Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

Ivy purses her wine-colored lips in answer, her dark eyes surveying the crowd with disdain. I’m guessing I have about five minutes before she simply walks out.

“Just stay for a bit. Please? I’ll buy you a drink.”

Her inky gaze, heavily lined with black shadow, settles on me.

“Two drinks?”

She sighs. That seems to win her over. “Well, we’re not going to get served standing here. So—”

Hoots and hollers erupt near the bar, cutting her words off. First just a few, but soon everyone seems to be joining in on the fun. I lift to my tiptoes again, to peer over the crowd. Three heads—two golden brown with a hint of copper, and one clearly a redhead, only shaved—bob along.

The energetic singer stops mid-lyric and his laughter carries over the speakers to the tune of the strumming guitar. “Well, well . . . would you look at that strapping young Delaney fella! Did Marion shrink your laundry this week? Or did you lose a wager?”

A loud chorus of laughter erupts as more heads turn.

“Before you ask . . . that there fella is still looking for a Mrs. River Delaney. Perhaps if he didn’t dress like a poof, he’d find her!”

A bubble of excitement jumps in my stomach at his name, as I watch the bar intently, waiting. I’m assuming the middle finger that flashes over the crowd is his. Finally, bodies shift.

His grinning face appears first, his cheeks just slightly flushed with embarrassment. A customer steps in, blocking my sight and earning my annoyance, but like a continuous wave, people shift again, and I finally see what the musician was referring to.

River’s wearing a T-shirt that looks three sizes too small, the black cotton straining over every single one of his muscles, like one of those douchy gym pigs at the CrossFit where I belong. Worse, it’s very clearly a woman’s V-neck, the front dipping down just far enough to show a light patch of chest hair.

While I’ll admit that River, with a body like that—all its ripples and hardened curves—has nothing he needs to hide, he looks ridiculous.

I can’t help it.

I start giggling.

His bright green eyes drift over the crowd, past Ivy and me.

They dart back to lock on mine, a flash of surprise in them.

I purse my lips tight, trying to keep from laughing as heat burns my cheeks. He can surely guess why I’m here again . . . can’t he?

What do I do now?

He dips his head, a sheepish smile touching his lips as he mouths something on his way past his brother. Customers poke and slap him as he rounds the bar and passes them.

I know that he’s on his way toward me.

“So, of all the places you could go in Dublin, you’re here . . . again.” His gaze dips to my one bare shoulder for a second.

“I am.” God, I don’t think I’ve never been this overt with a guy before. Sure, I’ve flirted plenty, but it’s always after the guy has made his interest well known. I’ve never chased after anyone. They’ve always come to me. “The Great Famine began in 1845. A million people died and another million left the country. Many accuse England of letting the Irish starve to death, robbing them of their oats and grains in the name of economy.”

His brow quirks. “Not bad.”

“I went to one of those museums for ignorant tourists that you recommended.” I know I’m staring at him but I can’t seem to help it, even as I see that sparkle of recognition that tells me he can see my thoughts plain as day.

He’s just so beautiful.

An awkward pause hangs between us before I remember my manners. “This is my friend, Ivy.”

His eyes dance with mine for just a moment longer before shifting to Ivy. He sticks out a hand. “Hello, Ivy. I’m River, and we appreciate your business.”

She takes it, that tight smirk—like she’s trying not to smile but can’t completely hide it, which I’m coming to learn is her trademark—glancing over her lips. “We won’t be staying long if we can’t find a place to sit and relax.”

I shoot a glare at her. Does she have to be a bitch to him, too?

Her brashness seems to slide off his back. “A place to sit and relax.” He pauses, sliding his tongue over his bottom lip in thought as he searches the bar. “Come with me.”

We follow him toward the back. The area doesn’t have a prime view of the musicians but it does have a prime view of the bar, and I’ll take that. He grabs a tray full of empty glasses from a small service table and hands it to a passing waitress. Dragging the table away from the wall, he orders with solemn eyes, “Don’t leave this table, not for even a second.” He disappears behind the bar and through the back door.

“Suddenly I’m seeing things so clearly . . .” Ivy muses.

“What do you mean?”

She rolls her eyes. “Right.”

River reappears, his arm flexed with two wooden stools. Customers chirp at him about needing a seat as he passes but he only grins, making his way back over to set them on either side of the table for us. “Now you have a place to sit and relax, so I guess you’re staying.” His hand brushes against my shoulder on its way to settle along the back of a neighboring chair. “Now, what can I get you?”

Woman’s V-neck or not, River’s proximity and his charm is sending my nerves into a tailspin right now.

“A pint of Guinness?” I ask, more of a question.

“I knew you’d like that.” His eyes dart to my bottom lip, where the injury is more of a dark purple splotch now.

“Double Jameson, neat,” Ivy orders, tossing her purse and phone down on the table.

River’s brow arches. “Good on you. Most people coming in here stick with beer. I’ll have to dig our compulsory bottle out. It’s probably coated in dust.” He nods toward her arm. “And nice work, by the way.”

The first soft, genuine smile that I’ve ever seen on Ivy’s face takes over. “Thanks.”

“Who did them for ya?”

“I designed them, but I have a few trusted friends who I let work on me.” That edge to her voice when she talks to me has vanished. I’m not that surprised. River can probably charm the rude out of anyone.

“I’m looking to get another one done soon. The stag on our family crest.”

My gaze starts searching his arms, looking for the one he already has. If it’s there, it’s hidden.

“I work at The Fine Needle if you’re ever looking for someone. I’m awesome,” she says so matter-of-factly. “My cousin, Ian, is pretty good, too. He just finished this one for me last week.” She holds out her arm and taps the colorful Day of the Dead skull on the inside of her slender forearm.

River leans in closer to study it, his fingertip tracing the outer lines. Suddenly I’m wishing I had an armful of tattoos. Any excuse for him to touch me like that.

As if he can read my mind, he turns to me and asks, “You have any?”

Ivy bursts out in a cackle unnatural for her tiny body and her cool demeanor. “Miss Sheriff’s Daughter marring her perfect skin? Are you kidding me?”

Now River’s arched brow is reserved for me and it’s much higher. “Sheriff’s Daughter?”

“It’s nothing.” I shoot a glare Ivy’s way but she only smiles back. A secret, vindictive smile.