1
I AN S TEPHENS GLANCED at his watch, then turned his attention back to the front door of the pub. They’d made an appointment for half past four and it was already five, the pub filling with the after work crowd. He wasn’t sure how much longer he ought to wait. What was the protocol for a business meeting in a pub?
“Can I get you something?” the barkeeper called. The patrons sitting at the bar all turned to look at him.
“No,” Ian said.
“Have you been stood up then?” he asked.
“No. No, it was just a business meeting. Not a...a date. I don’t—” Ian drew a deep breath. What the hell was he doing, spilling his life story to a stranger? And why was everyone suddenly interested in his social life. First his employer, Aileen Quinn, and now some random barkeeper.
No, he hadn’t had a date in nearly a year. And he hadn’t been involved in a long-term relationship for three years. By most measures, he was living the life of a monk. But that wasn’t entirely by choice. He merely happened to find most single women too focused on superficial things like looks and fashion, and not at all on intellectual matters.
All he really wanted was a smart, clever girl who was interesting to talk to. It wouldn’t hurt if that girl came in a pretty package, but for Ian, it wasn’t an absolute necessity.
“I got stood up just last week,” the barkeeper said. “I met this bit of skirt right here and she gave me her number and I rang her up. Turns out, it was the number for some phone sex line.”
“That’s not exactly getting stood up,” Ian said. “It’s more of an insult, I think.”
One of the patrons, a large, scruffy-looking fellow shook his head. “If you don’t mind my saying, you Brits always have a much darker outlook on life.”
“I’ll take a cup of tea if you have one,” Ian said, hoping to turn the conversation in a different direction.
“Give him a cup of your Irish tea, Rory,” the patron said. He patted the stool beside him. “Have a seat and tell us all your woes.”
Ian slid onto the bar stool. They probably weren’t interested in a scintillating conversation about the military prowess of the Duke of Wellington and Napolean Bonaparte. Ian suspected they’d rather discuss football or women or the weather.
Rory slid a drink onto the bar in front of Ian. “You’re in an Irish pub, mate” he said. “And in my experience, a pint of Guinness always improves the outlook. On me.”
“Thank you.”
The door to the pub opened and a young woman stumbled in, her dark hair dripping, her shoes muddy. She wore a black leather jacket and skin tight jeans and beneath the jacket, her pale peach-colored blouse was wet and nearly transparent.
“This was not the day to get a puncture. First off, it’s raining. And then, I’m wearing vintage silk for feck’s sake. And I’ve just ruined a perfectly decent pair of shoes. Bloody hell.” She kicked her foot and a heel flew across the bar and hit Ian in the chest. He quickly stood, the shoe clutched in his hand.
“And I suppose you’d be Ian Stephens?” she asked, limping over to him.
“You’re Claire Kennedy?”
She laughed. “What? You’re looking like someone just pissed in the punch bowl.”
“Now she’s worth waitin’ for,” Rory muttered.
“She’s feisty. I like a feisty lass,” the patron added.
“I don’t look like what you expected?” she asked, kicking off her other shoe. “Maybe if I wouldn’t have had to walk a full kilometer in pouring rain, I’d look more presentable. But I don’t, so deal with it.”
In truth, Ian was surprised that she managed to look as beautiful as she did considering what she’d been through. Her wet hair was cropped short, falling around her jaw line in an uneven fringe. She wore dark liner on her eyes—liner that was now smudged—and her lips were painted crimson.
“I—I think you look lovely,” he said. His complement took her by surprise. It took him by surprise,
I AN S TEPHENS GLANCED at his watch, then turned his attention back to the front door of the pub. They’d made an appointment for half past four and it was already five, the pub filling with the after work crowd. He wasn’t sure how much longer he ought to wait. What was the protocol for a business meeting in a pub?
“Can I get you something?” the barkeeper called. The patrons sitting at the bar all turned to look at him.
“No,” Ian said.
“Have you been stood up then?” he asked.
“No. No, it was just a business meeting. Not a...a date. I don’t—” Ian drew a deep breath. What the hell was he doing, spilling his life story to a stranger? And why was everyone suddenly interested in his social life. First his employer, Aileen Quinn, and now some random barkeeper.
No, he hadn’t had a date in nearly a year. And he hadn’t been involved in a long-term relationship for three years. By most measures, he was living the life of a monk. But that wasn’t entirely by choice. He merely happened to find most single women too focused on superficial things like looks and fashion, and not at all on intellectual matters.
All he really wanted was a smart, clever girl who was interesting to talk to. It wouldn’t hurt if that girl came in a pretty package, but for Ian, it wasn’t an absolute necessity.
“I got stood up just last week,” the barkeeper said. “I met this bit of skirt right here and she gave me her number and I rang her up. Turns out, it was the number for some phone sex line.”
“That’s not exactly getting stood up,” Ian said. “It’s more of an insult, I think.”
One of the patrons, a large, scruffy-looking fellow shook his head. “If you don’t mind my saying, you Brits always have a much darker outlook on life.”
“I’ll take a cup of tea if you have one,” Ian said, hoping to turn the conversation in a different direction.
“Give him a cup of your Irish tea, Rory,” the patron said. He patted the stool beside him. “Have a seat and tell us all your woes.”
Ian slid onto the bar stool. They probably weren’t interested in a scintillating conversation about the military prowess of the Duke of Wellington and Napolean Bonaparte. Ian suspected they’d rather discuss football or women or the weather.
Rory slid a drink onto the bar in front of Ian. “You’re in an Irish pub, mate” he said. “And in my experience, a pint of Guinness always improves the outlook. On me.”
“Thank you.”
The door to the pub opened and a young woman stumbled in, her dark hair dripping, her shoes muddy. She wore a black leather jacket and skin tight jeans and beneath the jacket, her pale peach-colored blouse was wet and nearly transparent.
“This was not the day to get a puncture. First off, it’s raining. And then, I’m wearing vintage silk for feck’s sake. And I’ve just ruined a perfectly decent pair of shoes. Bloody hell.” She kicked her foot and a heel flew across the bar and hit Ian in the chest. He quickly stood, the shoe clutched in his hand.
“And I suppose you’d be Ian Stephens?” she asked, limping over to him.
“You’re Claire Kennedy?”
She laughed. “What? You’re looking like someone just pissed in the punch bowl.”
“Now she’s worth waitin’ for,” Rory muttered.
“She’s feisty. I like a feisty lass,” the patron added.
“I don’t look like what you expected?” she asked, kicking off her other shoe. “Maybe if I wouldn’t have had to walk a full kilometer in pouring rain, I’d look more presentable. But I don’t, so deal with it.”
In truth, Ian was surprised that she managed to look as beautiful as she did considering what she’d been through. Her wet hair was cropped short, falling around her jaw line in an uneven fringe. She wore dark liner on her eyes—liner that was now smudged—and her lips were painted crimson.
“I—I think you look lovely,” he said. His complement took her by surprise. It took him by surprise,
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