“Sure could.” I smile with her as her mood goes happy again. “Maybe put a popcorn machine in too.”

She rolls her eyes. “How about you stick to the lawyering and I’ll stick to the barring.”

“Deal.” I hold up my bowl full of nuts at her.

She clinks her bowl against mine. “To warm nuts.”

I smile. “To warm nuts.”

Erin lowers her bowl and places it on her tray. “Boston, here we come,” she says softly under her breath.

“Amen to that.” I put my nuts down on the tray and sip the champagne the flight attendant was nice enough to drop off for me. “I cannot wait to get back to the real world.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

ERIN

BARRY IS THE NEW HEAD barman I hired as soon as I got back from Ireland two weeks ago. I took him on because he’s worked in two Irish-themed bars already and he has promised me that he knows how to pull in the punters. I’m hoping that Barry from Boyle, County Roscommon, Ireland will lend an air of authenticity to the place and leave me to take care of things in the office a bit more.

So far he’s suggested a wet t-shirt competition where we employ, and I quote, ‘a vertically challenged person’ to dress up as a leprechaun, who will of course pick the winner.

This suggestion is coming at the end of his second week at The Pot O’Gold. Barry himself is small in stature but not quite challenged enough to be a convincing leprechaun. Plus, something tells me that girls aren’t his thing anyway.

We’re sitting in the bar at one of the high tables and it’s Friday afternoon. The lunch rush is over and I’ve been humming along to the ringing of my cash registers for the last couple of hours, so I’m in a pretty good mood. For now at least.

“That is offensive on so many different levels, Barry. I hardly know where to begin,” I say, not even looking up from the accounts I’m trying to balance. He thinks I’m joking and laughs loudly. Too loudly. The look I give him quashes any mirth. He goes on the defense.

“Lookit, Erin. I’m actually gay, so if you’re suggesting that it’s sexist or something, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ve no interest in ogling girls’ breasts in wet t-shirts.” He is sitting opposite me and I notice a red flush begin to climb from his collar up into his cheeks.

I put my pen down and look him straight in the eye. “Yes, Barry, I do realize that you’re gay, but just because you personally won’t be ogling our female clientele, that does not mean that the premise of having girls show their breasts to testosterone-charged men for their pleasure is not sexist. It objectifies women, capiche?”

“Some people are so touchy,” he mutters walking away. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll find something. Just give me a minute.”

He’s a good barman but I had been hoping for a bit of an events manager and head barman rolled into one. Fifteen minutes later, he’s back trying to read something from the screen of his phone. The probation period at The Pot O’Gold is three weeks so I’m really hoping that he has something good for me this time. I try to be encouraging and arrange my face in that ‘I’m open to new and fun ideas’ expression.

 “Ok, picture this,” he says. “Date night, Irish style.” He places the tips of his thumbs together to create a cinemascope, in which I’m invited to share in his vision. “Wait for it…,” he says, presumably to build tension, “… Bag Yourself a Boo-a-chual Night!” he announces, looking at me as though he’s just given me the winning lottery numbers.

“I’m sorry; bag yourself a what?” I’m genuinely perplexed.

He looks down at his phone and tries to pronounce the word again. “ Boo-a-chua-al?”

“Bag yourself a Boacool Night?” I repeat, eyebrows raised. “I don’t understand, Barry.”

He grimaces and looks back down at the screen, ready to take another run at it.

I shift uncomfortably in my stool, holding my breath. I really hate firing people.

Another man’s voice comes from behind me. “I believe the word is Boo-chawl. Written B-U-A-C-H-A-I-L-L. It means ‘boy’ as gaeilge, Ms. O’Neill. And Gaeilge is the Irish word for yer mother tongue.”

I can feel the speaker’s breath on my neck.

“That’s right!” exclaims Barry, beaming at the stranger over my shoulder. “Bag Yourself a Buachaill Night! All the men have to do something sexy to prove they’re Irish, and we have a kind of speed-dating event. Then the girls choose the sexiest, most convincingly Irish men. Modern day matchmaking!” Barry’s grinning from ear to ear, but I can hardly breathe. I know that voice behind me. Intimately.

I turn around slowly in my stool to face the man behind me. Micheál. I am literally struck dumb.

“Hello, Erin. Fancy seeing ye here. I thought I’d just pop over and check in on my investment.” He looks around the bar, nodding his head appreciatively. “I like the leprechaun motif.” He smiles at the neon character above the pool tables. “Ye should capitalise on that a bit more.”

“That’s what I said!” exclaims Barry.

I find my voice at last. “Okay, Barry, thanks for that. Let’s talk some more later. Try to come up with a few details.”

Barry bounds back round the other side of the bar.

I get up from the table and put my hands in my bar apron pockets. “Micheál! Wow! What a surprise! What are you doing here?”

“Happy to see me?”

“Of course! I mean, I was the one who told you to drop by if you were ever in the States. Fancy you being here so soon! Awesome! Who’s looking after the shop?” I’m babbling but I can’t help it.

“Siobhán’s minding things. I came into a bit of money, so I thought, what the hell, I think I’ll go see my old friend Erin in Boston.” He says this happily, arms outstretched for a hug.

I embrace him, even though this whole thing is crazy. It’s hard to catch my breath and my heart is racing. What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck? When I can’t help but drink in his smell and my knees threaten to give way, I pull back abruptly. He’s mocking me with his fake cheer, I know that. This is a new side to Micheál and all my instincts tell me to tread carefully.

“When did you arrive? Have you got somewhere to stay?” I ask, as I would anyone who had just turned up on my doorstep out of the blue.

“This morning, and no. I was hoping ye might have space. There’s an apartment attached to the bar, right?” He’s frowning, as though he can’t quite remember, but I get the feeling that Micheál knows a lot more about the bar than he’s letting on and he remembers everything.

“Sure! You can stay with me for a couple of nights. I have a spare room.” My voice is shaky. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I have no idea what to do, other than I need to get him out of the bar. “Have you had lunch? Let’s go upstairs. Do you have a bag or a suitcase or something?” I stare hopefully at the small holdall on his back. Maybe he’s only staying a night or two. The thought calms me somewhat.

“I left my suitcase at the door,” he says walking back to the main entrance.

With utter dismay I watch as he rolls a large suitcase toward me. “Wow! That must have cost a lot in excess charges,” I say more to myself than him. I start heading toward the stairs and the apartment.

“Well, I’m not sure exactly how long I’ll be here, so…” He’s gritting his teeth with the effort of hauling his bag up the stairs.