“My granddad used to say that if you could see thewhole thing—clear as day—it meant you were where you were meant to be.” He interlaced his fingers with mine, absentmindedly running his thumb over my knuckles. “Like you’d found your way home.”
I glanced at him, his face shadowed by the faint glow of starlight, his eyes fixed on our hands. “And what if you can only see part of it?”
His eyes held mine. “Then you’re almost there. Just gotta trust the stars and keep going.”
I wondered if he wasn’t just talking about stars.
CHAPTER 7
Jax
Ihad assumed that a small village like Ballybeg in Ireland would have everyone at church on Sunday morning. In Charleston, my family dragged me to Sunday mass as a child until I grew up and decided it wasn’t my thing.
So, I was surprised when I came down to the pub and found people in at eleven in the morning, scarfing down Ronan’s full Irish.
“I thought everyone would be at church,” I told Saoirse, who poured me a cup of strong black coffee.
“I go to church on three occasions.” Saoirse held up a hand and started to close one finger after the other as she listed, “Weddings, funerals, and baptisms. And sometimes I go to Christmas Mass when my ma emotionally blackmails me.”
She leaned closer. “Mrs. Nolan goeseverySundayand comes right back here, so we know what’s what even though we weren’t there.”
I arched an eyebrow.
“Church is gossip central,” Ronan, who was looking for something in the bar, informed me.
“Liam Murphy, Liam Ryan, and Seamus, well, they sneak into the back for the last five minutes ‘cause they don’t want to piss off Jesus any more than they already have,” this came from a man I hadn’t seen before who was in overalls.
“’Cause Liam’s dyin’,” Saoirse clarified.
“I don’t go ‘cause I need my beauty sleep.” Ronan had a bottle of sherry in hand. “Dee, takin’ this, love, need it for the sponge cake.”
I looked at the blackboard where Dee had written the day’s offerings in her neat, precise handwriting, and my mouth watered. Roast lamb with Yorkshire pudding, roasted vegetables, and potatoes. Wheaten bread—whatever the hell that was. And a sherry-soaked sponge cake to top it all off.
I was already stuffed from yesterday’s beef and Guinness pie and a lemon posset, a creamy citrus dessert I couldn’t pass up.
I needed a gym. Weights. A long run. The way I’d been eating, my half-assed Ballybeg routine wasn’t going to cut it.
“Hey, Yank, your car parts came in yesterday.” A man thumped my shoulder, catchingme off guard. When I turned, he extended a hand. “Connor Kelly, Ballybeg’s postmaster. I dropped off your bits from Porsche—straight from Germany, mind you—to Paddy last night.”
I shook Connor’s hand. “Thanks.”
He took a seat next to me at the bar. “Love, Dee, I’m in desperate need of a pint.”
Dee, who had been working on the other side of the bar, going through her laptop computer, raised her head. “Connor, you know the rules. You can have a drink after five in the evening.”
Connor frowned. “But it’s Sunday.”
“And the rules don’t change. Sheila will have my arse if I serve you this early in the day.” Dee went back to her laptop.
Connor grumbled. “You married?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t do it. They give you no peace, these women folk. If they aren’t getting into your face about your eating, then it’s about your drinking, and if it ain’t that, it’s about somethin’ else.” He dropped his voice and bid me to lean in closer, which I did. “And when you get older, they keep talkin’ about your prostate and not in the way you want them to, if you catch my drift.”
Before I could formulate an appropriate response, thankfully, Dee came up to us and poured Connor a cup of black coffee from the carafe. “It’s almost as good as aGuinness.”
“You’re a hard woman, Dee Gallagher, you are,” Connor retorted as he picked up his cup.
