My Life in Shambles(49)

The Velvet Bone is located along a country lane with a small smattering of houses about. Upstairs there’s a few hotel rooms, but downstairs is where the party is.

Or, in this case, it happens to be about six locals, sitting around and drinking beer and watching darts on the television.

When we walk in, we get the royal entrance.

“For feck’s sake!” the bartender yells at us once we step inside, clapping his hands. “Look what the bloody cat dragged in. Padraig McCarthy. And this must be yer mot.”

His mot?

“It means girlfriend,” Padraig explains. “And actually, she’s my fiancé.”

And as has happened every time Padraig says that word, the room goes quiet.

I’m starting to think that people must have placed bets on whether he would ever settle down with someone or not.

I’m lucky, I think.

No, you’re just acting, I quickly remind myself.

“Yer kidding?” the bartender says, then glares at him suspiciously. “Don’t tell me this is yer ploy to get a round bought for ye, because we all know how much money yer arse makes, it’s printed in the bloody papers.”

“Not kidding. Alistair, this is Valerie. Valerie, this is Alistair. He’s okay most of the time. The rest of the time he’s a real tosser.”

“Ay!” he yells at him.

I laugh. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh my god. And she’s an American,” Alistair says, looking at everyone else in the bar. “He’s really branching out. Well, fuck.” He leaps over the bar, surprisingly spry. “Come give me a bloody hug, you eeijit.” Alistair pulls Padraig into a hug.

“You too,” he says to me, scooping me up.

I laugh. He’s on the short side and built like a gymnast, but even so he has no trouble getting me off the ground.

He slaps me on the back. He’s a cute guy, pale, with brown hair and light eyes. Very mischievous looking. I can tell he’s going to be trouble. “So, when the fuck did all this nonsense happen, huh? Sit down and tell us the story.”

We take our seats at the bar, and before we can order anything, Alistair has poured us each a pint of Guinness. He raises the one he was already drinking and says, “Cheers.” We all raise our glasses. The whole pub does. “Cheers to the happy couple and for Padraig ending his chronic bachelorism.”

“Cheers!” everyone says.

I take a sip of my beer and watch as everyone else sucks half of it down in one go. The taste of Guinness hasn’t grown on me yet.

“So, first of all mate,” Alistair says to Padraig, leaning against the bar on his elbows. “Where on earth did you find her? She’s far too good for the likes of ye.”

“At a pub, of course,” Padraig says, palming his beer. God, he has such good hands. Just staring at them now, away from the eyes of his family, surrounded by dim lights and dark wood and the smell of beer, it feels like my hormones are being ramped up with each passing second.

It’s funny how, even though I can get away with lusting after him when we’re at the B&B, I prefer to do it in private. Because in private, it’s real. Otherwise it feels like it’s just for show, even if it isn’t.

Either way, I don’t feel anyone in this dark pub needs a show, so I ogle him as he tells his friend about how we met, combining both the real and the fake.

He looks even sexier and somehow more enigmatic now than he did when I first laid eyes on him. His black hair is a bit spiky at the top, and I think he must have run some styling paste through it before we left. His beard is very neatly trimmed, and he’s wearing one of his many Henleys, this one a moss green that seems to bring out lighter dimensions in his dark brown eyes and fits him like an absolute glove, showing off his boulders for shoulders and his thick, commanding forearms.

I admire those forearms the way I admired his hands, knowing the skill they have and what they can do. Not just to my body, but out there on the rugby pitch. Fuck, I would love nothing more than to see him in action.

Then he’s got charcoal jeans that make his round, muscular ass look amazing, his boots, his black wool peacoat crammed under the stool in a pile. I have no doubt that the coat is some kind of designer and it boggles my mind to have that much money to do that with your clothes and not care.

Or maybe it’s just that he’s a guy. Aside from his place, which, though small, must have cost a ton, his car, and his clothes, Padraig doesn’t at all give off any sense that he’s aware of his money. He’s not showy with it, though I’m sure he could have a lavish lifestyle if he wanted to. I have a feeling that might be an Irish thing, to stay humble and keep your wealth hidden. Or perhaps it’s his upbringing.

I think back to what we talked about earlier at the mews. How hard it must have been for him. His mother gone. A baby sister who only got to see the world for five days. So much loss, and so fast and so soon. I was lucky that my accident happened when I was so young, since I was able to adapt and live the rest of my life with this new reality.

But to lose so much at sixteen, I don’t know how he’s done it. Then to lose the relationship with his father … I can see why all of this matters so much to Padraig, even if he’s shouldering so much of it deep inside.

I want to help him carry that load. Maybe that’s inappropriate of me, but it’s the truth. I want his trust and I want in, into all his darkness that he hides from the world.