I caught myself looking for a thick head of red hair with an unruly cowlick. Of course none of the men were him. That would make things entirely too easy. Although, if I actually did spot him, I didn’t suppose it would be good form to stop my car and run him to the ground right then and there, so perhaps it was for the best.
Since I hadn’t been able to find any information about Colin online, I knew he might have moved on to greener pastures, as it were, but I found that hard to believe. Colin had loved the outdoor life Finn’s Hollow offered. Hiking the Kerry Way and angling in Lough Caragh and the Caragh River had been his favorite ways to spend his days off. I couldn’t picture him anywhere outside the Iveragh Peninsula, but then again, I was here, and I’d never expected to be back, so there was that.
The Finn’s Hollow Cottages were conveniently located on a side street just past the Top of the Hill. I passed the pub, took a sharp turn, and arrived at a large, cheery yellow house with white trim with several smaller versions of the same off to the side, forming a short row. If I remembered my reservation right, my cottage was number five, the last one in the line.
I parked in the small lot, beside several other vehicles, and switched off the car. I grabbed my shoulder bag and stepped outside, taking a deep breath while admiring the view of the countryside. Despite the gray sky overhead, the landscape was beautiful, rolling hills divided by thick hedgerows with big brown mountains looming in the distance.
Mrs. Darby O’Shea, the woman who owned the cottages, had seemed very friendly in her email. It wasn’t peak tourist season, so she had a cabin available. She’d told me to come knock on her door no matter the time to collect the key to my cottage. I pictured Mrs. O’Shea in my mind’s eye as a sort of grandmotherly type who enjoyed baking and knitting and had one too many cats, basically the sort of person I was destined to become if I didn’t get back out there and find myself. Not that there was anything wrong with the quiet cat-lady life. I just wasn’t ready to embrace it fully quite yet.
My phone chimed again, and I pulled it out of my purse. I glanced at the display. It was a text. Again, from Knightley.
Martin, I know you’re getting my messages. Call me.
Hmm. I considered my options as I stared at my phone. It chimed again.
Please.
Ooh, manners! Well, that was a game changer. I started to text back when the first fat plop of a raindrop splashed the side of my face, and I glanced up, assessing the likelihood of more rain. This was a bad move, as the droplet had been a warning shot, and in the next instant the sky opened up as if someone had ripped through the bottom of a cloud with a knife blade. The deluge hit so fast, it soaked me through before I even had a chance to grab my umbrella from the back seat. With a yelp, I shoved my phone in my bag and ran for the main house at top speed.
I yanked open the door and stepped into the glassed-in porch, which also appeared to serve as an office, as there was a small wooden desk at the far end. Unfortunately, no one was there. Brown wicker furniture with plump blue-and-white-striped cushions filled the other side of the porch, but those were vacant, too. Hmm.
A bass beat sounded over the steady pounding of the rain on the roof. I stood on the doormat, dripping a big puddle onto the floor, while I tried to identify the noise. It was definitely music—I could hear a guitar and singing coming from inside the house. Should I knock? Was Mrs. O’Shea having a party? I glanced at the door, the empty desk, and then my car.
Well, standing here was doing a whole lot of nothing. I shook off as much of the rain as I could and strode to the front door of the house. I knocked. No one answered. Undoubtedly, they couldn’t hear me over the music. I sighed. I was wet and tired and becoming rapidly cranky. I tried the doorknob. It turned, so I opened the door and went inside.
The music was infinitely louder in the foyer. I recognized the song