Chasing River (Burying Water 3)

She shouldn’t be here. She’s the only one, aside from Aengus, who can put me in the Green when the bomb went off.

“Well . . .” She takes a deep breath, as if gathering courage. “Hello, River.” A dainty hand stretches out toward me and I’m compelled to take it, to hold it. “I’m Amber.” She blinks several times, her eyes suddenly wet, tears brimming at the corners. “I needed to say thank you.” The words she doesn’t say out loud hang between us as a tear spills down her cheeks.

Bloody hell. I can’t have this girl crying at the bar without raising questions. Maybe I should lead her to the back, where there’s privacy . . .

A few irritated plucks of a guitar announce that Collin is now impatiently waiting. He’ll start getting obnoxious soon, and probably draw attention to the crying American bird in front of me.

So I do the only thing I can think to do. I reach out with my free hand and steal the tear with my thumb. “No need,” I promise her, leaving her knuckles with a brief kiss before freeing myself from her grasp and settling it on the bar in front of her. “Selma!”

I pour Collin’s pint while Amber tries to compose herself in my peripherals, carefully dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a napkin from the bar.

Selma swoops in with her tray not ten seconds later.

“That one’s for Collin. Get it to him first so he’ll shut up.”

I can hear the small printer behind me churning, spitting out new drink orders from the other waitresses, but I ignore them for the moment to give all my attention to this creature in front of me, who’s staring up at me like I’m some sort of knight in shining armor. She’s composed herself again, at least. “How are you enjoying Ireland so far?” It’s a stupid question to ask her, all things considered, but it’s all I can think of.

A slight frown furrows her smooth skin, even as she smiles. “Good. Fine. Well, to be honest, I haven’t really been anywhere since . . .” She swallows hard and averts her gaze around us. “ . . . since I got here.” She shrugs in a “you know” way.

Anger boils inside me. Fucking Aengus. This poor girl’s holiday is probably ruined. She’s forever going to remember Ireland for a pipe bomb. I’m surprised she hasn’t hopped on a plane and gone home already.

“Listen . . .” I lean forward slightly, catching a whiff of spicy floral perfume. “What happened that day? That was one in a million. You should be more worried about our transit system.”

Her lips break into a wide, gorgeous smile, deep dimples forming on each cheek. “I believe you. Those double-decker buses move fast.”

I grab the drink orders from the printer and lay them out. She quietly watches me fill two pints and set them on the counter. “So, what can I get ya?”

“I actually—” She cuts herself off, hesitates, and then, looking around, makes a decision. Her voice drops and she leans in. “I have a few questions.” She rushes to add, “Just for me. I just need to talk to someone about what happened. And you’re the only one I can do that with.”

Of course she has questions. What the hell am I going to say? If I were a dick, like Aengus, I’d either yell at her or throw out a few choice innuendos that would make most well-mannered birds cringe in disgust and run away. But I don’t have the heart to do either. “I only have one question,” I counter, stalling.

She waits, her eyes widening, worry mixing with curiosity.

“Will it be Guinness or Smithwick’s?”

“Oh.” She smiles, and then frowns, her nose wrinkling. “My friends made me try a Guinness before I left and I wasn’t a big fan.”

“You tried it in America?” I chuckle and grab a glass. “Take a seat then.”

She does, perching herself on a stool, her gaze taking everything in. Collin tests a few notes on his harmonica, grabbing her attention. “Is he going to play real Irish music? I’ve heard places like this usually do.”

Places like “this.” I can’t help but chuckle. She looks like a little doll, perched prim and proper in the middle of this kip. Completely out of her element. I’m sure the only bars she’s heard about are the upscale ones in Temple Bar. They do play live Irish music. They also gouge the tourists’ wallets. “I guess you’ll have to stay and see, won’t you?”

A sparkle of excitement twinkles in her eyes but she says nothing, her gaze drifting over my arms as I finish pouring and set the pint in front of her. I lean across the bar, resting on my elbows. “Do you trust me?” I ask, half in jest.

She bites the inside of her cheek and then nods.

Concern pricks my conscience. Yes, I may have dove in front of a bomb for her, but, really, she should be a bit more wary of me. Yet it’s that trust, that admiration that radiates from her as she watches me, that’s reeling me in tighter by the second, making me lean forward even closer, ignoring the printer that keeps churning with orders. “Go on, then . . . Try it. This one’s on me.”

A small bloom of red touches her cheeks and I wonder what that’s about, as she brings the glass to her lips to takes the tiniest sip. A caramel froth mustache decorates her top lip when she pulls it away, smiling. When she catches me staring at it—at her lips—her cheeks brighten even more.

“Better than what you’ve had before, right?”

She nods, swiping at the foam with her thumb. Thoughts flicker across her face. “How did you know?”

“Because Guinness doesn’t travel well. Everyone says it’s better when poured at home.”

She leans in, settling a shrewd gaze on me, her voice low and suddenly so serious. “That’s not what I meant.”

In the blink of an eye, we’re back to the Green. I still don’t know what to say, so I peel away from the counter and grab a few orders to stall. The bar’s filling up quick. Soon I’ll have customers banking either side of us and this conversation won’t be able to continue. I could drag it out, let her walk out of here without any answers at all. I could let her form her own conclusions.

Likely they’d be bad.

Maybe they’d be right.

“I was jogging in the park,” I finally say. “I saw a guy drop it in the grass before you came running.”

“I didn’t see anyone else.” Her pretty brow pinches in thought. “Then again, I didn’t see you either. I guess I was more focused on my map.” A pause. “How did you know it was going to go off when it did?”

“I didn’t,” I lie. “I saw it and I saw you, and I ran as fast as I could.” My gaze drifts over that creamy, perfect skin, that long neck, those slender arms. What would she have looked like, shredded by flying plastic?

“But why wouldn’t you stay and tell the police? The . . . gardai.” She tests that word out on her tongue with a cute scowl.

Selma slides in then to grab napkins and more drink orders, stalling the conversation. I wait until she’s gone to lean over the bar again, this time closer. Close enough to avoid ears, close enough to catch the smell of spearmint on her breath. I remember it now. It’s all coming back to me, the feel of her beneath me on that grass. The terror that stopped my heart as I ran for her, believing I wouldn’t make it. The overwhelming relief I felt when I knew she’d be okay.