Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(17)

“That’s sweet.”

“Right . . . sweet.” I smirk despite everything. “Better than being named Castletown.”

She smiles, pushing back a strand of her long hair—a pretty warm brown, like the cinnamon bark Ma likes to stick in her tea sometimes. I don’t remember it being so long, but then again I don’t remember much except her wild, green eyes—the color of a crisp cucumber’s flesh—and how soft the skin on her legs was, when I slid my hands along them, checking for shrapnel wounds.

She’s more beautiful than I remember.

Beautiful in that wholesome all-American girl way that the movies teach us about. Perfect, symmetrical features, wholesome skin, straight, white teeth. Long, dark lashes that help trap my gaze. I can’t even tell if she’s wearing makeup. She’s definitely not wearing too much.

Of course I’ve met enough American tourists to know that that’s a Hollywood illusion, that they come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of brazenness, just like people around here. This girl, though . . .

She shouldn’t be here. She’s the only one, aside from Aengus, who can put me in the Green when the bomb went off.

“Well . . .” She takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. “Hello, River.” A dainty hand stretches out toward me and I’m compelled to take it, to hold it. “I’m Amber.” She blinks several times, her eyes suddenly wet, tears brimming at the corners. “I needed to say thank you.” The words she doesn’t say out loud hang between us as a tear spills down her cheeks.

Bloody hell. I can’t have this girl crying at the bar without raising questions. Maybe I should lead her to the back, where there’s privacy . . .

A few irritated plucks of a guitar announce that Collin is now impatiently waiting. He’ll start getting obnoxious soon, and probably draw attention to the crying American bird in front of me.

So I do the only thing I can think to do. I reach out with my free hand and steal the tear with my thumb. “No need,” I promise her, leaving her knuckles with a brief kiss before freeing myself from her grasp and settling it on the bar in front of her. “Selma!”

I pour Collin’s pint while Amber tries to compose herself in my peripherals, carefully dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a napkin from the bar.

Selma swoops in with her tray not ten seconds later.

“That one’s for Collin. Get it to him first so he’ll shut up.”

I can hear the small printer behind me churning, spitting out new drink orders from the other waitresses, but I ignore them for the moment to give all my attention to this creature in front of me, who’s staring up at me like I’m some sort of knight in shining armor. She’s composed herself again, at least. “How are you enjoying Ireland so far?” It’s a stupid question to ask her, all things considered, but it’s all I can think of.

A slight frown furrows her smooth skin, even as she smiles. “Good. Fine. Well, to be honest, I haven’t really been anywhere since . . .” She swallows hard and averts her gaze around us. “ . . . since I got here.” She shrugs in a “you know” way.

Anger boils inside me. Fucking Aengus. This poor girl’s holiday is probably ruined. She’s forever going to remember Ireland for a pipe bomb. I’m surprised she hasn’t hopped on a plane and gone home already.

“Listen . . .” I lean forward slightly, catching a whiff of spicy floral perfume. “What happened that day? That was one in a million. You should be more worried about our transit system.”

Her lips break into a wide, gorgeous smile, deep dimples forming on each cheek. “I believe you. Those double-decker buses move fast.”

I grab the drink orders from the printer and lay them out. She quietly watches me fill two pints and set them on the counter. “So, what can I get ya?”

“I actually—” She cuts herself off, hesitates, and then, looking around, makes a decision. Her voice drops and she leans in. “I have a few questions.” She rushes to add, “Just for me. I just need to talk to someone about what happened. And you’re the only one I can do that with.”

Of course she has questions. What the hell am I going to say? If I were a dick, like Aengus, I’d either yell at her or throw out a few choice innuendos that would make most well-mannered birds cringe in disgust and run away. But I don’t have the heart to do either. “I only have one question,” I counter, stalling.

She waits, her eyes widening, worry mixing with curiosity.

“Will it be Guinness or Smithwick’s?”

“Oh.” She smiles, and then frowns, her nose wrinkling. “My friends made me try a Guinness before I left and I wasn’t a big fan.”

“You tried it in America?” I chuckle and grab a glass. “Take a seat then.”

She does, perching herself on a stool, her gaze taking everything in. Collin tests a few notes on his harmonica, grabbing her attention. “Is he going to play real Irish music? I’ve heard places like this usually do.”

Places like “this.” I can’t help but chuckle. She looks like a little doll, perched prim and proper in the middle of this kip. Completely out of her element. I’m sure the only bars she’s heard about are the upscale ones in Temple Bar. They do play live Irish music. They also gouge the tourists’ wallets. “I guess you’ll have to stay and see, won’t you?”