I snap a quick selfie and text it to Stella so she can show Biggie. Maybe he’ll recognize me today, maybe he won’t. His memory is growing more unpredictable, and every text, every call, every video chat is a crapshoot.
I step inside the pub and realize almost at once that there’s little chance of missing Eamon Sullivan. There are only about ten seats at the bar, a handful of small tables around the perimeter, and a little upper balcony. It’s not a seedy dive, it’s simply tiny. The name makes sense in a whole different context and I’m not disappointed.
Dropping my backpack on the floor below the bar, I hoist myself onto a wooden barstool. A bank of taps to my left offers a variety of beers and ciders, but I’m in Ireland, so I order a pint of Guinness.
Every bartender worth their salt knows that a proper Guinness pour is both a science and an art. The glass needs to be held at the proper angle, and you only fill the glass three-quarters of the way before letting it rest for almost two minutes. Or 119.53 seconds, to be precise. Back home in Fort Lauderdale, I work as a bartender in a pirate-themed bar where the waitress uniforms look like the result you’d get if you googled “sexy pirate costume.” My own uniform is a black tank top that says WENCH across the back. Since our customers are bedazzled by boobs and legs, a proper Guinness pour is usually the last thing they care about.
As I settle in to wait for my beer and Eamon’s arrival, I text Anna to let her know I’ve arrived in Ireland.
ARE YOU ON YOUR WAY TO TRALEE? she responds.
NOT YET, BUT EAMON SHOULD BE HERE SOON, I tap out.
Anna has been my best friend since our very first shift together at the bar. Maybe it’s because we’d both grown up in single-parent homes. Or because neither of us knew how it felt to be born with silver spoons in our mouths. Or because working in a tits-and-ass restaurant was a deliberate career choice and not a layover on our way to a “real” job. Most people don’t get closer than arm’s length with me, so maybe the real reason we’re friends is that neither of us expects more than the other is able to give.
Every spring, when snowbird season ends in South Florida, I pack my shit into Valentina—nicknamed after my dad’s favorite Mexican hot sauce—and head in whichever direction my internal compass points. I’ve always known that Anna would be there when I returned. After her fiancé Ben died, she took off sailing, and I understood why she had to leave.
Although she hasn’t officially returned to Florida, the last time I saw Anna, her spirit was restored, and her heart was in the hands of someone new. Someone worthy. So, when she asked me to fly to Ireland and stand beside her when she marries Keane Sullivan, the only possible answer was yes.
The barman rests a pint of Guinness on a beer mat in front of me.
“Thank you.” I stash my phone in the back pocket of my jeans and glance around the room for anyone who might resemble Eamon. Anna told me he was a few inches shorter, slightly older, and significantly less scruffy than Keane, which means Eamon will probably have dark brown hair, possibly hazel eyes, and a killer smile. No one in the pub fits that description, so I take a long swallow of beer and sigh with satisfaction. “From one bartender to another, this might be the best Guinness I’ve ever had.”
The barman gives a knowing chuckle as he nods. “You wouldn’t be the first to say it.”
The deeper I dive into my glass, the more the travel fatigue falls away. The minute hand of the clock above the bar ticks steadily past noon and The Confession Box starts drawing a crowd—well, a tiny crowd. I order a second pint as a guy wearing business casual gray pants and a white button-up shirt claims the barstool to my right. I sneak a glance from the corner of my eye, but he has ginger hair and freckles, neither of which Anna mentioned.
Not Eamon.
The guy orders a pint of Magners cider and swivels toward me. “American?”
I don’t really feel much like being chatted up by a stranger, but one of the first rules of bar etiquette is that you don’t ignore the people sitting beside you. If you want privacy, you choose a table. That doesn’t mean you have to endure hours—or even minutes—of unwanted conversation, but you should at least be polite.
“Yes.”
“Welcome to Dublin.” He touches his chest. “The name’s Gavin.”
“Carla.”
“Lovely to meet you.” His voice is slightly raspy, and his Irish accent is sexy, which bumps his attractiveness level up another notch. Not enough for me to want to change my plans and be interested, but enough to pass the time until Eamon arrives. “What part of America are you from?”
I give a short, sharp laugh. “The worst part.”
“Ah,” Gavin says, knowingly. “You must be from Florida.”
I point a finger at him. “Got it in one.”
He laughs and loosens the next button on his shirt. “What do you do there?”
“I’m a bartender. How ’bout you?”
“Tech.” Gavin takes a huge swig of cider and wipes the dribble from his chin with the back of his hand. His stock drops a few points, but I’ve seen worse from the other side of the bar. “Dublin is a center for IT.”
I’m not anti-technology. I text, email, and post my adventures on social media as much as the next person. In fact, my Instagram account has a ridiculous number of followers because I’m an attractive woman doing “dude” things in a Jeep. But the idea of sitting behind a computer all day doing … anything … sounds like a soul-sucking hell. I’d probably be drinking Magners at noon on a Monday, too.
“What brings you to Ireland?” Gavin asks.
“My best friend is getting married this weekend.”
He winks but puts too much cheek in it to be charming. “Need a plus-one?”
Before I have a chance to answer, the front door opens and a man walks into the bar who not only fits Anna’s description of Eamon, but exceeds her description, and grinds her description into fine sand. It’s like trying to stare directly at an eclipse and not go blind.
Gavin’s question hangs in the air.
Eamon Sullivan stands only a few feet away, scanning the room.
He looks directly at me without a flicker of recognition.
Before my brain has time to consider the consequences, I shoot him my most brilliant smile, catch the front of his olive-green button-up shirt in my fist, and pull him toward me. “Oh my God, babe, you’re finally here!”
His dark brows flex with momentary confusion, but when my lips brush against his, Eamon leans in to the improvisation. His fingertips land, warm and soft, against my neck. He angles his head, deepening the kiss. His thumb caresses my cheek, sending goose bumps racing across the backs of my arms. Eamon’s mouth lingers on my lower lip as he slowly breaks away, leaving me dazed and breathless. He gives me the barest hint of a grin before grazing his lips against the middle of my forehead. “Jaysus, but I’ve missed you.”
We stare at each other until Gavin’s voice penetrates the bubble. “Well, then, never mind. I reckon you’ve managed to find a plus-one all on your own.”
I laugh, bumping back to reality. “I do appreciate the offer.”
As Gavin vacates his stool, he quickly assesses Eamon, casts a dubious eye at me, and snorts a laugh. “Sure you do.”