“It’s a solicitor, not a lawyer, as I’ve told you a thousand times over, and who’s to say he’s not completely successful? Living life on his terms, surfing in the middle of the day when people like you and me have to slave over clients and orders and lists of chores that have to be done. Who’s to say we’re even successful when all we do every day is complain about how hard we work?”
I look at her for a long time, wondering where this person came from. Erin is still on vacation in Ireland, I think. “When did you get so philosophical about the workday, anyway?”
She shrugs, looking down at her lap. “I don’t know. Ireland always gets in my head and fucks around with it.”
I go back to my lounging and finding inner peace. I have a ton of work waiting for me back in Boston, and I’m not one bit regretful about that. I’m working on becoming a successful businesswoman so that one day I can surf in the middle of the day if I feel like it. Not that I’ll ever feel like doing that, but whatever. I slave over a desk now so I can relax later. Erin’s lover plays now and never gets around to the working stuff. Whether she wants to admit it or not, that kind of guy would never suit her for long.
“Don’t worry, little muppet,” I say, trying for a reassuring tone. “You’ll be back in Boston soon and your head will clear itself. I predict that as soon as you walk into the Pot O’ Gold, you’ll look around and see that it’s finally all yours, and you’ll remember the vision you’ve laid out for yourself in pristine clarity. I can’t wait to see what you do to the place first.”
She sighs, only this time, she sounds a touch happier. “You’re probably right. I do have some awesome plans.”
“Yes, you absolutely do.”
A flight attendant comes by and offers us each a hot towel. I use mine to wipe the city grime from my face. Erin uses her as a gas mask. She inhales and exhales like Darth Vader.
“What are you doing?” I’m trying not to laugh.
“Moistening my airways. Do you know how dried-out an airplane can make your sinuses? I can’t afford to get sick on this flight. I have too much work to do back at the bar.”
“That’s the spirit.” I give my washcloth a few inhales for good measure. Who knows? Maybe she’s right. I can’t afford to get sick either.
“Did you hear from Donal before you left?” Erin asks. I can’t tell if it’s an innocent question or one designed to get me riled up.
I shrug like it makes no difference. “No, but I didn’t expect to.”
“I thought you guys hit it off.”
“We did, but not in that way.”
“Are you suuuuure?” She smiles and nudges me. “Seemed pretty hot when you were out there at his farm. Sparks flyin’ an’ all that. His Big Dick.”
“Please. He’s a hick farmboy and I’m a city girl attorney. Where’s the match in that?”
“Mister O’Henry sure thought it could work.”
I snort. “Yeah, right. And he matched you up with Michaél. Talk about mismatched. I think it’s time Mister O’Henry consider retirement, leaving the match-making to eHarmony.”
The light dies from Erin’s face and she sits back in her seat, staring at the magazine pocket in front of her. “Yeah. Mismatched. Right.”
The flight attendant takes our washcloths with a set of tongs, like she’s afraid she’s going to catch a disease from us or something. Erin frowns at her, but brightens up a minute later when another flight attendant, a cute guy, offers us tiny bowls of warm nuts and a glass of champagne each.
Erin crunches away and smiles. “Warm nuts. Yum. I could serve these at the Pot O’ Gold, couldn’t I?”
“Sure could.” I smile with her as her mood goes happy again. “Maybe put a popcorn machine in too.”
She rolls her eyes. “How about you stick to the lawyering and I’ll stick to the barring.”
“Deal.” I hold up my bowl full of nuts at her.
She clinks her bowl against mine. “To warm nuts.”
I smile. “To warm nuts.”
Erin lowers her bowl and places it on her tray. “Boston, here we come,” she says softly under her breath.
“Amen to that.” I put my nuts down on the tray and sip the champagne the flight attendant was nice enough to drop off for me. “I cannot wait to get back to the real world.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ERIN
BARRY IS THE NEW HEAD barman I hired as soon as I got back from Ireland two weeks ago. I took him on because he’s worked in two Irish-themed bars already and he has promised me that he knows how to pull in the punters. I’m hoping that Barry from Boyle, County Roscommon, Ireland will lend an air of authenticity to the place and leave me to take care of things in the office a bit more.
So far he’s suggested a wet t-shirt competition where we employ, and I quote, ‘a vertically challenged person’ to dress up as a leprechaun, who will of course pick the winner.
This suggestion is coming at the end of his second week at The Pot O’Gold. Barry himself is small in stature but not quite challenged enough to be a convincing leprechaun. Plus, something tells me that girls aren’t his thing anyway.
We’re sitting in the bar at one of the high tables and it’s Friday afternoon. The lunch rush is over and I’ve been humming along to the ringing of my cash registers for the last couple of hours, so I’m in a pretty good mood. For now at least.
“That is offensive on so many different levels, Barry. I hardly know where to begin,” I say, not even looking up from the accounts I’m trying to balance. He thinks I’m joking and laughs loudly. Too loudly. The look I give him quashes any mirth. He goes on the defense.
“Lookit, Erin. I’m actually gay, so if you’re suggesting that it’s sexist or something, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’ve no interest in ogling girls’ breasts in wet t-shirts.” He is sitting opposite me and I notice a red flush begin to climb from his collar up into his cheeks.
I put my pen down and look him straight in the eye. “Yes, Barry, I do realize that you’re gay, but just because you personally won’t be ogling our female clientele, that does not mean that the premise of having girls show their breasts to testosterone-charged men for their pleasure is not sexist. It objectifies women, capiche?”
“Some people are so touchy,” he mutters walking away. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll find something. Just give me a minute.”
He’s a good barman but I had been hoping for a bit of an events manager and head barman rolled into one. Fifteen minutes later, he’s back trying to read something from the screen of his phone. The probation period at The Pot O’Gold is three weeks so I’m really hoping that he has something good for me this time. I try to be encouraging and arrange my face in that ‘I’m open to new and fun ideas’ expression.
“Ok, picture this,” he says. “Date night, Irish style.” He places the tips of his thumbs together to create a cinemascope, in which I’m invited to share in his vision. “Wait for it…,” he says, presumably to build tension, “… Bag Yourself a Boo-a-chual Night!” he announces, looking at me as though he’s just given me the winning lottery numbers.
“I’m sorry; bag yourself a what?” I’m genuinely perplexed.
He looks down at his phone and tries to pronounce the word again. “ Boo-a-chua-al?”
“Bag yourself a Boacool Night?” I repeat, eyebrows raised. “I don’t understand, Barry.”
He grimaces and looks back down at the screen, ready to take another run at it.
I shift uncomfortably in my stool, holding my breath. I really hate firing people.