Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(19)

I stall, torn between my job and what I really want to do—get to know this American more. Even though I know that’s a piss-poor idea. It’s best that I let her walk out of here and never look back. Definitely best for me. But also best for her. She doesn’t know me and I’m guessing, by the pretty little silver chains around her neck and the bangles on her wrist and the way she looks so put together, that if it hadn’t been for what I’d done for her, she might not be peering at me in that awestruck way.

“I’m glad to see you’re fine, Amber,” I finally offer.

She bites her bottom lip, stirring my blood. “Same here. I mean, with you. That you’re fine,” she stumbles over her words. Is she always this shy?

“Make sure you see all of Ireland while you’re here. It’s a beautiful country.” I take a deep breath. And then I turn my back on her, forcing myself to let the rush consume my attention as I dismiss Amber’s presence. It’s hard but not impossible to do, with the customers at the bar parched and hollering their needs at me. I lose track of time, working my half of the horseshoe-shaped bar with smiles and pours and quips to keep people laughing and drinking.

I get so good at avoiding her gaze that, at some point, she manages to duck out unnoticed, leaving nothing but an empty glass atop a napkin, with “thank you” scrawled across it.

It’s for the best, I remind myself again, pushing aside the edge of disappointment.

SIX

Amber

I stroll along the narrow streets, back the way I came, my heart both light and heavy. I wasn’t lying when I told Garda Duffy that I couldn’t remember what the guy who knocked me down looked like. And the bits that I’ve remembered since didn’t prepare me for the guy I just sat and gaped at like a high school freshman for the past hour.

The second we locked eyes, I knew it was him. Those eyes, I don’t think I’ll ever forget them. Except they were deeper, greener than I remembered, like the lush highlands that decorate the Irish tourism magazines. Couple them with a wide, playful smile and an angular jaw hidden behind a few days’ worth of golden scruff, and his face is a perfect blend of handsome features. And I had forgotten his voice—masculine yet melodious, his Irish accent obvious but not overbearing.

River . . . It’s an odd name, and yet it seems to suit him.

I couldn’t tell what he made of me in those first few moments, as a muscular arm held a glass up to the flowing tap, as his gaze landed on me and panic exploded within it. The panic I recognized instantly, and I immediately started second-guessing my brilliant plan to track him down, suddenly understanding that maybe he wants nothing to do with me or the bombing. Something I refused to admit earlier, when the GPS on my phone led me to this pub, my thoughts entirely focused on my need to see him again.

To be honest, I thought finding him was a desperate long shot to begin with. I was so convinced that I was grasping at straws that I killed four hours with touristy things before I could no longer ignore the magnetic pull to the address sitting open in my Google Maps app.

River seemed to get over the shock quickly enough, though, around the time that I lost my cool and started to cry. For the first time since the bombing, it was as if I could finally let my guard down. In that moment I was ready to clamber over the bar and wrap my arms around his neck. It threw me off when he wiped away my tears, and it thrilled me more than a little when he kissed my hand before letting go. I didn’t think guys even did that anymore.

For a while after, I even thought he might be flirting with me—his dimples deep, his chuckles genuine, his gaze warm. It was a possibility that had me stumbling over my words. On top of the swell of emotions I was grappling with, the guy actually made me nervous!

But then he wished me well on my trip and that was that. Little prickles of disappointment and jealousy stung me as I watched him charm a dozen other customers from the safety of my stool, my face half-hidden behind my pint—which tasted nothing like the bitter tar that they serve at Roadside in Sisters, Oregon. I sat and I wondered how old he is, what his house is like, what his family is like, what he does when he’s not working. Where did he go to college? Did he even go to college? What does he want to do with the rest of his life?

Does he have a girlfriend?

All the things you think about when you’re attracted to someone.

And I’m definitely attracted to River.

Or am I? Is this warm swell in my chest merely because of what he did for me? Is that clouding my other senses?

I guess what I feel or don’t feel doesn’t really matter, though. I snagged his gaze just once more before I left, almost as if by accident. It was like he’d already forgotten about me. And that’s when I reminded myself that he’s an Irish bartender and flirting with customers is in his blood. A handsome, scruffy-faced bartender, serving beer in a dirty old Dublin pub to a bunch of middle-aged men who I’d bet money are here every single day after work, like any good alcoholic barfly.

He’s a stranger, really.

And he probably has a girlfriend.

And I live five thousand miles away.

Focusing on the bigger picture helps ground whatever deep-seated fantasies my subconscious has already started spinning.

After a little while, the place started getting crowded and hot and loud. I kept getting knocked and bumped by elbows and trays, each jolt reminding me how out-of-place I felt in that world. His world. Then a sweaty little man with a distorted French accent—sounding like he’s been living in Ireland a while—dropped his arm around my shoulder to make small talk and I decided there was no point in me staying. The moment I stood, the crowd swallowed my spot up and pushed me out.