Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,30
me sexy.
I stretched my arms over my head, trying to get the kinks out. I wondered if I should go hit Darby up for a spin on the pole. The mere idea made me smile. As if.
The nap had helped to clear my head, and now, after that unexpected conference call and Aidan’s news, I felt compelled to take action. I was on a mission to find Colin Donovan and look him right in his pretty blue eyes and see if I remembered what it felt like to feel all the feels again, even the ones that terrified me.
chapter seven
THE PUB WAS packed. A tourist bus was parked out front, and groups of people filled every table, forcing me to sit at the bar. Not that I minded, since I wanted to see if Michael Stewart still owned the Top of the Hill, but they were an awfully loud group, and I had to shout over the conversations to be heard.
“What can I get ya?” A woman was behind the bar, and she looked at me expectantly.
“Um . . .” I stared at the taps, trying to read the names on the handles in a mild panic, as I didn’t want to keep the busy woman waiting and really just wanted to know if Michael was around, but wasn’t sure how to ask.
“Was that going to be today or Thursday?” the woman teased. Her accent was a soft lilt, and she pronounced Thursday with a hard T, which I thought was just charming, even though she was looking more exasperated by the second.
“She’ll have a pint of the Golden Spear, Sarah.” I turned to see a man walking up behind the bar, carrying a full keg on one shoulder. He set it down on the ground and grinned at me. It was the full grin that did it.
“Michael,” I said. I leaned over the bar to give him a hug, and he met me halfway.
“Chelsea Martin,” he said. He squeezed me tight and then released me. “What are you doing here?”
Well, that was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it? Instead of giving him a rundown on my father’s impending nuptials and how they had sent me into a panicked downward spiral, I opted to be vague.
“Just passing through.”
His gaze narrowed. He clearly suspected there was more to it, but he didn’t press.
“And how are you?” I asked.
“I’ve no complaints,” he said.
“I can’t believe you remember me. It’s been seven years,” I said with a grin.
“You haven’t aged a day,” he said. “But you and your crew did make quite an impression.” He jerked his thumb at the wall behind him, and I saw that it was full of photographs. He tapped one with his forefinger, and my eyes went wide. There I was, sitting in this very bar with Colin and our other friends in a snug over in the corner, and Colin had his arm about me.
Sarah slid a pint of blonde ale in front of me, and I took a long sip. So many memories were coming back thick and fast.
“Oh, look,” I said. I squinted at the picture and hoped I sounded more casual than I felt. “That’s Colin Donovan, isn’t it? He was quite the troublemaker.”
“Still is,” Michael said.
I felt my heart pound. Did that mean that Colin still lived in Finn’s Hollow? I wasn’t sure how to ask, so I just went for it.
“Is he still in the area, then?” I tried to sound mildly curious instead of desperately hopeful. No small feat. “I lost touch with him over the years.”
“Oh, yeah,” Michael said. “He manages the O’Brien farm since Mr. O’Brien passed four years ago.”
That was an unexpected blow. I took a moment to remember the man who had been so kind to me when I was fresh out of college and on my own in a foreign country. Mr. O’Brien didn’t need to have a pack of twenty-somethings running amok on his farm, but he loved his life, and he wanted to expose as many young people as he could to the rewards of sheep farming.
My best memory of Mr. O’Brien was of him striding across the green pastures with Fiona, his border collie, at his side. He’d give a command, and Fiona would run the sheep in any direction he asked. They’d had an uncanny ability to communicate with just a few terse words. Mrs. O’Brien used to joke that the only woman she had to share her man with was Fiona.