Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(30)

“Alex told me you were in Dublin.” She crosses her arms over her chest, as if hiding the fact that she’s wearing something with a hint of femininity for once.

“Yeah, she gave me the name of this place, in case I wanted to come by.” My gaze roams over it. “It’s . . . not what I expected.”

She just stares at me, as if waiting for me to get on with why I’m here and then leave. I can’t tell if it’s just Ivy being Ivy, or if, even after all these years, she still holds a grudge.

“So . . .” I busy my hands by flipping a page in the tattoo binder. “How come you’re allowed to work in Ireland?”

“Why do you want to know? You gonna report me, Little Miss Sheriff?”

I roll my eyes at that.

She sighs and her tone changes to something less aggressive, but no more friendly. “I was born in Spain, so I can work anywhere in the EU.”

“Really?” My eyes drift over her again. Maybe that explains her exotic face. I’ve never quite been able to place it. She definitely has Chinese—or some kind of Asian—in her, but her skin is darker, her hair thicker, her eyes bigger and rounder. I always thought she’d be so pretty if she actually made an effort to look normal. “I didn’t know that.”

“How would you?”

I shrug. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

She frowns slightly, stepping forward. “What happened to your lip? And your arm?” She almost sounds concerned.

“Oh.” Shit. “It’s a long, boring story.” The last thing I need is Ivy telling Alex about this. I pull my cardigan on as I stand. “Listen, I was wondering what you were doing tonight.”

A second wave of surprise flashes across her face but she quickly covers it up. “Just working. I should be done by eight.” A pause, then a doubtful, “Why?”

“Why don’t we meet up somewhere after? I thought we could hang out. Get to know each other, seeing as you’re such good friends with Alex.”

She twists her mouth, as if debating her next words. “I guess, if you wanted to, you could come—”

“How about Delaney’s,” I blurt out, cutting her off.

“Delaney’s?” She frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I smile. “Meet me there at, say, nine?”

Another long moment and then she finally nods, easing a card from her back pocket with two fingers. “Here’s my number, just in case you need to get hold of me.”

I flip it within my fingers. Ivy Lee, Artist. “You actually have a business card?”

“I can read, too,” she mutters dryly and then disappears back down the hall.

Okay. So Ivy Lee is going to be my wing-woman. As far as bad ideas go, this could be as disastrous as running through that park the day of the pipe bomb.

Even so . . . A giddy grin finds its way to my mouth.

I’m going to see River again.

ELEVEN

River

“How’s it been?” I slap Rowen’s shoulder as I edge past him along the narrow bar corridor. Collin’s in the middle of an upbeat jig that has the people cheering along.

“How do you think it’s been?” Rowen swipes at his brow with his bicep while he pours. “This is my second shirt today. Why haven’t we retrofitted this place with air conditioning yet?”

“Because it’s a waste of money. Don’t worry. They’re calling for a break starting tomorrow. That’s what Ma said. Besides,” I grab an order from the printer, “hot customers mean thirsty customers. It’ll be a good night for the pub.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t also mean a good night for a fight.” Rowen nods toward my hand. “Benoit came by earlier to have a word.”

I roll my eyes. The idiot doesn’t know what to do with his evenings now.

“That’s three tenners a week lost,” he reminds me. “At least.”

“He’s a thief.” I drop the pint on the counter a little too hard, splashing a bit on my hand. “We don’t serve thieves.”

“Fair enough, though we serve plenty of scoundrels.”

“This place is run by scoundrels!” one of our regulars pipes up from his side of the bar, earning a round of chuckles and a few handclasps. A lot of these men have formed friendships over their years on our stools. I wouldn’t necessarily call them healthy relationships, mind you—they depend on Delaney’s being open and the beer flowing—but there’s a sense of community here.

“Is this about the thief or the bird?” Rowen’s not going to let up so easily.

“Both,” I admit with a smirk, before grabbing another order coming in from the wait staff. It’s going to be a long night. Saturdays always are, even in a city graced with a thousand pubs.

“River. You’re here, finally.” Nuala, a long-standing bartender and waitress at Delaney’s, hip-checks me out of the way before bending down to pull a bottle of Budweiser from the cooler. “Which bird is your brother going on about?”

“An American damsel in distress,” Rowen pipes in, stealing a glimpse of her round, ample arse over his shoulder. “Benoit stole her wallet last night and this guy dashed in on his steed to retrieve it for her.”