by K. A. Tucker
“It is, Miss Amber Mae Welles from Oregon.”
My cheeks flush, knowing he’s been looking at my information, my picture. “Great. I’ll get dressed and come to the bar at noon, if you’re open by then?”
“We are.” There’s a pause. “I have a better idea, though.”
“Haunting, isn’t it?”
My breath hitches with surprise as I spin around to find River standing behind me with two Starbucks cups in his hands, his smile reaching his eyes. “They’re . . . incredible,” I say.
His sneakers scrape against the cobblestones beneath us as he closes the distance, his threadbare navy T-shirt damp from the off-and-on drizzle falling, the strands of wet hair pushed back in a careless way.
He’s even more attractive than I remember.
My heart skips a few beats when he thrusts a cup forward, the crisp white paper highlighting his red, scraped knuckles. They weren’t like that yesterday. I know because I got a good look at his hands when I was checking for a wedding band.
“Latte, with sugar.”
I frown.
“You keep your receipts.”
“Right. I do that.” I like to keep track of my spending. Heat climbs up my neck. That means he went through my entire wallet. And he must have seen that stupid list. While that doesn’t make me feel as violated as having the asshole who stole my wallet see it, it still stirs a feeling of vulnerability. River may have saved my life, but I don’t know anything about him. And now he knows me down to my home address and weight, and he probably thinks that I’m shopping for a movie-style fling on this trip.
Did he actually read it? What would have gone through his head when he saw number one?
I push the thought aside. “Thank you.” I accept the cup and our fingertips graze, sending a warm current through me.
“Here.” His hand dips into the back pocket of his jeans and reappears with my wallet.
A bubble of relief bursts as I reach for it, followed by another small thrill as his fingertips graze mine again. “God! Thank you! This is . . . you have no idea . . .” I expected it to be flimsy, the money all gone, but it has weight to it. When I open it and find the stack of colorful bills, I feel the deep furrow between my eyes form, the one that my mother warns me is going to leave a deep wrinkle by the time I’m thirty-five if I don’t stop frowning. “But, how . . .”
“Our security cameras caught it all. The muppet was still in the pub, so I had words with him.”
River said that he found it in the “rubbish”—their word for trash. “Muppet” or not, there’s no way the thief threw it out with the cash, so . . . “He gave all my money back?”
“With his deepest apologies.” River’s right hand balls up into a fist before stretching out next to his thigh. And I suddenly understand why his knuckles are all bruised.
“You had words with him . . . Exactly how many ‘words’ did it take to drag out his remorse?”
That smirk reappears. “Are you angry with me?”
“No . . .” I’m not entirely sure what I am. I’ve never been a fan of violence, of guys pounding on each other. I see the ugly results of it at work all the time. At home, Alex’s face is a constant reminder. But right now, it’s making River all the more attractive to me. He must have watched the security tapes as soon as his brother told him—how did he have time for that?—and gone through the trash can to find it. “You could have kept the money—you know that, right? And just blamed the thief.”
“But then that would make me a thief, wouldn’t it?” A curious look flickers across his face that I can’t read. “Is that what you think of me?”
“No, I didn’t mean . . . A lot of regular people would have pocketed it.”
“I guess I’m not regular people then.”
You most certainly are not. I study his knuckles again—red and swollen. “You’re not going to get into trouble, are you?”
“Trouble?” He frowns. “Trouble with who?”
“I don’t know. With the police. With your boss?” I don’t know how many times I’ve seen the cops in the parking lot outside Roadside after a fight broke out back home. All it takes is one call from the bartender.
But, in this case, that’s River.
A soft chuckle escapes him. Nothing about his face or his stance says he’s sorry for whatever he did. He’s definitely not afraid. Is he afraid of anything?
Yes, he is, I remind myself. He’s afraid of whoever set that bomb.
“Benoit isn’t going to go to the gardai because he stole your wallet. And Ma and Da aren’t gonna fire their son for giving someone what they were owed.”
Ma and Da . . . “Your parents own the bar?”
“They do. Rowen and I keep it going for them.”
Huh. “River Delaney?”
He nods. Somehow that piece of news makes him working as a bartender in a dive bar different. Like, if I were to tell my friends about him, and they asked what he did, my answer wouldn’t be, “He’s a bartender.” It would be, “He runs his family’s pub.” It sounds better in my head. I know it would sound better to the sheriff’s ears. Not a lot better, but still . . .
With a slow, calming exhale, I turn back to study the seven statues—six people and one dog—looming before me again, their faces gaunt, their lanky bronze forms in tattered, dirty clothes. It took half an hour for me to walk here from the house, but it was easy enough to find. “So you live nearby?”
“Ten-minute drive.”
I frown. “Why’d you pick this place to meet, then?”
River takes a sip of his coffee and I inhale the clean, crisp smell of his soap with his movement. I’m guessing he jumped out of the shower, threw on some clothes, and came here. Such a difference between guys and girls—I primped for over an hour. Basically, since the second I knew I would see River today. I even curled my hair, something I only normally do now when I’m going out to a bar.
“A million Irish lives were lost to a great famine in the 1840s. It’s one of the most critical events in our country’s history, and this monument was erected to remind us of it. Do you know how many times I see a tourist walk past these statues, or stop to take a picture of themselves next to one, and I wish they had a bleeding idea what it stands for?”
Bleeding. That seems to be a popular word around here. My cab driver from the airport used it a lot. “Are you calling me an ignorant tourist?”
He smiles. “Ireland is about more than Temple Bar and kissing stones.”
Ugh. That was on my list. He must have read it. “So you want to make sure I know what this monument stands for?” My gaze follows him as he strolls around each weathered statue, his shoulders broad and strong, his posture straight and proud.
He pauses to peer down at the homely dog, immortalized. “That. And I wanted to make sure you don’t spend the rest of your trip in hiding, afraid of being blown up or robbed.” He wanders back toward me with a soft smile, his gaze resting on my still-healing lip for a long moment before meeting my eyes again. “How are you?”
I shrug, trying to brush his worries off. “I’ll have memories to bring home with me.”
His gaze drifts over the River Liffey, which flows calmly next to us as he sips his coffee. I’m desperate to know what’s going on inside that head of his. “How long are you here for?”
“Eight more days.”
A drop catches his long lashes. It’s going to start raining again any minute. “Staying with friends?”
“House-sitting for someone.”
He nods slowly and silence hangs, prompting me to talk. “Now that I have my license back, I’m going to do a bunch of day trips, out to Cork and Galway. Maybe do some of those ignorant tourist tours.” Unlike my trek across Canada, which was planned down to the day, with little downtime, I’m glad I decided to do Ireland differently. Mostly spur-of-the-moment and unplanned. Very unlike me.
He chuckles. “Sounds grand.”
I hesitate bringing the bombing up, but since he
kind of already did . . . “How are you?” He frowns slightly, as if confused, forcing me to elaborate. “I saw the blood on your back when you ran.” I assume he didn’t go to a hospital, since the police would have been scouring emergency rooms. Thanks to me warning them to.
Understanding flickers in his eyes. “Never been better.” Downing the rest of his coffee, River wanders over to a nearby trash can to stuff the cup in. “I need to run now.”
Already? He obviously made a special trip this way and he’s been here all of five minutes, if that. I struggle to keep the disappointment from my face. Why not just let me come to the bar and pick my wallet up, then? Unless . . . maybe he didn’t want me lingering there after all. I clear my throat to ensure my voice is light as I tease, “I thought you were here to teach me about Irish history?”
A playful smirk curls his lips. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to see my parents today, before work. But we have fantastic museums, with tours for your kind.”
Is this really it, then? Are we saying goodbye already? I open my mouth to thank him yet again, but falter, not sure that the simple words are enough anymore. Not for me, anyway. Taking a deep breath, I close the small gap between us and reach out, wrapping my arms around River’s neck, coffee cup and all. Just tight enough to feel his chest against mine. His body stiffens under my touch for just a moment, and then his arms rope around my waist, squeezing me into a tight embrace, until I can feel his heartbeat and I’m resting my head against his shoulder like we’ve known each other for years. The lightest caress of his breath against my neck sends shivers through my body.
He holds me like this for five wonderful seconds and then his body goes lax, and he pulls away. With a deep exhale, he turns and begins walking away slowly, his feet dragging. Not uttering a single word.
“The famine was caused by a potato blight!” I blurt out after him. It’s the first thing that comes to mind. I’m ready to say anything to make him stop.
And it works.
He turns and I flash him my smug smile. This American girl didn’t come to Ireland completely unprepared.
“That’s a good start, but there’s much more to that story, Miss Amber Mae Welles,” he smirks, emphasizing Welles, a well-known British surname. “You should check out the Collins Barracks Museum.” He pauses, hesitating. “And stay out of any more trouble.”
“But then you wouldn’t be able to come and save me.” Superman.
His head falls back with a burst of laughter that makes me both happy and sad. “You need saving, do you?”
I don’t know what I need, but the way he just held me gave me a taste of what I definitely want. I hold up my wallet. “I could have just stopped by your bar to get it.”
“You could have.” He hesitates. “But then I might have missed seeing you again.”
My heart flutters with excitement. So he did want to see me again, too.
“See ya, Amber.” He winks. “Don’t do anything . . . torrid.”
Oh my God. He definitely read the list. I stare after him, red-faced, as he crosses the street and disappears from my sight.
See ya? He does realize that he actually won’t, doesn’t he? We live thousands of miles apart. It’s virtually impossible that we’ll ever cross paths in this life again. Unless . . .
I go to that pub again.
I thumb my wallet between my fingers, appreciating that it was just sitting in his back pocket not long ago. It was also in the trash can, but I’m not going to focus on that. Leafing through the little compartments, I find my license and bank card just as they were. And all of my money, down to the last euro. The few receipts that I remember stuffing in there.
No travel bucket list.
The giddy smile that River put on my face slips off as I search through everything again. And frown. It’s not there. How could it not be there? Torrid isn’t a word most people use in their everyday vocabulary, which means River definitely saw it. So that means . . . he kept it? Why would he . . .
To give me an excuse to come to the bar, looking for it.
I feel the grin stretch across my face.
But showing up at that dingy bar again tonight, on a Saturday night, alone, so I can sit on the stool and watch him serve drinks and possibly be ignored . . . Ugh. I’ll look desperate. Embarrassingly desperate. Budding stalker status, maybe.
So what, I hear Alex say in my head.
So what if I show up at that bar again and he knows I’m interested in him. And his brother knows I’m interested. And everyone in there knows. I’m a tourist. I can do whatever I want here and leave it all behind when I get on that plane. I am a tadpole in an ocean.
Plus, he took my damn list. As silly as the thing is, it’s become somewhat of a guide for me.
I wander over to the rail and gaze out on the stretch of water that cuts through the heart of Dublin, watching the tiny ripples dance along the surface, and consider my next move. This is, after all, part of why I took this trip in the first place. To experience life while I’m young and unattached. To make memories that will last me a lifetime. To find out if the Amber I’ve known all these years—with an overprotective sheriff father and a practical surgeon mother looking over my shoulder—would make the same choices as the one who is free of scrutiny. Do I abide by the black-and-white limits I’ve set for myself because that’s who I truly am or because that’s who I am while being judged? And how far into that gray area might I venture before I go running back to my familiar boundaries?
Aaron was inside my familiar boundaries and look how that turned out. All of my previous boyfriends have been. If I want to test myself, River’s definitely the one to do that with.
The problem is that my comfort zone absolutely abhors the idea of being so obvious. This would be so much easier to do if I had Bonnie or Tory here to help occupy my attention and time until he makes the first move. But I’m in Ireland, and all potential wingmen are thousands of miles away.
Well . . .
Maybe not.
I guess it just depends how desperate I am.
NINE
RIVER
“Have ya been sleeping?”
I flinch from my mother’s rough grip of my face. “I’m fine. Just a long night at work.”
She grabs my scuffed-up hand and then levels me with a stern look. “I see that, River. What happened?”
“I caught Benoit lifting a customer’s wallet.” I shrug. “So I told him not to.”
“That slimy little bastard,” Ma mutters. She brings Da in once a week, so she’s there enough to know the regulars. She’s always had a thing against Benoit that I didn’t understand, said he gave her the creeps.
“Is he going to remember?” Da sits in his seat at the kitchen table, his favorite mug in one hand full of beer, a bowl of stew and the Mirror in front of him.
“I’m guessing so.” Waking up with a black eye and a busted nose is always good for jogging the memory.
“And are the gardai going to be showing up at the doorstep for ya?”
I shake my head, though I can’t ignore the voice in my head that admits, Not for that.
He nods with approval. My father never had a problem teaching someone a lesson if he deserved it.
“Here.” I set the week’s register readings and other paperwork down next to him.
He sighs like he always does, as if it’s a great burden to count out how much money we’ve brought in. Delaney’s has kept all of us quite comfortable over the years. “Good week?”
“Busy week.” It’s always busy at Delaney’s. Through bad weather and bad times, we never lack drinking customers.
“Sit and eat.” Ma drops a bowl of her lamb stew on the table, and then her sturdy hands land on my back to push me into a chair.
I hiss when her palm presses against one of my wounds.
“What’s the matter, son?”
I shake my head, waiting for the pain to subside with gritted teeth. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
Mari
on Delaney isn’t one to take a brush-off, though. “River Fintan Delaney! What is wrong with your back?” Her stubby little fingers fly to my shirt, tugging at the collar.
I swat her hand away. “Ma! Come on!”
“He’s a grown man. Leave him be,” Da mutters, but with a sternness that prompts her to listen. She turns on her heels and marches to the stove in a huff.
Da and I share a look. The fact that I’m twenty-four years old means nothing to that woman. If it were up to her, she’d still be washing my knickers. I do miss her cooking, though, I’ll admit, as I shovel a spoonful of hearty stew into my mouth. No one makes it better. One day every year, on Delaney’s anniversary, she sits at the bar with a vat of it, ladling it into bowls for customers, for free. It’s the busiest day of the year for us, Rowen and me chasing away the greedy assholes who come back for a second helping.
“So, what’s that about?” Da juts his chin toward my back.
“Nothing.” I need to change the subject and fast. “How’s your leg?”
He shifts and grimaces in his chair, as if I’ve just reminded him. “Uncomfortable. It’s this bloody heat wave.”
Heat waves, cold fronts, damp weather . . . all of it seems to bother his leg. Twenty-seven years after the bombing in Belfast that left him with severe nerve damage, there isn’t a day when he doesn’t suffer. I sure don’t remember one, anyway. The doctors say there’s nothing they can do. Not even surgery is going to fix it. I think he’s been prescribed every painkiller under the sun.
“I’ll come back midweek if you want, when Rowen’s not in class. Saves you another trip in.”
“That’d be grand. I don’t want to go near Dublin right now with this sort of thing going on.” He taps the newspaper headline, the article about St. Stephen’s Green below it. “Tell me Aengus didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Not that I know of.” I keep my eyes on my bowl and feel his heavy stare size me up. He’s no idiot. There’s a reason Aengus didn’t get out on license after just three years in Portlaoise, like his sentence offered. All he had to do was behave, but instead he fought and preached about the cause. The hearing committee denied his request, and he served out his entire sentence.