touch. But there was a nearly visible wall of anger and hurt radiating around him. “I…care so much for you, Alex.”
“Right. So much,” he mocked. “Just not enough to trust me.” He stalked to the front door and flung it open. “I’ll keep up the ruse about the engagement for your grandmother’s sake, but that’s it. You and I are over. Now get the hell out of my inn.”
She’d apologize again, but if the first three times hadn’t done the trick, mixed with a thorough explanation, well, it wouldn’t matter. Wouldn’t change his mind.
Sydney folded all those layers of genuine sorrow and regret into the shreds of her bleeding heart.
And left.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Drink this.” Teague shoved a plastic cup into his hand, foam dripping down the side.
Alex didn’t take orders well. He’d rather take umbrage. “I’m thirty-two. I don’t drink beer out of plastic cups anymore.”
“It’s St. Patrick’s Day and we’re in a bar called McGillicuddy’s—they don’t have the time or the capacity to wash glasses tonight. Have you seen the size of the crowd? The tent?” Teague gestured to the white walls decked with shamrock streamers of the enormous heated tent that abutted the bar to handle the overflow. And it was packed shoulder to shoulder at only eight o’clock.
“Yeah. It’s too crowded and loud. We should probably go home. Leave our stools to people who want to be here.”
“We want to be here.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I am. I’ve been out of the country every year on March 17th since I was legal. This is my first St. Patrick’s Day in an Irish pub. I want to experience it. I want to wear the stupid hat—” Teague flicked at the plastic leprechaun hat tipped over to one side “—and listen to the Irish music and get drunk with the whole town on Irish beer. Figured as my friend, you’d want to watch me enjoy it.”
Crap.
Alex hadn’t done the calendar calculations. He’d just let Teague strong-arm him out of the inn because it was easier than fighting with him. The plan had been to drink a Guinness or five but maintain his dour disposition.
He wasn’t in a party mood.
Or a schmoozing mood, which was Teague’s other leverage to get him to join the festivities.
He was in pretty much the one mood he’d maintained every day for the past two weeks. Cranky. Grouchy. Pissy.
Huh. Guess that was three moods. Nice to get a hat trick.
But he’d forgotten about Teague’s far-from-normal nomadic existence with the Special Forces. Forgotten how badly his friend wanted to set down roots here.
Forgotten how to be a good friend.
He shot out an arm to clap him on the back. “Man, I’m sorry. Of course I want you to enjoy it. We’ll blow it out. Get some fish and chips, some wings, some Jameson shots, and then more beer.”
Relief and joy crowded for room in the smile that split Teague’s face. “That sounds great.” He waved his arm for a waitress. Then kept waving, because it looked like not just the residents of Chestertown, but all of Rock Hall and Tolchester Beach was crowded into the tent, too.
Alex slid off the stool to grab a hat from the nearby wait stand. Then he snapped the elastic band under his chin. “In fact, we should make a list.”
Teague let his hand drop with a thud to the table, sloshing their beers. “Hell. There you go, ruining everything with the ‘L’ word.”
Alex held up his hands, trying to look innocent. “Hey, I’ve checked out for the night as a partner in the Three Oaks Inn. I’m fully committed to just being in friend mode. So it’d be a list of all the things like this that you never got to do. I dunno—go down to the National Mall in DC for Memorial Day? Have a huge barbecue for the Fourth of July? Or go sailing? We can even get sombreros and have a fajita fiesta for Cinco de Mayo.”
“I appreciate you getting on board. Let’s take it one thing at a time. Without a list. We’ll fly by the seat of our pants.” Teague grinned. “Go commando. The ladies love it.”
“Oh. You need me to be your wingman tonight, T?” Alex wasn’t in the mood to flirt even on someone else’s behalf.
But he would.
Because he’d been a miserable jerk for the past two weeks solid. Teague, as his roommate and partner, had taken the brunt of it.
“No way. Talk about a suicide mission—for me. I won’t let you talk to any women