“Did I say something wrong?” Gah, maybe flirting with him offended him somehow. I have to rewind what I said in my brain. Was it that bad? It didn’t sound too forward, but maybe Irish farmers like it way more conservative. I’m about to apologize when he responds.

“No, you’re all right. It’s just me. I’ve a tendency to think too much sometimes. Comes from spending a lot of time alone out in the fields I think, with no one to talk to but the animals.”

“You have animals?” I’m a city girl, through and through, but the idea of animals has always appealed to me. The closest I’ve ever gotten to being an animal owner was to feed a stray cat that would sometimes sneak onto my porch when I was in college.

“A fair few.”

“What kind?” My arm brushes up against his when I lose my balance a little and he puts his hand on my lower back to help me. When he pulls it away a few seconds later, I feel bereft. There’s a hand-shaped hot spot on my skin now, and I want it to stay there all night.

“A few horses. Two cows, two calves, and a steer. A few sheep. Two goats.” He pauses. “And some chickens for laying. Got rid o’ the pigs last year.”

“Wow. You weren’t kidding. That’s a real farm.”

“Aye. It’s a real farm.” His voice has pride in it. And maybe fatigue. I guess that’s what farmers are … proud and tired. I can dig it. It’s totally hot, actually. I wonder if he’ll let me watch him drive a tractor.

Looking at his profile, I can tell he spends a lot of time outside by the lines and the deep color of his skin. “You’re the first farmer I’ve ever met. Do you like it? Having a farm, I mean?”

A ghost of a smile turns up the corners of his mouth. His face morphs into a thing of beauty. “Aye, I like it fine enough. It’s hard work, but I like using me hands. Workin’ with me hands, that is…”

Oh. My. God. His hands. They’re huge. I look again, and yep, they’re like catcher’s mitts. He said he likes to use his hands. It gives me a thrill just to imagine it. I can picture him wielding big, heavy, mean-looking tools, his muscles bulging and stretching with every movement … and then those same hands holding the tiny soft lamb babies with amazing gentleness. My inner romantic has taken over my brain. I’m falling in love with an image cooked up during one of my historical romance phases when I wouldn’t read anything that wasn’t based in the eighteenth century. I really need to never drink Guinness again.

I blurt out my next question. “Are you married?” Where did that question come from? Oh. Yeah. The rational, reasonable part of my brain. The smallest part of my brain that is surprisingly still functioning, thank God. Flirting with a married man is so not part of my plan for Ireland.

“Nope. I was close once, but it didn’t … work out.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Now that’s a complete lie; I’ll admit it. Selfish, I know, but it is what it is. If he were married, we wouldn’t be here right now and I wouldn’t be fantasizing about seeing those big old hands covering my …

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“I can be kind.” I roll my eyes at my sad attempts at conversation. Talk about awkward. But if I say what’s really on my mind, he’ll probably abandon me here in the dark, and I have no idea where we are. It never crosses my mind to be worried about that, though. Not while this giant of a man is next to me.

“Perhaps you’d like to pay a visit to the farm. That is, if you have enough time.” He glances at me, but by the time I sense it and look directly at him, he’s turned away again. Is he embarrassed? Shy? Socially inept? Nervous like I am?

“I think I’d like that.” I chew my lip. Would I? Would I like to visit a real farm where this man lives and works? Yesterday I would have said hell no. Tonight, I’m thinking all things are possible.

“Think about it before you decide. Be sure it’s somethin’ ye want to do.”

His caution seems fraught with deeper meaning, but I’m too buzzed to figure it out. “How can I know when I have no experience with it?”

“What’s that?”

“I mean, I’ve never been to a farm, so how do I know if I want to go to one?”

“You’re not being asked if you like going to farms, just whether you have the desire to learn a bit more about one in particular. Mine.” He pushes his hands into his front pockets. “You can decide after whether you like farms or not.”

He surprises me with how he’s split those hairs for me. It’s like inside that farmer exterior lies the heart of a lawyer. I love a man who can debate a point with me. My blood rushes a little faster through my veins. “You’re a very rational person, Donal.”

“When it’s called for. Some might say I’m irrational though, I should warn ye.”

“Oh, really?” I’m very intrigued. “Do tell, Donal. Who calls you irrational and why?”

He takes a while to answer. I can tell from the rounding-in of his shoulders that he’d rather not elaborate. “Ah, it’s nothing, really. Forget I said anythin’.”

I really, really don’t want to forget what he said, so I won’t. But I’m not going to press him on it, because I get the sense that he’s a shy guy and pushing would put him off. And for some really stupid reason I haven’t quite determined, I don’t want to do that.

“So how much farther to the B&B?” I ask.

He points up the road. “See that street lamp there? The one glowing a bit blue? That’s the spot for your turn. The house is just three doors down on the left. You can’t miss it.” He stops walking.

I stop too, looking back at him. “Aren’t you going to walk the whole way with me?”

“Do ye want me to?”

“Of course? Who else is going to protect me from all the bad guys?”

He smiles a little. “Och, there aren’t any bad guys in this town, except for George Reilly and he’s only bad because he’ll drive you looney with talk of his lost dog.”

“Lost dog?”

“Lost his hound in the Great Blizzard of 1982. Never got over it. If you’re here longer than a day, you’ll meet him.”

“Can’t wait.” I pause and then hold out my hand kind of backwards, trying to look casual about it. “Are you coming or not? I’m a little tipsy. I could possibly get lost between here and there.”

“Wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?” he asks, taking my hand and stepping up next to me.

This should be no big deal. I’ve held hands with tons of guys. Maybe over a hundred guys. Erin and I hold hands, for crapssake. So why does it feel like such a big deal that I’m holding hands with Donal the farmer?

His fingers are so long and thick, they go completely around my much smaller hand and overlap. This is what a child must feel like when she holds her father’s hand. Ugh, now my palms are starting to sweat. Is there no end to the confusion tonight? Why am I being such a freak? Maybe those old codgers were right. Maybe a witch has been working some magic around here. Maybe she zinged me for talking about the hag.

I search my memory banks desperately for something to talk about. An earlier half-conversation jumps to mind. “So what’s up with the Cliffs of Moher?”

His hand drops from mine in an instant. “Come again?” He stops walking, forcing me to stop too.

I shrug. “When you listed all the famous sites to see in Ireland, you left that one out. Isn’t that one of the biggest ones? And it’s really close too, right?”

“Indeed it is.” He drops his head to stare at the ground and runs his fingers through his hair. “Listen, I … mmm … need to stop here. I’ve me animals to care for an’ all. Perhaps I’ll see you around town before you leave.”

He turns and begins walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction without another word.

I watch him go, my jaw dropped open. “What the fuck?” I whisper under my breath. Then in a louder voice I yell, “Do I still get my tour of the farm?!”

“If ye like,” he yells back. And then he’s gone, swallowed up into the inky black dark.