Mismatched (29 page)

“Here, let me,” says Micheál, leaning in too. There’s not much room, and his chest is against my shoulders. My heart begins to race. I try to control it but I can’t. His fingers brush mine as he gets hold of the shampoo bottle. He takes it down from the shelf and steps back down. As he passes me, I feel his breath on my lips. I close my eyes in anticipation of…

“Huh, we have this in Ireland too. That’s globalisation for ye,” he says reading the label.

I open my eyes. My cheeks redden. “That’s where I bought it,” I mumble before turning quickly and leaving.

“Thaaanks!” he calls after me.

The shower starts running, and I pace the room sending text after text to Ridlee.

Finally she answers.

What does he want?

I don’t know!!!
 

Find out! DISCRETELY…

I put on the kettle and make tea, for want of something better to do. Making tea calms me, allowing me to marshal my thoughts.
Ok Erin, get your shit together. What do you know? Well, you know that he knows that you ripped him off, or at the very least tricked him. Ok, good. Now, what does he want?

Not you, obviously.
I shake my head to rid myself of nonsense thoughts like that one. I have to be smart. I know that. He’s probably angry. He may even want revenge. I just have to be patient and bide my time. In the meantime, I’ll be a gracious host. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right?
Micheál’s not your enemy, you goose!
says the angel, or is it the devil again?

When he emerges from the bathroom, fresh and more handsome than ever, I pour him a cup of tea and offer him one of the toasties I’ve made. He sits down at the breakfast bar that divides the kitchen and sitting room and eyes me warily. No doubt he’s wondering what I’m up to. I smile my most honest smile and sit down opposite him.
 

“Micheál,” I say.

“Erin.”

I smile. “Let’s call a spade a spade. Lay our cards on the table.” I need to know exactly what his intentions are before I say anything about the buyout.

He just smiles and takes a sip of tea. “Ye remembered,” he murmurs sexily.

“Sorry?”

“Two sugars and a dash of milk. Ye remembered.” He seems happy, so I don’t explain that it’s force of habit from slopping tea in cafes for most of my misspent youth. Instead I just smile sweetly. “I did,” I say demurely. I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so I try again.

“Micheál.”

“Erin.”

“Yes, very funny. Look, why are you here? What is it that you want?” I’m trying to hide my mounting irritation—well panic, really. “And don’t say that you’re here to visit me.” Pulling out all the stops I look down into my tea for a moment and then up at him again from under my lashes.

He gazes at me for a second too long and then shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, but I clock it.
 

“Ye scammed me, Erin. Ye scammed my dead grandfather. Ye scammed your own grandmother. And for what? Money?”

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa there, Micheál!” I hold up my hand to stop him from going any further. “That’s some serious language you’re using there. Some might accuse you of slander and all sorts.” I add a little tut-tut to my tone.

“Is that some kind of veiled threat, Erin?”

Dammit!
We’re sparring. I don’t want to spar with
him.
“God, no! Jaysus, no, Micheál! I just think that you may have it all wrong. Just what is it that you
think
I have done?”

“Are ye trying to tell me, Erin O’Neill, that ye bought me out of half of that bar downstairs in good faith?” He lifts his mug of tea and takes a sip. “Now, tell the truth and shame the devil.” He puts the mug gently down on the bar, staring me in the eye.

“I absolutely did.” I stare back at him while trying to recall what Ridlee had said to me on the plane; she had made it all seem above board at least.
 

“Well, kid, that bar downstairs, while lacking in taste, is no dive; and judging from the lunch rush ye just had, I’d say that ye’re turning a good profit. Not, as ye’d’ve had my solicitor believe, operating at a loss.”

“You were here for lunch?” The blood is draining from my face. I take a mouthful of tea and burn the roof of my mouth. “Ow!” There’s no point in trying to explain that that was an office event, a one off, and that today was
not
typical of Friday lunches at The Pot O’Gold.

He smiles and goes on talking, “I was across the street, in a cafe. I don’t think I’d have been able to get at table at The Pot O’Gold — too packed.” He laughs but it sounds unnatural. “They must be some mighty fine buffalo wings ye got,” he says in a southern drawl. “Granny’s recipe from the old country, is it?” He smirks and there’s an obvious edge to his voice. “Funny, I never realised that buffalo wings and fries were quintessentially Irish fare.”

He’s angry with me. Like,
really
angry with me, and I don’t blame him. Without thinking I blurt out, “You don’t understand. I worked my fingers to the bone to turn this bar around only to have it
gifted
out from under my feet by an iron lady who suddenly had a fit of sentimentality on her death-bed.” I am panting with the effort of explaining. Ridlee is going to
kill
me— I’m not supposed to talk about the deal but I have to make him understand that I had no choice. Not really.

“So that makes it all right does it? That makes stealing what was legally given to me all right? ‘Cause that’s not what my lawyer says.” His eyebrows are almost touching his hairline; they’ve been climbing with each rhetorical question. Or at least, I’m assuming they’re rhetorical.

“Mr. O’Mooney?” I ask, a smile involuntarily tugging at the corners of my mouth.
Jesus, Erin, don’t let nerves get the better of you now!

Micheál smiles pleasantly at me and explains, “No, not Cathall. He’s not actually an expert in international business law, so he put me in touch with someone who is, and she thinks I have a good case.”

I realise how bad the situation is when the
she
in that sentence wounds me more than any of the other words. I can’t help wondering, in the middle of this shit storm, if
she
is pretty.

“Right.”

Now it’s him who’s panting. “Is that
it
?
Right?
Is that all ye’ve got to say to me?”

“What do you want?” I ask quietly.

He leans back in his seat and spreads his hands out in front of him on the breakfast bar. “I want to stay for a while and assess the business. Then, based on
real
earnings, ye can make me a complimentary offer. Otherwise, I can force ye to sell the bar immediately and we split the difference.”

“What? No! I can’t sell The Pot O’Gold!”

“Fine. Let me stay and keep me informed and we’ll review the situation in, let’s say, twelve weeks.”

“Three months?” I ask, incredulously. “Where will you stay?”

“Well, I see the Hilton’s not far from here, but I warn ye that my lawyer tells me that all my expenses are to be covered by the bar while I’m here, so maybe ye’d prefer a more economical option.” He looks round the apartment.

“Micheál, be reasonable. That’s a crazy idea. I mean, you can’t just land in here one Friday afternoon and park your arse in my life like that. I hardly know you. You might be a mad axe murderer or something!”

“Erin, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” He’s wagging his finger at me.

“I’m sorry, what?” I put my finger to my ear as though to hear better.

“Eh, obtaining money by false pretenses, defrauding someone, embezzlement. Grand larceny. I could go on, if ye like. They are all felonies in this country, I believe. So, maybe ye should play nice, Erin. You know, keep the country bumpkin sweet.”

How did we get here?
I feel like crying.
How did we get from sex on a magical island and to saving my life to threats?
I barely recognise him. He obviously hates me, and frankly, I can’t really blame him.

“Fine, stay here.” I sigh, exhausted now. What else can I do? He seems to know his rights. “You can sit in the bar and watch how it runs but until I get legal advice you’re not getting access to a single receipt or bill.”

“Great!” he says jumping up and rubbing his hands together.

“Gee, I hope you’re not jet-lagged?” I say, though he doesn’t seem to hear my sarcasm. Or maybe he just chooses not to.

“Me, no. I never suffer from jet lag. Let’s get started. The sooner, the better!”

I clear up the dishes and tidy the kitchen before leading him back down to the bar. My phone pings just as I’m locking the door.

“You go on,” I say. “We’re setting up for the afterwork crowd. Barry will show you what’s what. I’ll be there in a sec.”

He nods and walks off toward the bar.

As ur lawyer I advise you NOT to speak to him about the bar or the deal. Repeat: DO NOT SPEAK TO HIM ABOUT THE DEAL!!!

“Bollox,” I mutter.

Too late…

I hit send and head into the bar after the shadow-man.
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

RIDLEE

I WANTED TO GET OVER to the bar to see Erin and help her with her Michaél problem before it was too late at night, but my plans were foiled by my boss insisting that I stay and work late to help him and his team get ready for a big case that would be starting in the next week. I don’t normally work the mass tort end of things, but I was told this particular case could mean a whole new office building for us and bigger Christmas bonuses if it went well, so it’s all hands on deck, mine included.

I drag my sorry ass into my apartment after midnight, and I’m just sliding off to sleep at two in the morning when my doorbell rings and then some crazy knocking starts. It sounds like an entire flock of wood-peckers is going to town on my door.

I leap out of bed to stop the madness from waking my neighbors. I’m not surprised at all when the peephole reveals Erin with her forehead all wrinkled up and a grimace on her face. She’s using both hands to try and wake me up.

“Cool your jets, woman, I’m coming.”

“Hurry. I’m in crisis. Big, big, massive crisis mode.”

I turn the locks and pull the door in. “How’d you get into the building?”

She brushes past me and goes right for the kitchen. “Irish charm. Works every time.” Pulling open the freezer door, she hesitates only a second before she’s grabbing a half-gallon container of Ben & Jerry’s. Two spoons come out of the drawer and then she’s on the couch, waving me over. “Come on. I only have a half hour.”

“Why only a half hour?” I’m amused by her mania.

“Because,” she says with her mouth full. She hands me a spoon. “That’s how long it’ll take for the bar to be cleaned and Barry to go home.”

“Barry?”

“My new barman.”

“So what’s going on with Michaél? Is he really here or were you just yanking my chain?”

She shakes her head, clearly miserable. “No, he’s really here and I’m in deep shit.”

I dig my spoon into her ice cream and eat it slowly to avoid the pain of a brain freeze. “Tell me.”

“He just showed up!” She waves her spoon around in outrage. “Out of the blue! Just walked right into the bar, sits down, and says, ‘Hello, Erin, I’m here for my
real
half of the bar.’” She shakes her head and digs into the ice cream again, taking out a chunk big enough to choke a horse. She nibbles at it as she reflects on her evening. “I told him he could stay in my place, because apparently he has some bitch lawyer telling him I’ll be paying all his expenses and he threatened to check into the Hilton.”

I put my hand on her arm to stop her. “He has an attorney? A female one?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name? Where is she based? Here or Ireland?”

“No clue. I have zero clue. He said she does international law, though. That sounded scary.”

“You need to find out who she is and where she is. Having him be there while you’re both dealing with possible future litigation … it’s not a good idea.”

She glares at me, her mouth full of melted ice cream. “Ya think?”

“Just relax…”

“Ha! Relax? That’s a good one. I knew this was going to happen.” She jabs at the ice cream like she’s trying to kill it. “I should have told him the truth right from the beginning.”

I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice. “Oh. So, you
knew
that he’d hop a plane two weeks after you got back, show up at your door, and demand more money, did ya?”

Her stabbing of the ice cream slows. “Not exactly. But something like that.”

“Listen.” I touch her arm so she’ll look at me. “You did the right thing from square one. This is how business deals always work. He had all the information available to him as a matter of public record. He could have asked for your records but he didn’t. That’s his stupid problem, not yours. I don’t care what he’s saying his lawyer told him. He
does not have
a case.” I squeeze her arm. “Do you hear me? He doesn’t. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I appreciate what you’re saying, Rid, but I feel like I have a lot to worry about.” She looks at me, sadness making her eyes red. “I don’t have the money for an attorney. I used the very last chunk I had to buy him out. If he takes me to court, I’m just going to have to give in because I can’t pay a solicitor to help me.”

I frown at her like she’s lost it, because clearly she has. “Hello? Am I not a fully-licensed attorney sitting right here next to you on the couch?”

She swirls the melting ice cream around in the container. “I can’t ask you to do that. Plus it’s not even up to you. Your big old law firm boss will never be okay with you working for free.”

“Bullshit. They do pro bono work all year long. We choose the projects we want to take on. I’ll take on yours.”

“Pro boner? That’s funny.” The first smile of the night lights up her face.

I lean back into the corner of the couch and nudge her with my food. “Stop freaking out. We just need to figure out how we’re going to handle this and come up with a game plan.”

Erin leans forwards to put the ice cream down on the coffee table. Then she takes the opposite side of the couch and faces me. We line our legs up next to each other and hug pillows as we plan and scheme.