Mickey winced. “You’ve got to lose some to win some.”
“Dani didn’t see it that way. When I lost, she told me it was time to go home. Said she’d talked to myfather. The two of them had decided that would be best.”
Mickey’s brows lifted. “She talked to your da?”
I nodded. “Turns out she and my parents were waiting for me to fail.”
Mickey didn’t rush me.
“When I said I was staying on tour, she said she’d had enough. Said she needed someone ambitious about business, about status. Said she didn’t believe I’d make anything of golf—and she wasn’t slummin’ it with me.”
The memory still burned. I dragged a hand down my face.
“I understood her logic,” I admitted quietly. “I just didn’t understand what it would cost me.”
“What did it cost you?” Mickey asked.
I considered that.
“I stopped believing people stay. Not just women—anyone. My father came back around when I won my first championship. Suddenly, I was worth his time. I saw Dani at a charity event the next year—married to a banker from Charleston, ring the size of a golf ball, looking exactly like she’d planned her life to look.” I exhaled. “I’m genuinely happy for her. But something in me decided then I wasn’t the kind of man women stayed for.”
Silence stretched between us. After a long three minutes, Mickey said, “You know what Ballybeg runs on?”
“Tell me.”
“Stubbornness. Terrible stubbornness. And the refusal to accept something’s lost when it isn’t.” He studied me. “Dee Gallagher’s got a bit of that.”
A smile touched my lips as I thought about darlin’ Dee. “A bit.”
“And you,” he said confidently.
“I came to Ballybeg by accident, Mickey.”
“Aye.” He clapped my shoulder. “Most important things happen that way, boyo.”
CHAPTER 10
Jax
Two weeks ago, I’d been stuck in the Irish rain, driving nowhere in particular and trying to clear my head. I hadn’t expected to end up in a crowded village hall with a pint of Guinness in one hand, clapping along to aceilidhas if I belonged there.
If someone had predicted this, I’d have bet my best iron against it.
Theceilidhwas nothing like the cocktail parties and charity galas I was used to. It was loud, chaotic, and utterlyunpolished.
Children ran around the edges of the room, shouting and laughing, while couples of all ages danced to the music. A long table against the wall was piled high with food—sausage rolls, mincemeat pies made with lamb and chicken, soda bread with smoked salmon (Treasa Dempsey had apparently smoked itwith her own fine hands), and enough desserts (apple tarts, Irish porter cake, scones, and a bread pudding) to put a body in a sugar coma.
I loved every second of it.
I watched couples whirl across the floor while a fiddler and an accordion player tore through a tune so fast it made my head spin.
Then, when Moyna Cahill—eighty if she was a day—dragged me onto the dance floor, I had no choice but to keep up with her. But when she started doing an Irish jig—she had two brand-new hips, and she wanted to test them out—I felt like the poor sod in the back of a workout class, flailing around with no clue what the fuck was going on.
But throughout the celebration, my eyes were always looking for Dee.
That kiss had rocked my foundation, and I wasn’t the rock-the-foundation-with-a-kiss kinda guy.
“Boyo, you have good taste, I’ll give you that.” Moyna slapped my arm when we walked back to the refreshment table to get something to drink.
