Doctor Lucky Charms: A Holiday Romance (Kilts and Kisses)

by K. C. Crowne

  Normally, I’d simply excuse myself from a situation like that. Life was too short to get into a public scrape every time a jerk acted out of pocket in public. But there was something about that moment – maybe it was the jetlag, maybe it was the fact that I had a million things on my mind, but I wasn’t in the mood to take it laying down.

  “Listen, jackass,” I said, stepping back from him and narrowing my eyes. “You’ve been acting like a low-class dick to me since I sat down on the plane. I don’t know if you’re clueless or what, and frankly I don’t really care. But I’m a lone woman in a country all by myself and you’re making me wish I would’ve packed my mace – and maybe some brass knuckles to punch you in the balls with.”

  Sam was stunned, his eyes opened wide and his mouth a flat line.

  “They call them balls here, too, right?” I asked. “Hopefully, you got the message. Now, leave me alone before I skip the brass knuckles and just put my knee where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  He remained stunned like that for a few moments more. Part of me worried he might take it all to the next level.

  “I swear,” he said, shaking his head. “You American women are uptight, down to the last.” Without another word, he turned and headed off, muttering as he disappeared around the nearest bank of cars.

  Relief washed over me as the Uber arrived. I hurriedly got into the backseat, letting out a long sigh as the door locked shut.

  Once we were on our way, it hit me just why I’d blown up at Sam like that – it hadn’t been too long since the incident in the other parking area, when another man had accosted me. It didn’t sit well with me that I’d flown across a continent, yet still couldn’t get away from men who threatened me, one way or another.

  I pushed it out of my head as best I could. The situation had been unpleasant, but at least I had the satisfaction of handling it. The look on that prick’s face when I’d told him to screw off…that was going to be bringing a smile to my face for days to come.

  The Uber drove on, heading north away from Dublin toward Sandy Cove. I couldn’t wait to explore the big city, but at that moment some countryside and quiet sure sounded nice. The sun came up, casting golden light on the gently rolling hills.

  Dublin Airport was outside of the city proper, but it’d still been fairy dense around the area. As we made our way north, the tightly packed blocks gave way to open countryside and sparse towns. I couldn’t help but smile.

  “Sandy Cove, yeah?” asked the driver, a middle-aged woman with a pleasant face.

  “Yep. That’s where part of my family is from.”

  “Is that right? Beautiful part of the country, it is.”

  I could already tell that she was right. Even in the low light of morning I could make out the gorgeous, lush green of the Irish countryside, lovely hills dotted with small lakes, trees springing up here and there. And the air was so fresh. Just having the window open a bit was enough to revitalize me.

  The drive took another half hour or so. During the time, I found out that the driver lived in Rush, a seaside town not too much further north than Sandy Cove. She told me all about the goings on in the town, fun things to do in the area. The conversation was light and pleasant, more than enough to take my mind off the business at the airport.

  “And here we are,” she said as we arrived at the main intersection of the small town.

  I said nothing as I took in the sights, the winding cobblestone streets packed with cute little shops and restaurants and pubs. There were charming townhomes and pocket parks, the men of the town dressed in caps and tweed suits.

  It’d been so long since I’d visited the town that it all seemed like I was seeing it for the first time. I couldn’t wait to get settled in and start exploring. I’d only been there for a few minutes and already I was in love. The town was so small that it took us no time at all to drive all the way through, the buildings giving way to more gorgeous rolling hills.

  “And there it is,” the driver said. “There’s your home.”

  I couldn’t even say a word at the sight of the cottage. While the town of Sandy Cove had been somewhat hazy in memory, Grandma’s house was exactly as I’d remembered it. The stone walls, the thatched roof, the endless spread of green in the back that ended with lush, thick forest. Pure joy ran through me as we came to a halt.

  We stopped, the driver getting out and helping me with my bags. By the time we reached the front door I was so excited that I could hardly think straight. The driver bid me farewell, and I quickly slipped some extra euros into her hand before she headed off. My hands shook slightly as I slipped the key into the lock, so eager was I to get inside.

  Nostalgia hit me like a train when I stepped into the house. All the memories from our visits when we were kids came rushing back. I remembered greeting Grandma with big hugs when we arrived from the airport, I remembered the board games we played in the small, cozy living room when it was raining, I remembered the meals we ate in the cheerful little kitchen, the sun pouring in through the tall window over the sink.

  There was the study, the walls of the room lined with bookshelves packed with colorful spines. Grandpa and Grandma both had been voracious readers -a trait they passed onto me. I had countless memories of sitting with Grandma in the study, a cozy fire in the fireplace and both of us curled up in chairs on opposite sides of the room, steaming mugs of tea at hand and our noses in our books.

  It was perfect. Any doubts I’d had about coming back vanished as I moved through the first floor. Without wasting any time, I carried my bags up to the second floor, hurrying down the narrow hallway to the room at the end, the tiny, cozy little space where I slept when I stayed for the summer. I remembered the room not being particularly big back when I was a kid, and now that I was an adult it seemed even smaller.

  Nostalgia’s nice, I thought. But I’m probably going to need the master bedroom.

  I took my bags and went down the hall in the opposite direction, noting the pictures on the wall. There were photos of Grandma with Grandpa, photos of Grandma and Mom, and even a couple of Jolene and me taken during our visits.

  Hesitancy gripped me when I reached the door to the master bedroom. The house was mine, but even so that childhood fear that I was about to step into a place that was off-limits for kids ran through me out of pure instinct. With a smile, I pushed that all out of my head and opened the door.

  Like the other rooms, the master bed was cheery and cozy, light filling the room. The hardwood floor was covered by a big, circular rug, a handmade quilt draped over the bed. I set down my bags at the foot of the bed and took a look around, happy as could be that, for at least the next month or two, this was going to be my home.

  As I stood there alone in Grandma’s bedroom, my heart stirred with longing. I’d loved this place, loved my time here whenever I was lucky enough to visit, but I’d never come back when I was an adult. I’d allowed myself to get so caught up with work and school and relationships and everything else. I’d made the mistake of thinking there would always be time, that Grandma Mary would always be around, would always be sitting in her study with a book on her lap and tea on the side table next to, just waiting for me to stop in for a visit.

  That hadn’t been the case, of course. Grandma had passed and I hadn’t even been able to come to her funeral. It was small consolation that she was so loved in town – the photos Mom had showed me of the funeral had been packed with tons of townspeople who’d all come to pay their last respects to someone they held very dear.

  One of the closet doors was open, and I pulled it the rest of the way to see that it was filled with coats and jackets that belonged to Grandma and Grandpa. One of them was a thick, cable-knit cardigan, the color a classic Irish off-white. I pulled it off the hook and took of my college sweatshirt, then put the cardigan on, the warmth enveloping me. There was even a cute little Donegal pageboy cap, which I plucked from its hook and placed on my head.

  I glanced at myself in the standing mirror as
I headed out of the room, pleased that I looked like a proper Irish woman. I headed back down to the kitchen, my eyes going to the bouquet of beautiful flowers on the farmer’s table that dominated the room. There was as small note from the Byrnes’ welcoming me to Ireland. I checked the fridge and saw that it was stocked up with milk and cheese and eggs and meat – all from local farms. Setting down the piece of paper, I made a mental note to find a nice little present to swing by their place to thank them for their hard work.

  A nap was definitely in order, but I didn’t want to conk out just yet. The sun was almost entirely up by that point, the huge stretch of backyard lit up with morning light. My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t had a thing to eat since the cheese and crackers on the plane.

  A full Irish – that’s what was in order. The plan set, I stepped out of the house with a smile on my face.

  After putting the key into my pocket, I was on my way. Just across the road was a small collection of businesses. One was the pub, McCarthy’s – the place opened by, if I was remembering correctly, my great, great uncle back at the turn of the twentieth century. The place had long been sold, but the new owners had kept the family name. The other business was a small knick-knack store, which looked like a great place to pick up some souvenirs for friends and family back home.

  The final place was a business that wasn’t familiar to me in the slightest. The sign out front read “O’Neill OB/GYN Clinic.” Underneath that was three names: Ronan O’Neill, Collin O’Neill, and Aiden O’Neill. Three brothers, it looked like. As I made my way across the street, I considered how funny it was that three brothers had gone into the same business together. Either that, or their last names were a hell of a coincidence.

  The walk from the house to the pub only took a couple minutes. The parking lot of McCarthy’s was full, and when I entered, I was greeted by a bustling pub. A good couple dozen patrons were seated at the handful of tables, a few more at the bar. I spotted an open seat at the bar and slid onto one of the stools. My eyes moved over the pictures behind the bar, most of them black and white and some looking over a century old. Rows and rows of liquors were on the shelves below them.

  I didn’t have much of a chance to take in the scene before one of the bartenders was in front of me.

  “What can I get you?” asked the bartender, an older man with a trim physique, clever glimmer in his eye, and head full of surprisingly thick silver hair.

  “A full Irish please,” I said. “Oh! And some coffee. Black, please.”

  He gave me a sly look, one that I couldn’t quite puzzle out. Then he flashed me a warm smile.

  “You want that coffee full Irish too?”

  I laughed.

  “No, just regular cream, please.”

  “One coffee and one full Irish for the lovely American lass.” With a wink, he headed off to the kitchen to put in the order.

  Once he was gone, I realized what he’d given me the look about – my accent. Anyone who happened to hear even a single word out of me would know right away that I wasn’t local.

  It didn’t take long before the bartender returned with my cup of coffee, an inquisitive expression on his face, his wrinkles deepening in thought as he tried to figure something out.

  “That hat,” he said, nodding to my pageboy cap. “You mind if I ask where you got it, darling?”

  I took off the hat and inspected it.

  “It was my grandpa’s hat,” I said. “Kind of a hand-me-down.”

  He smiled in realization, setting down my coffee and stepping back to the pictures on the wall, taking one down.

  “Wouldn’t be this man, would it?”

  He held the picture in front of me. It was a photo of a large group of men in front of the bar, all raising their glasses of beer. The photo was in color, looking like it’d been taken a few decades ago before I was born. The bartender placed his finger on the photo toward a man who was strikingly familiar.

  My Grandpa Declan. Sure enough, he wore the same pageboy cap I had on.

  “Oh my God!” I said. “That’s him!”

  “I thought there was a resemblance,” he said, stepping back and letting me hold onto the picture. “Even without the cap.”

  I smiled broadly, so happy to see the picture. I held it for a few moments, burning it into my memory, before passing it back.

  “My name’s Mickey,” he said, offering me a wizened hand. “Mickey Rourke. And before you ask, no relation to the actor.”

  I laughed, taking his hand. He gave me a vigorous shake, one more energetic than I would’ve expected for a man his age.

  “And that’s me in the photo,” he said, showing it to me and tapping on the face of a man who had the same glimmer in his eyes as the bartender. “Declan was a good man – a grandfather to be proud of. And he could take his whiskey like no one else.” He followed this up with a laugh. Then he gestured to the other bartender, a stout middle-aged woman with a bun of red hair who was in the process of topping off some coffees. “Clara! This is Declan and Mary’s granddaughter, ah…”

  “Joann,” I said with a smile.

  “Joann!” he repeated.

  She smiled as she poured. “Charmed to meet you, Joann.”

  “Same to you.”

  The meal didn’t take much longer to show up, and as I ate my insanely delicious food, Mickey and Clara chatted me up about Grandma and Grandpa. Turned out that Mickey was the son of the man my family had sold the pub to, and Clara was his son’s wife. I loved it, loved the small-town feel of the area, how everyone seemed to know one another.

  They gave me the lay of the land around Sandy Cove. When I was done, my belly full, I left – but not before Mickey and Clara coaxed a promise out of me to come back as often as I could while I was staying in town. I happily accepted.

  I strolled out of the pub and crossed the street, a big, contented smile on my face.

  I was so in my own world that I didn’t notice the dark red convertible pulling into the small parking lot until it was right in front of me, the tires squealing to a halt. My eyes went wide, and I snapped back into the moment. Then a face popped out of the window – a face that had to be one of the most handsome I’d ever seen in my life.

  The man was fair-skinned and freckled. His hair was thick and dark red. He had a powerful jawline, his impossibly good-looking face clean-shaven, his chin jutting. Even though he was only partially out of the car, enough of him was on display that I could see he was in killer shape.

  His emerald-green eyes froze me where I stood. At the moment they were fixed in surprise and frustration.

  “Hey now!” he called out, his voice deep and resonant. “Why you acting the maggot in the middle of the bleeding road? You almost got yourself killed, lass!”

  I felt like an idiot – the situation was totally my fault.

  “Sorry, sorry!” I shouted, lowering my head and sticking up my hand to move out of the way. I blushed as I hurried past him.

  “You alright there?” he asked, his voice softening. “You seemed like you were on another planet.”

  I turned toward him to see that the brief flash of anger had given way to concern. Then his green eyes flicked over to the bar, as if he were putting two and two together.

  “Oh no,” I said. “Not that – I only had coffee. Just in my own little world, sorry.”

  He nodded. “Good, good. You wouldn’t be the first who’d had an accident at the pub and needed to be carted down the way to our place. Anyway, be careful – some mad drivers about.”

  With that, he smiled and continued on into the parking lot. Once he was gone, I hurried across the street -paying attention this time- and stepped into the house and hurrying over to the window. The man was hard to see from the distance, but I could make out that he was tall as they came. My eyes stayed on him as he stepped into the medical clinic.

  I couldn’t help but grin. Things were going to be very interesting with a man like him just across the street.

&nb
sp; Chapter 7

  RONAN

  “You alright there, brother?”

  Aiden’s voice cut through the silence of the office. I was seated at the front desk, Brendan, our receptionist, having called to let us know he’d be running just a few moments behind.

  “Eh?” I asked, snapping my eyes from the schedule on the monitor and turning my attention to Aiden. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You got that million-kilometer stare, you know?” He stepped over and leaned against the divider between the front desk and the reception area, a grin on his face like he knew something I didn’t.

  “You’re out of your mind,” I said, shaking my head and trying to focus.

  He laughed. “Come on now, Ro. If you didn’t want to have people around who could see right through you, you shouldn’t have gone into business with your bleeding brothers.”

  I sighed, shaking my head in realization that he was right.

  “It was some girl out in the parking lot,” I said, sweeping my hand toward the big picture window at the front of the office that looked out over the lot, all the way to the McCallister house across the way. “She was leaving the pub with this big smile on her face, not paying attention to a damn thing. I nearly drove into her!”

  Aiden’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “That right? Well, good news is that if you would’ve driven over the poor dear, we could drag her into the clinic and patch her up in the examination room.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said, reaching over the partition and giving him a shove.

  Aiden laughed as he dodged the shove, but then smile faded from his face as he seemed to consider something.

  “Wait,” he said. “You said she was walking across the street?”