Chasing River (Burying Water #3)(53)
“Hello, Hostile Patron.” Rowen scans her outfit—a black tank top and a plaid miniskirt that’s barely long enough to cover her arse—with interest. “You look pretty tonight.”
I almost want to warn him not to try anything too bold on her. Almost.
But watching her eat him alive will be more entertaining.
“So, what is this place, exactly?” Amber asks again, stealing my attention.
“Just a local secret.” I tap the menu. “Decide what you want to eat because Kean wasn’t kidding. He’ll close the kitchen on us.”
“I’m Fergus, one of your seanchaí for the evening. Some know me. Some don’t.” The portly man strokes his graying beard as he scans the tables. There are fourteen of them—enough to seat fifty-six guests—and all are filled. That’s common on nights like this. Most people here show signs of middle age, though there are two tables of younger couples, aside from us.
“But you’re all here for the same thing—to eat good food, drink good beer, and have a good time.”
“Shift a bit, ladies,” Rose whispers, her arms laden with four dinner plates. “River, help me out, will ya?”
Asking a customer to take his plate would be considered terrible service standards anywhere, but Rose has known me since I sat on my granddad’s lap. I carefully scoop up the plates, setting Amber’s dish in front of her.
“Good boy.” She pinches my cheek in thanks, just like she did twenty years back, when she was thin and free of the deep creases that now zag across her forehead. “And your pints are on their way.” She disappears to another table.
“We ordered another round?” Amber whispers.
Rowen chuckles. “Rose won’t stop bringing them until we ask her to.”
“Can she switch mine to whiskey?” Ivy mutters, poking a chunk of stew with her fork.
Rowen settles an arm around her shoulders, his hand like a giant mitt over Ivy’s slender shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s dead.”
Her sharp sideways glare at his fingers tracing lines over her skin makes me burst out in laughter.
“Ah, the Delaney boys.” Fergus’s deep voice ricochets through the cavern and numerous heads turn. “Might I introduce ya later?”
I simply wink at the old man, a longtime friend.
Amber leans in to whisper, “Why would he introduce you?”
I spear a chunk of creamy cabbage and bacon from her plate with my fork and hold it up to her mouth, waiting, avoiding her question.
With only a moment of hesitation and a shy smile, she parts her lips, allowing me enough room to slide the fork in. I feel the press of her teeth against the metal, the thrill of that sensation skittering from my fingertips through to the rest of my body.
Somewhere in the background, Fergus is talking again. But he’s lost both of us for the moment, our eyes locked on each other. It isn’t until he replaces that gruff, deep baritone voice with a slightly higher, more melodic one that he manages to steal Amber’s attention.
“Storytelling!” Her eyes light up and she struggles to keep her voice low. “Mary told me about this!”
I have no idea who this Mary is but I just smile, because her excitement is palpable.
“She told me to find a place that did this, that it’d be an experience. I even put it on my list.” I watch her face closely. The pause . . . the moment of recognition . . . the turn to stare at me, a mixture of amusement, annoyance, and something unreadable in her expression.
I hold my finger up to my mouth to signal silence. Fergus is known for lambasting people who talk through his performances. She presses her lips together, moving her gaze back to him, but reaching out to grab my hand that rests on my lap. Squeezing it once, tight.
I won’t let it go, though, slipping my fingers through it and holding it against my thigh, forcing her to eat the rest of her dinner using her left hand. She doesn’t seem to mind, her focus rapt on Fergus as he regales everyone with a tale about a fisherman and his son who followed the will-o’-the-wisp through the bogs of Munster, never to be found again. I’ve heard it at least five times before, but it’s no less interesting, because Fergus is a masterful storyteller, his cadence musical, his movements elegant. He’s an old culchie, spending most of his days tending to sheep, and listening to him reminds me a lot of nights around the woodstove with my granddad.
Even Ivy, who I was skeptical about bringing here, is turned completely in her chair to watch Fergus, making slow work of her supper.
Fergus monopolizes the stage for close to an hour—he’s a verbose bastard—and wraps up just as Rose is collecting our empty plates and dropping another round of drinks off.
“This will be my last for tonight,” Amber informs Rose sweetly. Ivy shoots her a skeptical look but Amber ignores it, smiling at me. “How much of his story is true? I mean, I know the whole will-o’-the-wisp thing isn’t, but isn’t there some truth to all of these stories?”
I shrug. “They could have been following fireflies or glowworms, or little pranksters with lanterns. Who knows? These stories are passed on from generation to generation by word-of-mouth, so you can expect embellishments with each turn.”
“Well . . . embellished or not, that was so great. I never would have found this place on my own.” Her gaze darts to my mouth, and she bites her own lip with hesitation. “Thank you.” She leans in and kisses me. It’s more proper than last night in the office, but something tells me that simple move took a lot of guts for Amber.