Paddy and Mickey were hard at work convincing those willing to sell to choose me over Shamrock Global Ventures.
It was an expensive endeavor, no doubt, but I didn’t mind it at all. I’d never been prouder of how I was spending my money.
Sure, convincing Dee to let me help had been harder than any PGL tournament I ever played, but every argument, every exasperated sigh, and every time she glared at me with those emerald-green eyes made me love her more.
“You really think this will work?” she asked nervously after I finished my interview with Scott at the bar. Brad thought the setting would give it the right flavor, so we chose a quiet hour before opening.
“Everyone I’ve talked to thinks it will.”
She frowned. “Who is everyone?”
“Everyone. Paddy, Mickey, the lads down at the council office—hell, I even chatted up the guy who delivers flour for Cadhla’s Bakery. I’ve been pulling every string I can find.”
“What is it you’re looking for?”
“Any information I can get about Big Gil’s venture and Cillian O’Farrell.”
She arched an eyebrow at me. “You’re telling me my village’s future depends on Ballybeg gossip?”
I grinned. “Darlin’, in a village like this, gossip might just save the day.”
“You think we’re going to save the day?”
She sounded scared, and I didn’t like that at all. I wanted her to feel confident, but it was hard when even I knew this was a freaking Hail Mary.
“When the social media posts, interviews, and videos about how Ballybeg’s heritage is at risk hit the airwaves, it’s going to put pressure on all the right people.” I flash a grin at her. “People love a good David versus Goliath story, and that’s exactly what this is.”
“And you’re the David in this scenario?”
“No, I’m your slingshot.”
Her lips twitched as she fought a smile, and that pleased me because it meant she wasn’t scared anymore.
I had approved several social media posts to go out from my account and reached out to friends withbigger followings than mine—like Nikolai, a soccer superstar—who had agreed to amplify my posts and add their own.
Brad’s social media team was handling the logistics, and according to him, they were getting invested in the fight.
They saw this for what it was—another case of rich white assholes trying to bulldoze a historic village for profit—and if they felt that strongly about it, I knew their audience would, too.
My goal was simple: put enough public pressure on the county council that they had no choice but to change their vote.
I was in myoldbedroom, which I had been using as an office since I’d moved into Dee’s room, when Brad texted me with a link:Ask your Irish lass not to freak out.
I frowned as I opened the link and saw the headline on some site called The Irish Star staring back at me like a bad dream.
“Golf Star Jax Caldwell Caught in Scandalous Love Affair!”
Beneath the headline was a grainy photo of Francia and me from that damned event in Dublin, taken at just the right angle to make it look like we were cozying up to each other.
Never mind that I’d been standing full feet away from her, and the only thing on my mind had been how quickly I could leave without causing a scene.
Jesus Fucking Christ!This was not what I needed right now…or ever.
Of course, the article didn’t stop there. It rehashed every detail of my so-called breakup with Francia, spun a few wild theories about why I was “hiding out in Ireland,” and, for good measure, tossed in a couple of recycled rumors about my so-called bad boy reputation—because God forbid the tabloids ever let that one die.
I texted Brad:Get someone to write a detailed response to this shit. I’m shutting Francia down.
Brad replied:Really?Hallelujah! Christmas is here early.
