Page 83 of A Very Irish Scandal

No matter how hard she’d tried, she’d failed. Heartbreak was just around the corner. She’d run out of ways to stop it.

Chapter 43

They were back in their car and on the road just as the sun cleared the clouds. While Oliver drove, Addison used her phone to reserve a room at a hotel on O’Connell Street.

Roman had responded to her text, suggesting they meet at Temple Bar. Oliver insisted they check into their hotel first.

“Why? That’s wasting time!”

His gaze cut to hers. “You want to drag your suitcases around Dublin?”

Good point.

The Temple Bar district was a bustling riverside area known for its lively nightlife and the famous Temple Bar, an Irish pub that opened in 1840. Its red façade and hanging flower baskets made it one of the most recognizable tourist spots in Dublin.

Addison had been there a number of times before and although it had always been popular, she hadn’t expected the swarm crowding inside.

She glanced at Oliver. If he felt out of his element, he didn’t show it—just pulled his baseball cap lower, took her hand, and shouldered his way through the crowd. As a family of five vacated their corner table, Oliver claimed it before anyone else could, pulling out Addy’s chair as a waitress hurried over for a wipe down before disappearing.

Addison studied the clusters of people around them. A group of seven next to them were deep into what looked like their second round of beers. A couple nearby worked their way through two plates of food and large glasses of Irish coffee. Laughter erupted from the far corner of the bar.

Addison flipped through the extensive menu, but couldn’t focus on any particular drink. “I’ll have a beer.”

Oliver glanced behind her to the beers on tap. “Any preference?”

“Nope. What’s taking Roman and Mandy so long? I should wait at the entrance in case they can’t find us.”

“They’ll find us.”

Oliver laid his hand over hers on the table, but even the anchoring weight didn’t stop her from scrutinizing each face that moved through the noisy room.

Finally, she saw him weaving his way toward them, hands in pockets and shoulders up to his ears. The posture was so foreign on Roman’s frame that he almost looked like a stranger.

Oliver rose before she did, something flinty and unrecognizable stealing over his features.

When Roman stopped at their table, she’d expected him to look at her first, but his eyes never left Oliver.

“Well,” Oliver said before she could make introductions. “If it’s not the other Yarrow who left me to die.”