Declan pointed across the car park. Tara stared, then dissolved into another laugh, repeating, "Oh. Well. I think I can make itthatfar, too. I'll just drop off my bag so you don't have to haul it all around the exhibition, okay? I was imagining a much longer walk."
"Not much in Ireland is very far away from itself," Declan promised.
"Just wait right here," Tara said, sounding happy. She took her bag and hurried off to the hotel, offering Declan a delicious view of swaying hips and a bouncing bottom as she went. He cleared his throat and looked away politely, then found his gaze drifting back as she disappeared into the hotel. Some things were worth getting caught staring at.
A very few minutes later, Tara emerged again without her bag, and dusted her hands as she approached him. "There we go. All right, I'm yours until I suddenly collapse face-first in the exhibit, or food, or whatever."
Declan bit down on the impulse to say—or at least ask—that she should be his forever, and instead offered his elbow again. "One exhibit coming up, then. And no collapsing!"
"I make no promises," Tara warned as they went into the old building. It had been converted from the train station lobby longer again than Declan knew, and the exhibition, which he'd been to before, was actually rather excellent. To his pleasure, Tara lingered, taking pictures, reading placards and pausing to look things up in more detail on her phone. They had to rush the last few bits when it was announced the exhibition was closing, but overall Declan thought they'd done well enough, and Tara beamed at him as they left. "That was really good. I don't know if I would have gone on my own, so thank you."
"My pleasure," Declan said, and meant it. "Now, dinner? The hotel's restaurant is more than decent and you can just go to your room to sleep straight after, if you like. I won't walk you all over town. Not today," he added with a smile.
"Oh, are you going to be my personal Irish tour guide? That sounds great. But it's a Tuesday. You must have a job?"
"Ah, no, I'm a man of leisure," Declan said expansively, and then as Tara's eyebrows crawled upward, mumbled, "Well, no, I'm an artist, but it does let me make my own hours."
"Oh! What kind of art?" Tara let him lead her toward, and into, the restaurant, a nice place with a seaside view that they were sat beside, much to Declan's pleasure.
"Mostly woodworking. Some painting. A little commercial success." Declan flexed his fingers, feeling the callouses from those efforts. "And you carry around a real camera. Professional photographer?"
Tara hesitated, looking over the menu, then casting a shy glance at him. "Sort of? I'm a secretary most of the time, but in all my off time, yes, and I've sold some work, so I guess that makes me a professional."
"Keep the day job," Declan said wisely. "A lesson I should have learned by now. That's why only two weeks in Ireland? Don't Americans only get two weeks of holiday?"
"Yes, but…'only?'"
"It's four weeks minimum here in Ireland," Declan explained. "European Union law sets it. Plus we've ten or so bank holidays, so it adds up to six weeks but some of it's a bit here and there. France has thirty days minimum," he said a bit darkly. "Wouldn't I like to live in France. Well, no, I wouldn't, my French is terrible."
Tara was staring at him. "Are you serious? You get six weeks of vacation time every year?" At Declan's nod, she said, "Jesus. I've got to move to Ireland. Do you know anybody who'd like to, I don't know, marry a random American?"
Declan's peacock yelled,NOBODY BUT US GETS TO MARRY OUR MATE!, leaving Dec to wince, then try for a smile. "I'd offer, but I don't think you'd believe me."
She laughed. "No, and I wouldn't believe anybody else, either. But yes, that's why just two weeks, it's all the vacation time I've got. Whatisa bank holiday, anyway?"
"It's…" Declan trailed off, arguably lost in gazing at her—her eyes were so bright and interested, and her smile so curious—butreally, he was trying to figure out how to answer the question. "It used to be the days that banks were closed," he said a bit helplessly. "I mean, they still are, but it's a bit more of a national holiday now, maybe? St. Patrick's day, like, or Christmas?"
"Oh. Federal holidays, kind of. Memorial Day and stuff. Okay. I guess we've got a bunch of those, too, but they're not always paid time off. They are here?"
"Usually," Declan said with a nod.
"Yep. Moving to Ireland. Marrying a nice Irish boy."
That's us! We're a nice Irish boy!Show her your tail!!!
Declan closed his eyes momentarily and said,That would get us thrown out of the restaurant,as patiently as he could.Please let me talk to Tara without shrieking inside my head.
His peacock looked sullen—and it was very good at that—but subsided. To Declan's surprise, Tara was grinning when he opened his eyes. "Is it talking to you again?" she asked.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Kinda, yeah. Only if you know what's going on, obviously, but…yeah. It's a little funny."
"Ah, sure," Declan said broadly. "I meet a lovely woman and she starts laughing at me."
She did laugh, and put her menu aside to reach across the table toward him. "Come on, now, wouldn't it be worse if I didn't laugh? It's good if I think you're funny!" She glanced at her hand then, as if she'd never seen it before, and drew it back toward herself before he had a chance to put his own hand over it. "At least, I've always thought it was better to think your friends are funny. I mean, friends is doing a lot of work there, I know we've just met, but you've been really nice and helpful."
"I'd be happy to be a friend," Declan said.At least for the moment,he told his peacock before it started shrieking. It fluffed its feathers but settled, mollified before it could really work up a head of outrage. "Would it be too bold to offer to beyour personal tour guide? At least around Cork," he said, not wanting to come on like a freight train. "It'd be my pleasure."
