CHAPTER 1
Jax
“Irish rain doesn’t mess around,” I muttered, shifting uncomfortably in my seat as the rickety van I was in bounced over another pothole.
The driver, who introduced himself as Padraig—who everyone called Paddy—chuckled, his hands lazy on the wheel as if he hadn’t just hydroplaned a minute ago. “Ah, you’ll get used to it. The trick is to stick ‘round long enough to make your peace with it.”
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen!
I tried to muster a smile, but I was soaked through, running on fumes after an already miserable day. I had thanked my lucky stars when a good Samaritan stopped to help me as I stood on the side of the road, looking like a drowned rat next to Nikolai’s sputtering (brand new) Porsche. At least, I hadn’t driven it into the ditch, which I’d, for a moment there, thought I would.
Nikolai wouldn’t give a shit about my excuse that driving in Ireland was a freaking nightmare—not just because they drove on the left…thewrongside of the road—but the roads were a disaster, and the incessant rain didn’t help.
But judging by the way the locals in rickety fucking vans, like the one I was in, were whistling as they drove without a care in the world, driving at speeds I couldn’t imagine doing on these roads and in this weather it was clear that I was the only one bothered by the storm that had turned County Clare into a lush, green drowning hazard.
This was a custom car made for Nikolai, so it wasn’t like I could just walk into the next Porsche dealer and replace the fucking car. I should’ve rented something and not lusted after his beauty that was now going to be towed as soon as Paddy—luckilya mechanic—dropped me off at the nearest town…village. There werevillagesin this part of Ireland. Yeah, that’s how far off the beaten path I was.
The fault was mine. I’d played like shit at a charity golf tournament in Killarney at one of the best courses in the world. I’d borrowed Nikolai’s car (he was there for the tournament) as he was flying back to London and needed the vehicle transported, which I offered to doafterI went on a long drive to clear my head.
My head wasnotclear—it wasdampanddreary.
“And you’re sure I don’t need to get this car to someone in Cork or Dublin?” I asked after Paddy toldme he’d take me to an inn in Ballybeg, the closest village, when I said I needed a place to settle in for a night until I could sort the car out.
“Your car is going to be fine.”
I looked at him, concerned.
“It will,” he assured me.
“Right,” I murmured, unconvinced as he navigated a sharp turn on what appeared to be more mudslide than road.
I braced myself against the dashboard, glancing down at my custom-made Balenciaga sneakers—one of a kind, designed just for me. They were so caked in dirt that even with a magnifying glass, you wouldn’t see my name or signature on them.
“So, this place you’re taking me to is?—”
“The Banshee’s Rest,” Paddy supplied.
“And it is?—"
“The only pub and inn in Ballybeg,” he cut me off again. “You’ll be right as rain.”
Right as rain?
Why the hell not?
It took another half an hour of sharp turns, potholes that made me think my liver and kidneys had exchanged places, when the van jolted to a stop in front of a weathered stone building. Its bright green shutters and carved wooden sign stood out against the drab gray drizzle. Above the door, the wordsThe Banshee’s Restwere painted in bold, slightly crookedlettering, and I could hear music and laughter spilling out onto the cobblestone street.
I was on an Irish movie set.
I was sure of it.
“Here we are.” Paddy slapped his thigh with an open palm like he was proud of his parking job. He had, in fact, taken up two spots, but who the hell was I to say anything when I’d almost driven a priceless car into a ditch?
“Dee will sort you out,” Paddy remarked cheerfully. “She runs the place. Fierce woman. Don’t cross her.”
“Noted.” I tried not to overthink whatfiercemight mean in this part of the world.
I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the rain, the sharp chill hitting me instantly.
