Love and Blarney (5 page)

“Yes.” Ruairí drew out the word in a wary manner.

“It’s the day after tomorrow. I’m really sorry, bro, but I’ll have to take a couple of days off work. I need tomorrow to get my portfolio together. The interview is the day after.”

“Is this true or is it one of your matchmaking schemes?”

“What? Oh, the line is breaking up.” Something that sounded like aluminum foil echoed down the line. “Talk when you get back to the pub, ’kay? You’ll need to find someone to cover for me. Maybe Jayme can help if she’s around.”

The line went dead.

“Bloody Marcella,” he said in annoyance. “I’ll bet Ma called her. She’s about as subtle as a boulder.”

Not subtle, thought Jayme, but her newly discovered sister-in-law might have provided her with the perfect opportunity to spend time with Ruairí. “Do you think she was serious? What’s this cookery course she mentioned?”

“It’s at a fairly prestigious school. She’s wanted to take one of their courses for years, but they’re expensive and she didn’t have the resume to get in. She’s spent the last few years building her portfolio and saving to apply for the course. And now it seems she has an interview.”

“But that’s fantastic news,” Jayme said, smiling. “Isn’t it?”

“Fantastic news for her. Not so much for me. If she needs two days off work at such short notice, I’m going to be scrambling to find someone to fill in.”

“So let me help you.”

He stared at her as if she’d sprouted horns. “What do you know about serving in a pub? Or preparing hot meals en masse?”

“How hard can it be to figure out? Come on. Give me a chance to prove to you I’m not the pampered princess you seem to think I am. If you’re worried about the hot food aspect, we can change the menu to soup and sandwiches for a couple of days.”

He scratched his chin. “I’d have to check the legalities of allowing you to work in the pub. You don’t have a work permit.”

“You won’t be paying me. I’ll be your wife, helping you out behind the bar. Who’ll object to that?”

Uncertainty flickered across his face.

“Come on, Ruairí. Please.”

He sighed. “Fine. We can try it for a couple of days. Just until Marcella gets back.”

She beamed at him. On impulse, she leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek, noting the stubble teasing her lips.

He shook his head. “How do you manage it? You’re filthy, you stink, and yet you still exude sex appeal.”

His words warmed her from her soaked toes to her damp hair. “You won’t regret it, Ruairí. I promise.”

“SLOW DOWN.” RUAIRÍ OBSERVED the action closely. “A decent pint of stout needs time to settle.”

It was his new assistant’s first day on the job. She’d breezed in an hour before opening time, impeccably groomed and wafting her signature scent. He suppressed a smile. Her optimism was sure to evaporate as soon as she encountered the pub’s regular customers.

“Ah, no. Not like that.” He moved behind Jayme and put his hands over hers. They were smooth and soft. “Hold the pint glass in your right hand at a forty-five-degree angle. Yeah, that’s better. Then ease the tap handle all the way down until it’s horizontal.”

“Like this?” She glanced up at him, uncertainty clouding her bright green eyes.

“Yeah, that’s good. Whoa, stop there.” He shoved the tap handle up. “Now let the surge settle.”

She wrinkled her pretty little nose in concentration. “For how long?”

“Two minutes, give or take.” Her tight little arse was nestled right about groin level. He exhaled sharply and shifted position.

“And once it’s settled?”

“Then you repeat the process until the glass is full.”

“Wow.” She examined the quarter-full glass. “Does it really take so long to pull a pint of Guinness?”

“If you want to do it right, yes. And in my pub, we do it right.” Many modern barmen rushed the job, anxious to serve the next customer. Not Ruairí. He took pride in MacCarthy’s being known for the quality of its pints. Satisfied customers were his reward.

The door of the pub was thrown open in a flurry of wind and rain. John-Joe Fitzgerald limped inside. His Elvis quiff was windblown, and his stained sleeveless vest offered scant protection against the heavy rain. John-Joe was utterly unperturbed by his damp and disheveled state. He dragged his bad leg across the room and hauled himself up on his favorite barstool. “Morning, Ruairí.”

All of Jayme’s prep school manners deserted her. She gaped at the new arrival in obvious horror.

“Morning, John-Joe,” Ruairí said. “What can I do you for?”

“Ah, I’ll have the usual.” The older man raked Jayme with greedy eyes, his gaze lingering on her breasts. “Who’s the new barmaid?”

“This is Jayme.” There was a hard edge to Ruairí’s voice. “My wife.”

The man’s beady eyes widened a fraction. “You have a wife?”

“He does,” Jayme said, inching closer to his side. “Are you a regular customer?”

John-Joe inclined his thick neck. “I’ve been sitting on this here barstool for four decades and counting.”

She whistled. “That’s quite a while.”

John-Joe patted his impressive beer belly. “I’ve invested a lot of time and money in my physique.”

“What did you do to your leg?” Ruairí indicated the injured limb, now propped up on a neighboring barstool.

“Ah, you know how it is.” John-Joe displayed a set of incongruously white teeth. “I’m getting to be a bit old to do the old pelvic thrusts on stage.”

“Pelvic thrusts?” Jayme looked at both men for an explanation.

“John-Joe is Ballybeg’s resident Elvis impersonator,” Ruairí said, deadpan.

“I’m a Swimming Elvis,” the older man said indignantly. “I’m not any old impersonator. People get something extra special at my shows.”

Jayme was struggling to keep a straight face. “What does a Swimming Elvis do?”

“I strip out of my King suit down to my swimming shorts. The punters love it.”

Ruairí chuckled at her aghast expression. “Ballybeg doesn’t need the Chippendales when we have John-Joe.” He grabbed the pint Jayme had prepared and shoved it toward John-Joe. “Here you are. You have the honor of drinking Jayme’s very first pint of stout.”

John-Joe took a cautious sip, and then licked the foam from his lips. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

She beamed. “Ruairí’s a good teacher.”

“So what do you do when you’re not working as a barmaid? You look a bit posh to be behind a bar.”

“I’m a pediatrician at a private practice in Manhattan.”

“A doctor, eh? We’re short of those in Ireland. Always having to import people.” John-Joe leaned closer. “I’m never sure if half of them understand me.”

Given Jayme’s look of bemusement, Ruairí guessed she was having problems following the man’s thick accent. He gave her a gentle nudge. “Can I finish giving you a tour of the place before the lunchtime rush?” In the hour before opening, he’d given her a quick glimpse of the disco and the smoker’s den that were located behind the pub’s main building, but most of their time had been spent showing her how to mix drinks, pour pints, and work the fickle cash register.

“Sure,” she said, fiddling with a loose strand of hair.

He shoved up the counter flap and gestured for her to walk through. “The main taproom is where we serve most of our customers Sunday through Thursday. We also have a lounge through here with a pool table and a dartboard. We took out the separating doors years ago and serve the lounge customers directly at the main bar.”

She surveyed the lounge and nodded. “Do you wait on the customers, or is it self-service only?”

“We have extra staff on Fridays and Saturdays. Then people have the option of being served at the bar or directly at their tables.” He led her across to a half-concealed room down a short flight of steps. “And this here is the snug.”

Her brow creased in confusion. “The what?”

He gave a bark of laughter. “The snug.”

She peered into the small room. Ruairí followed her gaze, drinking in the sight of plush chairs and sofas. On his friend Gavin’s advice, he hadn’t followed the modern trend of ripping out the snug to enlarge the main bar area. Instead, he’d wallpapered it with vintage newspaper and restored the brass bell to its former sheen. A glow of pride warmed his stomach. The place was looking good.

“It’s adorable.” Jayme ran her fingers over a soft velvet sofa. “Why do you call this room a snug?”

“In the old days, it was a private room in the pub where people not welcome in the taproom could enjoy a drink. Women, children, priests, and the like. They’d ring this bell”—he indicated the brass button on the wall—“and someone would come and take their order. We still use the bell on Fridays and Saturdays, but the snug is part of the regular bar now. The drinks cost the same as anywhere else in the pub.”

“I’d imagine these tables are coveted.” Her fingertips danced over the bell.

How could he be envious of an inanimate object? “Yeah. All the furniture is new. We’re in the middle of a renovation at the moment, although most of it’s already finished. We’re waiting to do the lounge until Gavin, my architect, gets back from Australia.”

“It looks really nice.”

The sight of her smile triggered a familiar fluttering sensation in his stomach. “I know it’s not the sort of bar you’re used to.”

“We’re not in Manhattan,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t expect places to be the same when I travel.”

Their eyes met, sparking a frisson of electricity. God, how he’d missed her. He’d regretted his decision to leave the moment he’d boarded the plane to Ireland. They’d barely landed when he’d called to apologize, but she’d made it clear she needed time to think. Over the next few months, he’d left numerous messages on her voice mail and sent countless e-mails. And the only response he’d received were the letters sent by her divorce attorney. He stepped closer and drew her deeper into the snug, away from John-Joe’s curious eyes. “Why are you here, Jayme? What prompted you to change your mind?”

Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. When she finally spoke, her voice wobbled with emotion. “I wanted to see you. I needed to know if our marriage was truly beyond salvation. If I’d waited any longer, the divorce would have been finalized.”

They stood toe-to-toe, close enough to kiss. For the first time in his adult life, he regretted that divorce in America was so much quicker than in Ireland. He leaned down and ran his hands through her gorgeous hair. “Jayme, I—”

“Ruairí,” John-Joe yelled from the main room, “you’ve got another customer.”

She jerked back, out of his grasp. They were both breathing heavily.

“I’d better—” He gestured toward the taproom.

“Sure.” She smoothed her already-perfect hair. “You can finish the tour afterward.”

Back in the main room, the pub’s other stalwart regular customer—his uncle Buck—sat beside John-Joe. What Buck lacked in hair, he did not make up for in intelligence, but Ruairí was fond of him all the same. “What can I get you?”

“Ah, throw me a packet of those dry-roasted peanuts, would you? And you might as well pull me a pint of stout to go with them.”

“Coming right up.”

Buck’s habit of ordering a packet of crisps or peanuts and adding his drink as if it were an afterthought never failed to amuse him. Buck was his father’s brother. As good-natured as Colm was mean, he was rarely sober and had a tendency to fall for every get-rich-quick scheme that stumbled across his path.

“Molly tells me you’ve taken a bride,” Buck said when Ruairí slid a pint in front of him.

“Not exactly.” His eyes flickered toward Jayme. “We got married three years ago.”
And we’re in the process of getting a divorce…
The words stuck in his throat.

“Aye?” Buck peered myopically at Jayme. “She’s a looker all right.”

“Yes, she is,” he said, watching her pour herself a glass of water. He shouldn’t be enjoying having her around as much as he was. She’d be gone by the end of next week. But she was a ray of sunshine in his otherwise mundane existence. He didn’t miss the rat race or the cutthroat mentality of Wall Street. He didn’t miss his phony friends—only a couple had bothered to keep in touch once it became clear that he intended to stay in Ireland and run the pub.

But he missed Jayme. Every damn day. He’d been a fool to think he was moving on, starting to get over her. One glance at her sweet face and delicate curves, and he’d been a goner.

She caught him looking at her and raised a slim eyebrow. “What are you staring at? Am I doing something wrong?”

“Not at all. You’re perfect.”

She laughed. “I doubt that, but I am trying.”

He caught her hand and pulled her out of earshot. “Jayme?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for coming over to Ireland.” His voice cracked with emotion. “You were right to force us to talk in person. It’s too easy to pretend at a distance. But we are going to have to sit down and decide… how to proceed.”

She nodded and entwined her fingers with his. She rubbed the indent where his wedding ring had been. “What did you do with your wedding band?”

Hurt lurked in those beautiful eyes. He smiled and fished a chain out of his shirt. “I wear it over my heart.”

She laughed. “You liar! You always hated that ring.”

“No, I don’t hate it. I certainly don’t hate what it symbolizes.” He unfurled his hand and showed her the indent. Small scales of hard skin were still visible. “See this? The ring gave me a rash and it’s only starting to heal now, months after I stopped wearing it.”

“A rash?” She examined his finger closely. His pulse quickened at her touch, sending tiny jolts of electricity coursing through his veins. “Do you think you’re allergic to platinum?”

“Is that possible? I’ve heard of nickel allergies, but I thought platinum was safe.”

Jayme shook her head. “Platinum allergies are rare, but they certainly exist. Why didn’t you tell me the ring was bothering you?”

Their eyes locked. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You chose our wedding bands.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want you wearing a ring that makes you itch. We could have traded yours in for one made from a different metal.”

“But then our rings wouldn’t match.”