No, I know.
I groaned inwardly.
I found him attractive. A Yank? My mam was rolling in her grave.
He smiled, gazing out of the window again. “It’s wild, untamed, and beautiful.”
I softened. “Yes, it is. Our land makes you feel both small and alive at the same time.”
He set his bag down carefully and turned to face me, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks.
Wicked. That was the word for them. Dimples like that should come with a warning label.
“Yes, ma’am.” His lips twitched into a smile.
There it was again.Ma’am. Like he was some Southern gentleman, all manners and money. His voice was smooth, polished, and soaked in allure—the kind you didn’t trust unless you wanted to end up thoroughly disappointed. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.
A man like him was off limits.
If my sister Maggie were still around, she’d roll her eyes and say, “Deirdre Gallagher, if a man as handsome as that gives you so much as a look, you’d better hop on him before he changes his mind.”
And let’s face it, why would a man who wore a watch more expensive than my bar—Omega like James Bond’s—be interested in a barkeep like me?
He was well out of my league.
I’d made that mistake once when I got involved with Cillian O’Farrell and his posh accent and tailored suits, always telling me he loved me but looking embarrassed when I opened my mouth in front of his family.
He’d betrayed me when he went ahead and fucked whatshername he worked with, and now he was working on betraying Ballybeg and what our village stood for by joining hands with those Yankee resort types.
He and Jax would probably be good friends, grinning like the world was their playground.
“All right.” I stepped back into the hallway. “Bathroom is attached. Towels are in the cupboard, and the walls are thin, so try not to snore like a chainsaw.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I have it on good authority that I don’t snore. How about you?”
Oh, this man was going to be the death of me. Everything he said was suggestive.
I glared at him. “I don’t snore either.”
“And…what about turn-down service, breakfast in bed, you offer that?” He was teasing me, and despite myself, I smiled.
I gave it right back to him, hand on my hip. “Oh, aye, we’ll do that for you—and leave a wee chocolate on your pillow too, like it’s the feckin’ Ritz.”
His grin widened. “That’s what I thought.”
I shook my head in amusement. “We serve food from eleven to eleven. So, come on down after you’re settled in, and you can eat something. For breakfast, if you want a full Irish, Ronan—that’s our cook—makes the best in the county. There’s Cadhla’s Bakery right around the corner. She makes a mean batch of soda bread, scones, and the best apple tarts you’ve ever eaten.”
“Thank you, Dee. Does Dee stand for….”
“Deirdre,” I confirmed, walking out of the room. “But everyone calls me Dee.”
He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, not in defense but in casual laziness. He had that way about him, like we were in one of thoseplantation houses in Georgia, and he was sipping mint juleps on a blue sunshine day.
“Paddy said you were fierce.”
“Did he now?”
“Yes, ma’am, he certainly did.”
