“I sense you want to talk, Babe.”

“Me? No, not particularly.” I answer breezily. I scan the paper again and try to memorize the first question. I clear my throat. “Well, ye know, maybe now would be a good time to run through a couple of things about us.” I wince. Shit! Guys hate when you say that you want to talk about us.

“Sounds like a good idea. I’d love to talk about us. Do ye wanna start?” He puts his coffee cup on the bedside table on his side of the bed.

I panic momentarily. Is that his side of the bed now? And is this to be my side? I usually sleep in the middle. Ridlee’s right, things are moving way too fast. How could he possibly know that he loves me already? I’ve never bought into that love at first sight shit. How on earth can you love someone, really love them, until you’ve seen their worst parts? That’s what love is; accepting someone warts and all.

I sit cross-legged in front of him, which allows me to read Ridlee’s instructions discreetly. I decide to just go for it, since according to her, we don’t have much time. Oh well, in for the penny, in for the pound, as Granny would say. All Ridlee’s queries come rushing out at once and not in the oh so casual manner that I’d planned.

“Well, I was just wondering, firstly, why you’re here using the bar as an excuse and not just you, I mean me, as an excuse.” Furtively, I peek at the paper again. “And who’s going to watch your shop? And, how long is your visa valid for? Do you realize that you can’t work or earn money on that visa? Do you have savings for living expenses? And if not, how will the business in Ireland stay afloat?” I try to slow down and speak as though these questions are just occurring to me now. I continue. “Are you expecting me to support you?”

Ouch. He winces at that one.

“And when it’s time for you to leave, what then? You don’t want to live here as an illegal alien, do you?” I crane my neck just a little reading my almost illegible shorthand to make sure that I’ve covered all bases. Yup; the list is done. Now for the fallout.

Michaél jumps up, pulls back the duvet cover, and looks under the bed. Then he walks over and opens the closet and sticks his head in there. He even checks behind the curtains.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for Ridlee. She’s here, right? That was definitely her talking. I just thought she might be hiding under the bed or in the closet.”

I can’t help but smile as he walks back to the bed naked and sits down beside me.

“Erin, I didn’t mean to put the heebie-jeebies up ye yesterday when I told ye how I felt about ye. Maybe we should slow down a little.”

I gulp involuntarily. Is he going to dump me? Am I interrogating him too much?

He reaches past me and picks up the list Ridlee has dictated. There’s a seriously pregnant pause as his eyes skim down the page. “Uh huh…” He turns the page over and reads the other side before looking at me again. “I’ll address each point in order, if that suits ye?”

He’s mocking me again but I don’t mind. “Sure,” I say, shrugging.

“So, number one: Okay, well, I came using the bar as a ruse rather than showing up all doe-eyed and desperate because ye’re so damn independent and have yer shit so together that it seemed like the only way that I could become necessary in yer life. The opportunity presented itself, and I took it. I never wanted yer bar. I’ve only ever wanted to help ye. You talked passionately about the Pot O’Gold the first night I met ye. I wouldn’t dream of interfering with yer dream.”

He coughs and then continues. “Number two: Who’s watching my shop? Well,” he shifts closer to me, “Siobhán is my partner and more recently Donal has invested in the business. Thanks to the injection of cash that came from the bar buyout, we were able to pay off all our debts and bring Donal into the business risk free. Well, as risk free as anyone could hope. I couldn’t let him invest before when I had creditors breathing down my neck.” He smiles and looks at the paper again.

“Number three: Yes, I do realize that I cannot work while on this visa, which by the way is a six-month visa. I own the majority of shares in Surf n’ Turf and I can draw a salary from that. Furthermore…,” he says this last word with gravity and grins. “Do ye like that? Do ye like the way I can sound all legal an’ shit?”

I tilt my chin down and deliver my ‘don’t fuck with me’ look, which urges him to go on.

“Furthermore, Siobhán, Donal, and my good self are not entirely opposed to investing in other ventures, either at home or abroad, should the opportunity arise.”

My stomach lurches a little. Does he mean The Pot O’Gold? Is it the bar that he’s actually after?

“To clarify, Erin, that venture would have to be similar to Surf n’ Turf — outdoor adventure, that kind of thing. In short, we kinda fancy becoming a multi-national of sorts. But the good kind, obviously,” he adds hastily.

“Oh,” I say, relieved. “But what about when your visa expires and you have to leave? What then?”

“Darlin, that’s a few months away yet. Let’s take it one day at a time and see where this goes. To quote the great Mr. John Lennon, ‘Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans’. Let’s just take it slow and see where we are in four or five months.”

This wait-and-see idea is a new concept to me. I have my five-year plan. I plan everything to the nth degree; I always have. I’m not sure if I can take my foot off the gas and see where the road takes me.

“I dunno, Michaél. I’m afraid of falling in love with you and finding myself shattered into a million pieces when it doesn’t work out five months from now.”

“I know. Me too.”

I search his face for clues — clues as to who he really is, what he really wants. His expression is open and honest, and even though he’s still full of mysteries, I want to get to know him better. Truth is, it would hurt like hell to let him go now, risks be damned.

He reaches for my hand that is resting on the bed, and weaves his fingers through mine. Leaning in, he plants a kiss on my mouth. His lips nuzzle my cheek, then my neck.

“Life is a leap of faith, Erin. Let’s take this jump together.” Reaching his hand up to my cheek he pulls me down onto the bed.

I’m not sure I even have a choice anymore. The thought of letting him leave my life without even trying to make it work is no longer an option. Maybe we’re in it for the long haul or maybe we’ll be a short and sweet fling, but either way I wanna find out.

“Let’s jump,” I say between kisses. “From the cliffs to the sea below.”

Let’s just hope nobody gets dashed on the rocks…

The End

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elle Casey is a prolific, New York Times and USA Today bestselling American writer who lives in Southern France with her husband, three kids, and several furry friends. She writes in several genres and publishes an average of one full-length novel per month.

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