Page 47 of See You Maybe
“Best fish and chips?” Rose lifted an eyebrow.
“Without a doubt,” he said, before proceeding to educate her on the virtues of salt and vinegar over tartar sauce.
They laughed and talked as they ate, but as they were finishing their meals Declan noticed several people in the pub continuously looked their way. When the older woman behind the bar caught his eye and smiled, cocking her head toward Rose, his stomach sank.
Fuck. What was he thinking bringing her here. He’d been coming to this pub since he was a child.
He swallowed a groan. And he’d let the server think they were married.
“All done?” he asked, pulling several bills from his wallet, and tossing them on the table.
Rose looked at him quizzically and grabbed her last two fries. He practically dragged her to the door. He needed to get out of there… fast.
If someone says something, she’ll know I lied about who I am.
Not that he was afraid she would be unforgivably angry about the different name. That misunderstanding could be explained. It was how she would feel finding out he was actually Declan Bloom: prep school graduate, billionaire heir apparent, and Irish mafia adjacent, rather than Declan Riordan who was free to laugh and talk and love…
“Was that Maggie?” she asked, swallowing her last bite.
“Who?” Declan opened her door, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone had followed them onto the street.
“The lady behind the bar. The one who made you look like you’d seen a ghost.”
Declan started the car. “Well, if it had been Maggie, I would have. She’s been dead for years. That was her daughter, Claire. She doesn’t like me,” he lied. When Rose gave him a funny look, he knew she didn’t believe him.
By the time they pulled up to the cottage, Declan had relaxed. Odds were the server wouldn’t remember the whole wife thing, and his mother hadn’t been to the area in years. And if it became an issue, he would do what he’d been trained by his family to do—control the situation by hitting harder and faster at whatever came at him.
“Wait for me,” Declan said as he pulled to a stop, rocks crunching under his tires. “It’s dark. I don’t want you to trip.”
Rose peered through the windshield at the faint outline of the roof. There was no light except for the moon above, and for a split second, Declan worried Rose wouldn't enjoy the simplicity of the cottage.
He unlocked the front door, and told her to wait while he turned the lamps on. The second the space was illuminated, she gasped.
“I love it.” Bright eyes scanned the small room. The cottage consisted of one main room with a fireplace and a tiny kitchen, complete with a traditional Aga along the wall, and two small bedrooms.
In the glow of the lamps, Declan tried to see it as she would for the first time. Hard white plaster walls, rough-hewn timbers along the ceiling, and small windows that framed the hills of the Ring of Kerry. A chintz sofa and a faded wing-back chair, along with a small, scarred wooden table in front of a stone fireplace, were the entirety of the furnishings. He'd never bothered to update the kitchen because he was never there long, and the idea of cooking for one was mildly depressing.
“Your grandmother’s collection.” Rose spotted the rows of tiny decorated cups hanging from hooks beneath the kitchen cabinets.
“These are beautiful.” She lifted one down.
“I think some might have been my great-grandmother’s.” Declan shrugged. “I should have paid more attention to the stories.”
Rose inspected each cup, taking down another in the shape of a rose sitting atop a white saucer.
Her lips twitched. “Coincidence?”
No. None of this feels coincidental.
“She didn’t like to travel, so she always asked one of her sons or my mother to bring her cups from wherever they went.”
“You inherited it from her?”
He nodded. “I think she understood how much I needed this place. The excuse was my mother was the only girl.”
Rose frowned. “What about your brother, Seamus?”
Declan froze.