“Thank you.”
Shawn’s family is so kind. So welcoming. I’m enjoying myself more than I have since I arrived in Seattle a week ago.
I push through the door to the kitchen and see Shawn wiping his hands on his apron. He reaches for a ladle and scoops some stew into a bowl, then lowers a basket of fries into some hot grease.
“How did you get roped into this?”
His head turns in surprise at my voice, and then he smiles when he sees that it’s me. He reaches for a chair and sets it near a clear space at the counter, gesturing for me to sit and keep him company.
“Keegan fired his cook yesterday. Which means he’s shorthanded back here until he finds a replacement.”
“I had no idea you knew how to man the kitchen in a bar.”
“I can also make the drinks, deliver them, and clean up when everyone’s gone,” he says as he gets to work building a sandwich. “I grew up in this pub.”
“Maggie mentioned your parents owned it.”
“They did. When we first arrived in America, all of us lived in the small apartment above us. Keegan lives up there now, and it’s almost too small for him. But my parents were poor, and they did what they could with what they had. Eventually, the pub did well enough for Da to buy a house not far from here, and we moved there. But all of us worked here in the pub, and most of us still do from time to time when Keegan needs us. Maggie’s been working here full-time since her piece of shit husband died a few months ago.”
I gasp and cover my mouth. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. She looks so young.”
“She is. Barely twenty-six. She married just out of high school. He was a philandering, controlling jerk. Had a heart attack while with his side piece.”
“That’s just horrible.”
He nods and gestures to the pot of simmering stew. “Would you like some?”
“I’d love to try it. I can’t believe I can eat anything at all after the meal you made us for dinner.”
“It’s been a while,” he says and serves me the stew. “I like having you in here where I can see you.”
“Do you think I’m going to escape? Or embarrass you?”
Shawn laughs and then shakes his head. “That’s not what I mean. You’re in here where I can see you. Rather than having to make excuses to go out there and get a glimpse of you. You may drive me mad, but you’re a pleasure to look at.”
“Back at you, Mr. O’Callaghan.” I take a bite of the stew and sigh in happiness. “Oh, this is amazing. I’m going to have to try to talk Maggie into the recipe before I go home to Minneapolis. No one should have to live without this.”
“She might give it to you,” he says. “I’m sorry I dragged you in here for the whole evening. If you want to take my car and go back to the house, you’re welcome to. I can catch a ride back with one of the others when we’re done.”
Normally, I’d be itching to go home. To be wrapped up in my blankets and reading a book.
But I’m enjoying myself here—much more than anticipated.
“I’m actually fine where I am,” I say and eat more of my stew. “Is there bread to go with this?”
“Of course.” He slices and butters a fresh roll, then passes it to me.
“So good,” I say with a sigh. “Yeah, I’m good here. I’ll gain a million pounds, but who cares?”
“Who indeed?”
Last night, I was charmed by the clever pub and the wonderful patrons there, the music, and the O’Callaghan siblings. Especially Shawn. I spent several hours with him in the kitchen, and even jumped up to help him fill some orders when he had an extra-busy streak at about ten o’clock.
Today, I’m back to wanting to commit the kind of murder I write about. Bloody, sinister slaughter.
“You’re not listening to me,” I say, crushing a pillow with my fist. “Seriously, I listened to you the other day, and you’re not hearing me.”
“Fine. Do whatever you want, Lexi.”
“Oh my God. That’s not what I want either!”
I’m going to scream, so I turn and stomp out of the room into the foyer, where I shove my feet into some shoes and storm out the door, slamming it behind me.
That felt good.
Yes, it was childish, but I don’t care.
I need fresh air.
I want to walk on the beach.
I frown as I glance around the house. I know where the beach is, I just have no idea how to get down to it.
Instead, I walk in large circles around Shawn’s driveway, breathing deeply.
Why won’t he just listen to me? As soon as I start explaining why I think something should be written differently, he clams up. Doesn’t talk, won’t listen.
Simply acts like a freaking child.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to work like this.
I hear the door open, but I don’t turn to look at him. I just keep marching around the driveway.
“What are you doing?”
“Walking off a mad.”
I glance over. He’s standing on the bottom step, his hands in his pockets.
“In the driveway?”
“I wanted to walk on the beach, but I don’t know how to get down there.”
He starts to walk, and I follow him. Mostly because I really want to walk on the beach. I’ve heard people talk about it all my life, and I want to see what the hype is about. Will it calm me? Will it terrify me?
Most things scare me.
There’s a path behind the house that leads down to the sand. At the bottom, I look both north and south, then back to the path that leads to the house so I don’t forget what it looks like. And then I turn to Shawn.
“You can leave now.”
I set off, headed south. The sand is packed and wet, I assume because the tide reaches up this far. The waves crash against the shore about fifty yards from me. Far enough away that I’m not afraid of being swept out by a riptide, or fear getting eaten by a beached whale.
Not that I know anything about those things.
The sound of the water is soothing, and before long, I feel my blood pressure start to lower.
When I turn around to head back the way I came, I’m surprised to find Shawn not even a hundred yards behind me, his hands still in his pockets, his face impassive as he waits patiently.
I walk toward him, pretty sure that the urge to kill him has passed. When I reach him, he surprises me by tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear.
He’s done that before.
Both times have made me sigh.
“You infuriate me,” I admit in a calm voice.
“I know. It’s not on purpose.”
“Feels like it is.” We start to walk back down the beach, side by side. “When I tell you I don’t like something about what you’ve written, you clam up on me. You don’t say anything in response to me, and you don’t listen.”
“I’m thinking,” he says. “If I’m not responding, it’s because I’m thinking, Lexi. It’s not because I’m deliberately being a jerk.”
“It shouldn’t take you ten minutes to think of a response.”
“No, but it might take me two minutes to wrap my head around something. I don’t think aloud like you and so many others. I process internally.”