potatoes, potato pancakes, fried potatoes—"
“This is giving me serious Forrest Gump vibes,” she laughed. “What about potato latkes? Aren’t those traditionally Jewish?”
“Still Irish,” I grinned. “Potatoes are the main ingredient.”
“But the Irish are mostly Catholic, right?”
“And Protestant. But potatoes are bigger than religion. We grow and share the potato with all. We also take credit for vodka. Just because the Russians make it best doesn’t mean it’s not a potato-based, genuinely Irish creation.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s false,” she teased.
“Are you trolling my heritage?”
“No, I’m trolling your bullshit,” she said, and I laughed.
When the sausage rolls came, she picked up a fat one wrapped in buttery pastry and bit into it. She didn’t try to cut it with a knife and fork or anything fussy. She just crammed it in her mouth. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t damn near choke on my Guinness at the sight. Without even stopping except for one sip of her beer, she ate the entire sausage roll. Then she brushed off her hands and wiped her mouth with the napkin.
“Those are good,” she said. “How come I never had one before?”
“You don’t spend enough time with the Irish obviously,” I quipped, taking one and eating it.
“You’re an American living in St. Martin,” she protested.
“T’is pure Irish blood in my veins, lass,” I said with a cheesy fake accent that made her smile.
“That was about the worst impression I ever heard of the Lucky Charms leprechaun. It’s a good thing you’re cute if you’re relying on that Irish schtick to pick up women,” she laughed. I laughed too.
About that time, Tommy started up his Irish dancing routine. I elbowed her, “I’m not the only O’Shea who capitalizes on our Irish roots. I bet Tom’s picked up dozens of women with this dancing lesson.”
“Really? Then I have to try it. Maybe he’ll get lucky,” she teased.
I shook my head, “He better not,” I replied a little more darkly than I’d intended.
She hopped up and joined the crowd of mostly women gathering around my younger brother. He demonstrated a few steps, lightning-quick and grinning all the time. Then the women squealed and clapped as if on cue. He broke it down into a simple sequence, had them practice a few times. There was a lot of giggling and leaning on each other among the drunk sorority girls trying to marshal their feet in time to the music. Then he restarted the Irish step-dancing soundtrack and led them in a noisy Riverdance-style routine. As usual, the participants ranged from bad at it to really bad at it to way too drunk to even attempt it. It was a crowd-pleasing event though.
As I watched Morgan, unable to peel my eyes away from her, I saw that she wasn’t afraid to jump in and try something new; she didn’t let embarrassment hold her back. She was having fun, and doing a decent job of keeping up. She had the early steps down, but as it got more complicated, she just stomped in time with the music, clapping and laughing gamely. Her golden hair swung as she turned, and she caught my eye and smiled. Watching her was intoxicating. She was fun and carefree and sexy as hell. For the first and only time, I was tempted to join in my younger brother’s dancing lesson spectacle. But I watched from the booth, enjoying my view of Morgan.
She came back to the table, drained half of her beer and pushed her hair back from her face. “That was fun. You never told me that your younger brother was the fun one,” she teased me.
“Hey,” I said wryly. “Who took you on a hike where you got to meet a water snake?”
“Yeah, having something slither on my legs was super fun,” she said sarcastically. “The hike was great, but this dancing—that’s next level excitement.”
“Are you kidding? Stomping around a crowded bar with a bunch of women beats almost-skinny-dipping with me in a rain forest pool?” I asked incredulously.
“Okay, maybe it’s a tie.”
“A tie? I’m insulted,” I said, signaling the waitress for a refill on our drinks.
Morgan took a long pull from her fresh beer and cast a glance at mine. “Can I try the Guinness? I’ve never had one.”
I handed her my fresh pint and she licked her lips. I damn near lost it when her tongue darted out in anticipation. She took a drink, not a tentative sip, a drink, and then made a little bit of a face.
“Not a fan?”
“It’s