“I checked, Dee, and he’s not one of those arseholes,” Paddy tried again.
“He’s got the look of them. Yankee. Golf shirt. Entitled. Probably thinks he’s God’s gift.”
Okay, where the fuck was this attitude coming from? And why was it turning me on?
Oh, baby, give me a chance, and I’ll show you how much of a gift I can be.
For fuck’s sake, Jax, get your head out of the gutter, will you?
“I’m Jax Caldwell,” I drawled, holding my hand out. “I will, however, respond to Yankee if that’s what you prefer.”
Dee didn’t shake my hand. Instead, she snarled, and I judiciously pulled back.
She was fucking adorable.
Paddy chuckled softly. “Ah, Dee. Play nice. Poor fella’s stranded.” He then turned to me. “You a resort builder?”
“No.”
“What do you do for a living?” Paddy asked, bored.
“I am a professional golfer.”
“See,” Dee accused.
“Hold it, lass.” Paddy raised his hands. “What does that mean? You spend your days playing golf?”
I grinned. It was humbling to be in a place where no one would give a fuck that I was a two-time PGL golf champion.
“Yeah, you can say that. I play golf professionally…you know, like people who play soccer professionally.” I faced Dee and put on my panty-melting smile that had worked time and again.
Apparently, not here.
“Golf isn’t even a sport, and there’s a professional league?” Paddy was both disgusted and surprised. “You any good?”
This was the kind of place where there was no chance of my getting a big, arrogant head.
“I am.”
“How would you know?” Dee challenged.
“I may have won a championship or two.”
Fuck me!Could she at least get me a beer while she drilled my ass?
She saw my eyes go to the taps, and she sighed elaborately. “You want a pint?”
“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you have on tap?”
“The name is Dee. Ma’am is the feckin’ Queen.”
She drew a pint for Paddy and me. “It’s a local—Clare’s Own Lager from Western Herd Brewery. Brewed just down the road in Kilmaley. You won’t find anything fresher.”
“Thanks.” I gratefully took a sip.
The beer tasted like crisp, golden sunshine with just the right bite of bitterness. Damn near perfect. They might have shit weather here, but they made good beer.
“Thanks, love.” Paddy downed about half his glass and grinned at me. “It’s like mother’s milk to me. You know, babies in Ireland are given beer?”
