AVA
No expense has been spared on the interior of Dublin’s newest, hippest cocktail bar. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, reflecting light from their multifaceted surfaces, creating dazzling patterns across the brilliant white walls and marble floors.
Carefully curated art, ranging from modern pieces to vintage prints adorn the walls. Strategically placed mirrors enhance the sense of space. Plush, comfortable seats are scattered throughout the huge opulent space, deep-cushioned leather couches, velvet banquettes, and high-backed chairs.
Groups of people dot the room in small clusters, but given it’s a Tuesday in November, it’s not thronged. I smooth down my black Sandro pencil dress and stride towards the bar, pretending to everyone, including myself, that I’m not completely out of my depth here.
Even if Mr Callaghan isn't the devil in disguise, he’s clearly not who Frank and Penny ‘zero-boundaries’ Jackson will be expecting their youngest daughter to rock up to the island wedding celebration with.
Oh god.
Four days with any man I’ve just met could be torture, but four days with a man who professes not to believe in life partners and happy ever afters? I’m not sure we could convince anyone we have a future, let alone my overfamiliar, ‘let’s-talk-about-our-sex-life-over-the-dinner-table’ family.
This has disaster written all over it. I swat away the internal worry-worm wiggling in my stomach, pick up a leather-bound drink’s menu from the sleek bar counter and thumb through it. Hard liquor is the only way to get through this awkward … whatever this is.
‘What can I get you?’ A blond-haired barman asks with a flirtatious wink as I slide into one of the high-backed stools flanking the bar counter.
I swallow hard and glance nervously to the door, then back to the barman, who’s waiting patiently, armed with a gleaming chrome cocktail shaker.
Cillian said half an hour. It’s only been fifteen minutes. I thought getting here earlier might provide an advantage, but it’s giving me too much time to overthink things. To question this stupid idea for the millionth time. To compile a mental list of why this is one of the most ridiculous ideas I’ve ever had.
‘I’ll have a classic champagne cocktail, please.’ As much as I’d love to try a Harvey Wallbanger or a Rose Berry Bliss, tonight, I’m safer sticking to something I know. I very much doubt Cillian Callaghan will sign up to date me for December if he has to spend the evening holding my hair out of my face while I projectile vomit my nervous drinking binge.
‘An exceptional choice.’ The barman nods. ‘You’re clearly a woman of good taste.’
‘We’ll soon find out.’ A ripple of apprehension surges over my spine.
At twenty-nine minutes past nine, a gust of air blows in as the front door opens again. I don’t need to turn around. It’s him. Instinctively, I just know. Every cell in my body sparks to life. Like we’re somehow connected already.
Inching my head round, I aim for casual as I seek out the man who entered the room. The one whose sheer presence commands the air around him.
Our eyes meet with a charged intensity.
Cropped dark hair.
Strong square jaw.
Cheekbones that could cut glass.
Silver eyes that glint like liquid metal.
My pulse quickens. Heat floods my veins.
This man can’t be Cillian Callaghan.
It can’t be.
Because the man who’s striding towards me is the very same man I’ve spent every morning salivating over for the best part of a year. The same man whose sheer proximity sucks the oxygen from my lungs. And he’s not a divorce lawyer.
No.
He can’t be.
He might look dark and broody, but Mr Suave Suit Guy is a secret superhero. A romantic one too.
He has to be. Because otherwise my siblings were right.
I’m not qualified to matchmake a bitch in heat.
