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“He wants to meet me . . . tonight. And look and I know it’s last minute, but will you cover reception?”
Áine exasperated a laugh so hard her curls bobbed against the line of her uniform’s short sleeve. “No feckin’ way, Daisy. I’ve been here since this morning! I’m literally living off Dublin’s congestion fumes.”
“Áine, you live here. You don’t go near the fumes!” Accommodation was the sole perk of the job, but it was silly of Daisy to be pedantic when she needed a favour. “Ah, go on. Please. Please,” Daisy begged with bulging blue eyes. “I reallylike him. And I remember covering you once last minute when your dad had the fall.”
To be fair to Daisy, she had. And so, any annoyance Áine was clinging onto quickly seeped out through her pores.
“Yeah. Alright. Alright. Go on. But”—Áine lifted a warning finger—“you’re covering my shift tomorrow.”
Daisy squealed and locked her fingers into Áine’s, and Áine smiled better in return. Daisy was a good friend. And Áine couldn’t say she had many of them. Two at most, even.
Leaving Daisy to make her arrangements, she started back to the dining room to roll the box of jumbled cutlery into napkins. A pile quickly rose on the only ‘good’ China left in the joint; a rectangular plate with a blue, flowery border Áine herself had chipped three times, one for each year of service to Paddy. It gave her great satisfaction, though never being intentional. He could also never pinpoint who caused the damage despite his droopy eyes holding hers longer than any other in the morning line-up. Besides, he wouldn’t fire her. Guests raved about her to the point of immunity. And although the person they perceived wasn’t a true depiction, it delighted her in a way that made her think she was glowing.
“I’m off, hun.” Daisy curved her head around the dining room door, a fluffy-hooded coat hugging her contoured face.
She looked lovely, which was nothing out of the ordinary.
Despite her eyes creasing with amusement, Áine naturally opted for a stern warning, “Be fucking careful, please.”
“Oh, don’t worry, he carries condoms.”
Áine laughed. “You’re full of divilment tonight. Now go on before I change my mind.”
Daisy puckered her lips to blow a squeaky kiss. “Love you.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Enjoy that big willy.”
“I’ll bring you back a doggy bag if it’s too much for me.” Out of sight, Daisy’s thundering laugh persisted to echo throughout the entire ground floor.
It had Áine smiling to herself, which caused the spoon she shined to distort her face in a way not even a mother could love. Even her true reflection was a stretch for Áine’s mother. She had nothing concrete to base this on, but it felt true. Therefore, it was for her.
Saving her from the desire to pick at that scab, the reception belldinged.
Áine’s dainty shoulders convulsed how they often did when unexpected noises festered throughout the night shift. She guessed it was lingering from Halloween last week.
“Hello?” a low voice called. “Are ye’ full for the night?” The monotone twang familiar to her home county of Kilkenny became clear the second time they called out. She’d been away so long, the familiarity brimmed her belly both with excitement and apprehension; the former because nostalgia was something she considered a natural high, and the latter because it might be someone she knew.
Please God, don’t be someone I know.
“Hello?” he called again.
“Umm.” She smoothed her pinafore pleats, feeling a touch of fear for how much the voice had thrown her. With the past came remnants of vulnerability—Áine’s one potential stepping stone to ruination.
Briskly, but with enough time to plaster her work smile onto her face, she returned to the foyer, pacing around the man in an exaggerated loop without looking up or baring him any attention until in position on her side of the reception desk—so that he could only know her whenshewas ready. When considered ‘The Receptionist’ instead of Áine.
“Sorry about that.” Her smile, though not at him, was teethy, false, and formal. Still, guests could never tell. “I was just sorting stuff for the morning. The name?” She flipped open the guest logbook and reservations in case it was either.
When the man didn’t answer, she peered up—above him first to the large wooden clock over the entrance that marked ten at night. If she wanted to get a power nap, all the jobs had to be done. And this guy she finally took to looking at, a guy with bits of ginger in his dark stubble . . . he seemed to have lost his tongue.
“So, the name?” She smiled wider, hoping attention might pry it out of him.
With his fingers, wet from the rain, he combed his hair only to have it fall back into place—near ear length and curtained like he’d just abandoned his ‘00s rock band for a solo career.
Áine gasped, the sharpness drying her throat. The simple act of him unmasking his face, his golden-brown eyes, chiselling features, even his familiar pointed canines had given her the answer asked of him twice. It jolted a thousand heart-racing memories into her unprepared brain until the leash she had on her honesty frighteningly snapped:
“You’re Fionn O’ Rourke.” The words tumbled out of her mouth at brute speed. His familiar accent made sense now.
His stubbly neck reclined into itself, and his thick brows furrowed in a way she interpreted as him being pleased as opposed to the surprise he was attempting.
