I’d done a general inventory—or tried to—of the stock, and I’d taken so much of it to the charity shops. When I’d come back, it was like I hadn’t made a dent at all. I couldn’t find any records of my grandparents ever buying any new stock. And now that I was thinking about it, when I lived here during my teen years I couldn’t remember a single time that I’d seen them buying anything, from anyone.
It just magically appeared.
Talking to the store, asking for its opinion and advice. Magical regenerating antiques. Maybe in the wake of all the tragedy I’d suffered, I was losing all my marbles.
Fuck me. I really needed a drink. No, what Ireallyneeded was to get laid.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten any cock. My romance novels—even the smutty monster ones—and dildo weren’t cutting it anymore. I was feral, to the point where I was going out on one of the busiest drinking nights in Cork. All for the chance at finally getting some.
“What’s yer name?”
The voice, with its traces of northern origin, had me glancing up from my ale to find a ginger-haired man with a lopsided smilelooming over my table, a glass of beer in his hand. Oof, ared-head.There was something about that coppery hue on men that twisted up my insides.
I swallowed, my cheeks heating. “Oh, uh. Maeve.”
His bushy brows shot up at my answer. “Ah, the accent. Yer American?”
With my nod, he sat himself at the other end of my table, placing his drink in front of him. “Here for an authentic St. Patrick’s Day? Well, if yer looking for corned beef and green beer, ya won’t find any of that here.”
I took a drink of my beer and shot the man a patronizing look. “I’m aware that the holiday traditions are a bit different here than in the States. I’m Irish-American. Moved back here a couple of weeks ago.”
“Moved back? Fer what?”
“I inherited my grandparents’ antique shop.”
I wasn’t sure if it was all the body heat, or the attention from this cute guy making me warm. Whatever it was, the warmth had me tugging off my coat.
The man’s eyes rounded when his attention dropped to the logo on my sweater. In preparation for the grand-reopening of the store, I’d gotten McCrum’s Curios branded shirts and sweaters. I’d drawn the logo myself, modeling the shamrock with the eyeball after the stained glass on the store’s front door.
“Wait. McCrum’s Curios?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
The man nearly choked on his beer. “Heard of it? Are ya coddin’ me?”
“Uh—”
“Wait. Grandparents, ya said? Is yer name Maeve McCrum?”
I blinked. “You know me?”
He lit up, like I’d just told him I personally knew the pope and could put in a good word for him. “Well, ain’t that grand? I knowofye. Everyone does. McCrum’s Curios is a bit of a local legend. Especially after what happened.”
My smile melted when I realized what he meant.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” I mumbled into my glass and took another drink.
“My condolences,” he said after a minute or two of silence, his tone more dower than before.
“Thanks.” I forced a smile and took another drink.
“My name’s Conor. Please, let me get ya another ale.”
I accepted. The more I drank, the easier it was to forget about the fact that this man knew me from the murder investigation surrounding my family and my shop. And for whatever reason, that seemed to excite him. Maybe he was one of those true crime junkies.
By the time I downed my third ale, I didn’t give a fuck how he knew me. He was cute, and with how long it had been since getting laid, that was enough for me.
