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“Cut the guy some slack, Flutter. He’s come to apologize.”
I study the complex pattern of potatoes and eggs on my plate. Colleen humphs. “At your suggestion, I’ll bet.”
The table creaks when Sion presses his hands flat, leaning in. “Of my own accord.”
I decide to join the conversation in the spirit of diluting Colleen’s overprotective side. “It’s actually me who owes Sion an apology.”
Charlie and Colleen goggle-eye me. The only person not surprised is Sion. In fact, he doesn’t meet my gaze at all, his focal point landing somewhere in the vicinity of my right ear. No sunglasses rest on his long straight nose this morning. Wavy bangs flop over his brows except where a stubborn curl sticks behind his ear, exposing a thin, V-shaped expanse of ruddy forehead. His lashes, a beautiful shade of burnt cinnamon mixed with cayenne, hood the glint of gemstone hazel eyes I can’t seem to pull my gaze from.
I clear my throat. “Sion, that crack about you not climbing the castle was mean-spirited, and I’m sorry.” He still won’t engage me eye to eye, so I turn to Charlie and Colleen. “That’s why you heard him being rude to me.” I am willing to defend Sion Loho to atone for my lack of compassion. He can make peace with his own nasty comments.
“And I’m sorry for spooking you in the cave as well as the ample ass comment.”
I’m tempted to put my hands on either side of his face and force him to look me in the eye while he apologizes. It’s unnerving being talked around and not to.
“And then acting the maggot after.”
“Ugh,” says Colleen is disgust.
It’s not the maggot reference that unsettles me. I’ve heard the phrase from Máthair plenty of times. A pang of grief knifes through me at the way Sion’s accent so seamlessly matches Máthair’s. The familiarity throws me off balance.
Sion is intent on the wood grain of the tabletop. “Pardon, Colleen. Acting the ass.”
My eyes rest on the crown of his head. There’s a single spot near the center where all those curls originate. Maybe I will give him a chance. The only thing he needs to do to legitimize the apology is raise his head and meet my gaze.
He doesn’t.
The closest I get is an unfocused sideways glance. Not so Dear Irish Boy after all.
“I am sorry, Eala. I hope we can be easier with each other.” There’s a flicker more green than brown as he peeks through his lashes at my chin, but he’s up and heading toward the bar before I say a word.
Uneasiness fills my stomach, and I can’t take another bite. Eala sounds too comfortable on Sion Loho’s lips.
Colleen’s evil eye at Sion’s retreating back could set a stone on fire. “If that creeper bothers you again, La, I’ll clunk him in the head with a splintery shillelagh.”
I nearly spit out my water with a laugh. “Splintery shillelagh? Are you channeling one of Máthair’s Faerie stories?”
Charlie trails a finger along the side of Colleen’s face. “You know, it’s not unheard of for pub owners in Ireland to also be undertakers. One stop shopping for you, Flutter, murder and burial.” He extracts a small paperback book from a pocket and thumps it on the table.
365 Things to Know About Ireland.
I squirm on the bench. It’s going to be an ugly trip with Colleen plotting Sion’s death the whole time. “We’re stuck with him.”
“Maybe Sion’s got it right. We can tolerate anything with an assist from a twig of Irish whiskey,” says Charlie, eyebrows dancing.
My appetite reasserts itself. I pick at the last of my potatoes, uncovering the ones with the thickest crusts of burned butter and herbs. “Maybe we can get a group discount on twig therapy.”
A commotion at the bar cuts our chat short.
The rotund Irishman who chatted up Jeremy at the bar must be the “Ole Robbie” Sion referred to earlier. The man shoves Sion in the direction of a makeshift stage in the corner of the pub. “Up there with you, Sionny. Give the Yanks one of your stories.”
Jeremy leaps off his stool to block Sion’s path to the stage. Creases between his professorial eyebrows are lines of boiling tar. “Our itinerary calls for an authentic storyteller.”
Robbie waves off Olk. “Sionny here is from down the way. He’s got more stories under those curls than a cow’s got milk at daybreak.”
Before Jeremy’s second offensive, Sion whispers to the pub owner who claps him on the back. I swear Sion’s gaze fans over me as he fades toward the snug at the far end of the bar.
Máthair told me her late husband asked for her hand in a snug, the bitty room tucked away in the corner of a pub. He couldn’t do it in the pub proper since in her day, it wasn’t cool for women to stand and drink at the bar. How many fathers bargained their Irish lasses to husbands over a pint in a similar small private room?
