My mind is racing and there is a surreal quality to everything as I quickly show Micheál round the apartment. Clearly, my brain has left the building, but somehow I find myself behaving as though it is the most natural thing in the world to have him here, walking from room to room, taking in my discarded nighty and unmade bed.

After showing him the spare room, I toss him a towel and point him toward the bathroom so he can shower and freshen up. I try not to dwell on that image. Closing the door to the hall, I go to the farthest corner of the sitting room and pull out my phone.

I punch Favourites, R.

“Ridlee Taylor, attorney at law.”

“He’s here!” I hiss into the phone.

“Who is this?” asks Ridlee, clearly irritated.

“It’s me,” I hiss more, trying to keep my voice down.

“Erin?”

“Yes! It’s Micheál! He’s here! What do I do?” I’m begging.

“Riiiight, okaaaay. Welllll, hmmm, I’ll … um … courier the documents over to you later this afternoon. I’m just in a meeting now, so leave your details with my assistant and she’ll pass them on to me. Thank you. Bye now.”

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone screen.

SOS! I text just as the door opens and Micheál is standing there wearing nothing but the peach colored towel I gave him. And it’s not a very big one at that.

“Did I hear ye talking to someone?” he asks pleasantly.

“Orpheus!” I say shoving my phone in the back pocket of my jeans and scooping up the old cat who has been sleeping peacefully on the sofa. Orpheus meows loudly, jumps out of my arms, and stalks off toward the door, but not before throwing a dirty look at me over his shoulder.

“Oh, that’s what the hissing was,” says Micheál laughing. Orpheus, the traitor, thinks better of his escape and pauses to weave in and out of Micheál’s legs purring happily.

“Listen, do ye have any shampoo? I forgot to pack any.”

“Yeah, there should be some in the bathroom.” I’m distracted, keen to get back to getting a hold of Ridlee.

“I couldn’t see any,” he says, still hovering on the threshold.

“Huh…” I walk past him and into the bathroom. Opening the shower, I can see the shampoo up on one of the higher shelves. I step onto the ledge, holding the shower door for balance and stand on tippy-toes trying to reach it.

“Here, let me,” says Micheál, leaning in too. There’s not much room, and his chest is against my shoulders. My heart begins to race. I try to control it but I can’t. His fingers brush mine as he gets hold of the shampoo bottle. He takes it down from the shelf and steps back down. As he passes me, I feel his breath on my lips. I close my eyes in anticipation of…

“Huh, we have this in Ireland too. That’s globalisation for ye,” he says reading the label.

I open my eyes. My cheeks redden. “That’s where I bought it,” I mumble before turning quickly and leaving.

“Thaaanks!” he calls after me.

The shower starts running, and I pace the room sending text after text to Ridlee.

Finally she answers.

What does he want?

I don’t know!!! 

Find out! DISCRETELY…

I put on the kettle and make tea, for want of something better to do. Making tea calms me, allowing me to marshal my thoughts. Ok Erin, get your shit together. What do you know? Well, you know that he knows that you ripped him off, or at the very least tricked him. Ok, good. Now, what does he want?

Not you, obviously. I shake my head to rid myself of nonsense thoughts like that one. I have to be smart. I know that. He’s probably angry. He may even want revenge. I just have to be patient and bide my time. In the meantime, I’ll be a gracious host. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right? Micheál’s not your enemy, you goose! says the angel, or is it the devil again?

When he emerges from the bathroom, fresh and more handsome than ever, I pour him a cup of tea and offer him one of the toasties I’ve made. He sits down at the breakfast bar that divides the kitchen and sitting room and eyes me warily. No doubt he’s wondering what I’m up to. I smile my most honest smile and sit down opposite him.

“Micheál,” I say.

“Erin.”

I smile. “Let’s call a spade a spade. Lay our cards on the table.” I need to know exactly what his intentions are before I say anything about the buyout.

He just smiles and takes a sip of tea. “Ye remembered,” he murmurs sexily.

“Sorry?”

“Two sugars and a dash of milk. Ye remembered.” He seems happy, so I don’t explain that it’s force of habit from slopping tea in cafes for most of my misspent youth. Instead I just smile sweetly. “I did,” I say demurely. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so I try again.

“Micheál.”

“Erin.”

“Yes, very funny. Look, why are you here? What is it that you want?” I’m trying to hide my mounting irritation—well panic, really. “And don’t say that you’re here to visit me.” Pulling out all the stops I look down into my tea for a moment and then up at him again from under my lashes.

He gazes at me for a second too long and then shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, but I clock it.

“Ye scammed me, Erin. Ye scammed my dead grandfather. Ye scammed your own grandmother. And for what? Money?”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa there, Micheál!” I hold up my hand to stop him from going any further. “That’s some serious language you’re using there. Some might accuse you of slander and all sorts.” I add a little tut-tut to my tone.

“Is that some kind of veiled threat, Erin?”

Dammit! We’re sparring. I don’t want to spar with him. “God, no! Jaysus, no, Micheál! I just think that you may have it all wrong. Just what is it that you think I have done?”

“Are ye trying to tell me, Erin O’Neill, that ye bought me out of half of that bar downstairs in good faith?” He lifts his mug of tea and takes a sip. “Now, tell the truth and shame the devil.” He puts the mug gently down on the bar, staring me in the eye.

“I absolutely did.” I stare back at him while trying to recall what Ridlee had said to me on the plane; she had made it all seem above board at least.

“Well, kid, that bar downstairs, while lacking in taste, is no dive; and judging from the lunch rush ye just had, I’d say that ye’re turning a good profit. Not, as ye’d’ve had my solicitor believe, operating at a loss.”

“You were here for lunch?” The blood is draining from my face. I take a mouthful of tea and burn the roof of my mouth. “Ow!” There’s no point in trying to explain that that was an office event, a one off, and that today was not typical of Friday lunches at The Pot O’Gold.

He smiles and goes on talking, “I was across the street, in a cafe. I don’t think I’d have been able to get at table at The Pot O’Gold — too packed.” He laughs but it sounds unnatural. “They must be some mighty fine buffalo wings ye got,” he says in a southern drawl. “Granny’s recipe from the old country, is it?” He smirks and there’s an obvious edge to his voice. “Funny, I never realised that buffalo wings and fries were quintessentially Irish fare.”

He’s angry with me. Like, really angry with me, and I don’t blame him. Without thinking I blurt out, “You don’t understand. I worked my fingers to the bone to turn this bar around only to have it gifted out from under my feet by an iron lady who suddenly had a fit of sentimentality on her death-bed.” I am panting with the effort of explaining. Ridlee is going to kill me— I’m not supposed to talk about the deal but I have to make him understand that I had no choice. Not really.

“So that makes it all right does it? That makes stealing what was legally given to me all right? ‘Cause that’s not what my lawyer says.” His eyebrows are almost touching his hairline; they’ve been climbing with each rhetorical question. Or at least, I’m assuming they’re rhetorical.