Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,48
in Ireland that I’d learned a group of magpies was called a parliament. I wondered if it was because they always sounded like they were yelling at each other. The thought made me smile.
I climbed the steps to the main house. The smell of sausages and bacon made my mouth water. I hurried into the dining room to find Darby just clearing away the serving dishes.
“And here I was just wondering if we’d see you today, Chelsea,” she said. Her smile was wide and warm. “Had a good time at Top of the Hill with Aoife Donovan, did you?”
“I’m not even going to ask how you knew that,” I said. I took the plate she offered, and loaded it with what remained of the buffet. When I was satisfied with the meat and potatoes, I topped it with a thick slice of Irish soda bread that was stuffed with caraway seeds and raisins.
“Finn’s Hollow is not a large village,” Darby said. She waved for me to follow her into the kitchen, where she had me sit at the counter while she poured me a cup of coffee. “I knew you were kicking up your heels before you even got home last night. Did you have a good time?”
“We had great craic,” I said, and Darby laughed.
I ate while she did the dishes. For the first time in forever, I felt as if my day was wide open. This was not a feeling I ever had back home as I raced from one meeting to the next, my weekends full of events and my life in a constant state of hurry up and wait. The only thing on my agenda was to pack my meager possessions and hit the road—oh, and to check in with Jason. With the five-hour time difference in my favor, I had plenty of time.
Amazingly, the thought of calling him didn’t fill me with the usual dread, so that was something. Maybe we’d managed to build a bridge between our very different personalities last night. It would be nice to be able to work together on the Severin account for Aidan without the usual animosity between us. I wondered if I should be embarrassed that I’d called him while intoxicated. Nah. I was 95 percent sure I hadn’t said anything stupid.
I rose from my seat and washed my plate as Darby had moved on to scrub down the counter. Once it sparkled, I put it in the drying rack with the others.
“Darby, if you have some time this morning, could you show me some pole-dance moves?” I asked, surprising myself. I wondered if I was still a little drunk.
Darby turned from the counter and considered me. “What are you doing right now?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Let’s go.” Darby led the way out of the kitchen, and I followed, thinking, What have I done?
“Pick a pole,” Darby said.
I chose the one at the back of the room. On the off chance anyone popped by, I wanted to be as far from the door as possible.
“Let’s start with the basics,” Darby said. “You want to stand on your toes and extend your dominant hand up high and grasp the pole in a firm grip.” She demonstrated. “Keep your weight leaning out away from the pole, leaving an arm’s length of space from you to the pole. Otherwise, you’ll smash into it, which is unpleasant.”
“And bad form,” I said. So far this all seemed logical.
“Precisely. Take three steps, and on the fourth step, you’ll kick off into your spin.”
Darby demonstrated. I watched as she stepped around the pole, then grabbed it with her other hand and hooked one ankle around the pole while bending her other leg. She did two revolutions, sliding down the pole as she went, and ended by gliding to a standing position. “This is called the pinwheel. You try it.”
I grasped the bar. Darby adjusted my position. She counted the steps while I walked around the pole. And then I grabbed the pole with my other hand and began my swing, tucking one ankle behind the pole while the other leg was bent. Inexplicably, I picked up speed and circled the pole two, three, then four times, spinning faster each time. Oh man, how did I get it to stop? I was hauling ass, literally.
“Loosen your grip,” Darby said. “You’ll slide down.”
“I can’t!” I cried. “This is not sexy! I feel like a cabbage in a salad spinner.”