a beautiful country.” I take a deep breath. And then I turn my back on her, forcing myself to let the rush consume my attention as I dismiss Amber’s presence. It’s hard but not impossible to do, with the customers at the bar parched and hollering their needs at me. I lose track of time, working my half of the horseshoe-shaped bar with smiles and pours and quips to keep people laughing and drinking.
I get so good at avoiding her gaze that, at some point, she manages to duck out unnoticed, leaving nothing but an empty glass atop a napkin, with “thank you” scrawled across it.
It’s for the best, I remind myself again, pushing aside the edge of disappointment.
SIX
AMBER
I stroll along the narrow streets, back the way I came, my heart both light and heavy. I wasn’t lying when I told Garda Duffy that I couldn’t remember what the guy who knocked me down looked like. And the bits that I’ve remembered since didn’t prepare me for the guy I just sat and gaped at like a high school freshman for the past hour.
The second we locked eyes, I knew it was him. Those eyes, I don’t think I’ll ever forget them. Except they were deeper, greener than I remembered, like the lush highlands that decorate the Irish tourism magazines. Couple them with a wide, playful smile and an angular jaw hidden behind a few days’ worth of golden scruff, and his face is a perfect blend of handsome features. And I had forgotten his voice—masculine yet melodious, his Irish accent obvious but not overbearing.
River . . . It’s an odd name, and yet it seems to suit him.
I couldn’t tell what he made of me in those first few moments, as a muscular arm held a glass up to the flowing tap, as his gaze landed on me and panic exploded within it. The panic I recognized instantly, and I immediately started second-guessing my brilliant plan to track him down, suddenly understanding that maybe he wants nothing to do with me or the bombing. Something I refused to admit earlier, when the GPS on my phone led me to this pub, my thoughts entirely focused on my need to see him again.
To be honest, I thought finding him was a desperate long shot to begin with. I was so convinced that I was grasping at straws that I killed four hours with touristy things before I could no longer ignore the magnetic pull to the address sitting open in my Google Maps app.
River seemed to get over the shock quickly enough, though, around the time that I lost my cool and started to cry. For the first time since the bombing, it was as if I could finally let my guard down. In that moment I was ready to clamber over the bar and wrap my arms around his neck. It threw me off when he wiped away my tears, and it thrilled me more than a little when he kissed my hand before letting go. I didn’t think guys even did that anymore.
For a while after, I even thought he might be flirting with me—his dimples deep, his chuckles genuine, his gaze warm. It was a possibility that had me stumbling over my words. On top of the swell of emotions I was grappling with, the guy actually made me nervous!
But then he wished me well on my trip and that was that. Little prickles of disappointment and jealousy stung me as I watched him charm a dozen other customers from the safety of my stool, my face half-hidden behind my pint—which tasted nothing like the bitter tar that they serve at Roadside in Sisters, Oregon. I sat and I wondered how old he is, what his house is like,
what his family is like, what he does when he’s not working. Where did he go to college? Did he even go to college? What does he want to do with the rest of his life?
Does he have a girlfriend?
All the things you think about when you’re attracted to someone.
And I’m definitely attracted to River.
Or am I? Is this warm swell in my chest merely because of what he did for me? Is that clouding my other senses?
I guess what I feel or don’t feel doesn’t really matter, though. I snagged his gaze just once more before I left, almost as if by accident. It was like he’d already forgotten about me. And that’s when I reminded myself that he’s an Irish bartender and flirting with customers is in his blood. A handsome, scruffy-faced bartender, serving beer in a dirty old Dublin pub to a bunch of middle-aged men who I’d bet money are here every single day after work, like any good alcoholic barfly.
He’s a stranger, really.
And he probably has a girlfriend.
And I live over four thousand miles away.
Focusing on the bigger picture helps ground whatever deep-seated fantasies my subconscious has already started spinning.
After a little while, the place started getting crowded and hot and loud. I kept getting knocked and bumped by elbows and trays, each jolt reminding me how out-of-place I felt in that world. His world. Then a sweaty little man with a distorted French accent—sounding like he’s been living in Ireland a while—dropped his arm around my shoulder to make small talk and I decided there was no point in me staying. The moment I stood, the crowd swallowed my spot up and pushed me out.
So I just left.
I didn’t even think to leave a tip.
Now I meander through narrow old streets lined with shops and pubs, thrumming with people and Irish music, reminding myself that at least I got the chance to thank him. Something that, until this morning, I assumed I’d never be able to do.
But if I’m being honest with myself, I’m also searching for excuses to go back. Replaying the conversation over and over, chastising myself for the witty answers I didn’t give, wishing I had asked a dozen other questions that have nothing to do with the day of the attack and everything to do with getting to know him.