I went to tournaments because I was a competitive motherfucker, and I liked to win.
Andif I stopped doing this or was prevented from doing it, what the hell else was there for me to do?
My family expected me to join the Caldwell family business, but that was never my thing. I wasn’t a businessman. If I’d wanted to go down that road, I would’ve done it years ago—back when I fell in love and proposed to Daniela,my Dani, who’d been in my life since we were kids.
She’d been my first and only for the longest time, but she left me because she wanted to marry a stable guy—not someone chasing dreams with nothing but a good golf swing to his name. Since then, I hadn’t been in relationships—I’d also not been close to my family. Sure, my father had pulled me back into the foldafterI won my first Professional Golf League championship. That was my family; they wanted you only when you were useful.
I shrugged off the past.
Maybe I did need a break if I was thinking about Dani—something I hadn’t done in a long time. She had become a reminder that love alone was not enough. You needed shared values, too. For her, it was family name, status, and money—in that order. For me, it was following my heart and doing what made me happy.
When I came downstairs around four in the evening, the pub was humming.
The crowd was lively but not exactly raucous.
There was a lot of swearing, loud talking, and chants ofslainte.
The brass sconces above the bar threw warm light, and unexpectedly, the smell of something mouthwatering wafted from the kitchen.
Everyone knew everyone. That much was obvious. The music was pop. A young girl, a server, was taking orders.
My Wildcat smiled as she stood behind the bar, pulling pints. I spotted two empty stools and claimed one.
Dee stepped out from behind the bar to greet someone who’d just come in. I found myself sitting beside an elderly man who was clearly on his own.
While Dee chatted with someone I assumed was another vendor—one she actually liked—the old man next to me reached out and slid his hand to her perfectly shaped backside in the tightest pair of jeans imaginable and,honest to fuckin’ God, pinched.
I went still.
Dee did not disappoint.
She turned slowly, eyes narrowing at the grinning old bastard. Without breaking eye contact, she grabbeda bottle of Irish whiskey from the bar, planted a hand on her hip, and tilted her head.
“Liam Murphy,” she said evenly, “if you so much as breathe near my arse again, I’ll smash this bottle over your head.”
“It wasn’t me.” Liam assumed an innocent look and then looked at me. “It washim.”
I straightened.What the fuck?
“Liam Murphy, you think I can’t pick out your gnarly fingers in a butt-pinching lineup?” Dee glowered.
A what?Butt-pinching lineup? Where the fuckwasI?
Liam Murphy smiled wide, and his teeth, or dentures, to be precise, were on full display like he was in a Colgate ad. "Ah, come on now, Dee. I’ve not long left in me—ya wouldn’t deny an old fella one of life’s simple pleasures, would ya?"
Dee went nose to nose with him. “You’re gonna die before your time is up if you put your hands on me again.”
“Ah, go on, Dee.” The man beamed guiltily like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You know I only do it ‘cause I love ya.”
“You’ll love mewithoutyour hands.” She jabbed a finger in the air in front of his offending digits. “Sit. Behave, or I’ll have you banned for a month.” She glared at me for good measure as if saying, “You, Yank, you better keep your paws to yourself.”
“I’ll probably be dead in a month,” Liam grumbled.
Dee huffed and went back to her conversation with the vendor.
The man with the gnarly fingers—who Dee could pick out of a lineup—offered his hand to me. “Liam Murphy, dying of lung cancer.”
I shook his hand hesitantly. “Jax Caldwell, stranded tourist.”
