Page 48 of An Irish Hope

“Then we mumble those parts.”

“Fine.” He sighed. “Seriously, this song is the best you can suggest?”

The emcee laughed and hit play.

Aisling grabbed his hand. “It’s just a song, okay?” The country music started, the guitars starting fast that he didn’t realise he’d missed the opening bars. He had to scramble to catch up. “I was soft inside, there was something going on.”

She smiled and joined in, adding a harmony, her eyes never leaving him. “You do something to me that I can’t explain.”

They continued, and he faked a cough during the problematic phrase. He didn’t want anyone thinking they’d done that. He hadn’t even kissed her. And he figured her reputation—as a Christian—meant they should look above reproach.

But as they sang the famous chorus, people joined in. “Islands in the stream that is what we are…”

She sang and smiled up at him, then took the next verse which started as a key change.

The song finished, and they were cheered and applauded, and after some good-natured tease they reached their seats. “And look, for the prize of going first you’ve both got a drink. What’ll it be?”

There was only one right answer. “Two Guinness, thanks.”

“Two pints of the black stuff it is.”

Aisling glanced at him. “See, that was fun, right?”

“It would’ve been better if I knew the song.”

“I can’t believe you don’t know such a classic,” she teased.

He thanked the waitress who placed their drinks on the table. Then he held up his glass. “Sláinte.”

“Sláinte.” She tapped his glass then sipped her drink. “Looking forward to the next song.”

“I don’t know if I’m up for another song.”

“Oh, come on. We’re only getting started, right?” Aisling’s smile faded.

He wondered what she was thinking about. “You’re a good singer.”

“So are you.” She sipped her drink.

Someone began singing something from one of Madonna’s early albums, which made him wince.

“Have you got another song you want to do?” he asked her.

She eyed him. “Maybe.”

“Go on. Anything has to be better than this.”

She studied him a moment longer, then nodded, and slipped from her seat. Went to speak to the emcee. Then it was her turn.

He led the applause as she was introduced, then the familiar guitar chords began. His heart slammed against his chest. She was singing this?

“Kiss me, out of the bearded barley.”

As the squeezebox sounded, her eyes remained on him, like she was singing this song just for him.

Did she seriously mean to suggest she wanted him to kiss her?

Around him, people kept peeking back to smile or smirk, and a few “go on then, lad!” comments were flung his way.