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Getting Lucky wasn’t the only pub in the village, but it was definitely the most well-known and favored. The locals' absolute favorite by far.
I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I did enjoy the beers Duthmoore had to offer, ones that were locally crafted. Then there was the whiskey, the kind that burned your throat and put hair on your chest. I tended to stay away from the latter, but I tried a little bit of everything while here, mainly because I had nothing better to do between sightseeing and getting the lay of the land.
With no real friends—mainly because I always kept to myself—and my mother my only real family, I was the definition of a loner. But I had no problem with that. I enjoyed my solitude.
Until I didn’t.
Duthmoore was a very close community, and I was an outsider. The citizens were hesitant, although friendly in conversation. I felt it was more because they saw me as a tourist, not a resident.
No family. This town, these residents, were all I had now.
I knew I had family from both sides in Ireland, but as far as I was concerned, the day they turned their back on my mom when they found out she was pregnant, it sealed the deal for me that I didn’t need them in my life. And the fact that my father left us high and dry, and his family never once reached out, closed the chapter on that book as well.
I exhaled and looked around, the cobblestone streets and sidewalks pretty busy already, even though the workday just ended and most shops already closed. You’d think with many places closed the village would calm down for the evening. But not Duthmoore.
The pubs and a few small markets stayed open hours after all others closed. The pubs, I could understand. People wanted to enjoy a pint or two after a long workday. The markets, I hadn’t understood until I’d see people coming in and out of them, bags in their hands, all of them seeming to be filled with snacks.
Munchies from the booze.
I walked toward the front entrance of Getting Lucky, figuring I might as well see what all the hoopla was about. I liked the name. It was catchy and cute. I pulled the heavy door open, one that was thickly scarred wood with iron bolts in the center, and the first thing I heard was the authentic Irish music.
I stepped inside, the door closing behind me softly despite the thing weighing a ton and probably just as old as the town itself. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. But when they did, I realized Getting Lucky looked a lot like many of the other pubs I’d seen in Ireland. Exposed wooden beams, the walls glossy planks of dark wood. The floor matched, but you could see the scuffs of age on the boards. The tables were pub-style throughout the center of the room, and then there were booths lining the walls, the seats a bright shade of green. Kelly green.
Even though it was still relatively early, the bar had a good crowd inside, but I knew as the hours passed it would only get more packed.
The music played overhead, authentic Irish folk music I learned I loved from the first moment I heard it. Most of the tables were taken, but I spotted an empty one in the back. I could see bottles scattered on top, but an employee was there a second later, clearing the bottles, then ran a rag over the top, cleaning it off.
Once at the table, I set my purse on it and pulled myself up on one of the raised stools. Although I’d never actually been inside Getting Lucky until this moment, I walked past it many times, intrigued by it, feeling this weird pull to check more of it out. I’d never been a curious person by nature, but that seemed to change when I moved here.
I wondered what made this place so special to the residents. It was always so packed, with people spilling out of the interior and onto the sidewalk, taking up the small patio tables as they laughed and got good and drunk.
I let my gaze scan the pub, taking in the decor, how the pictures were of people in town, staff, even landmarks in Duthmoore.
I kept scanning, then looked at the bar, every seat taken, but my eyes locked on the beast of a man standing on the other side serving drinks. He towered over all others, his shoulders wide and intimidating. His hair was short, the shade a mix between dirty-blond and brown, as if the strands couldn’t decide if they wanted to be light or dark.
He wore a pair of jeans that showcased thighs that were muscular and lean. Like a swimmer’s. His white T-shirt was molded to his very athletic physique. He was reaching for a couple of bottles on the shelf, his biceps flexing, my mouth drying at the sight. Once he had them in hand, he turned and started making drinks.
