Mismatched (30 page)

“Okay, so first thing’s first,” I say, all business now, “do not under any circumstances admit to him that you did anything wrong.”

She looks uncomfortable. “Okaaaay…”

“What? What did you do?”

She cringes. “I might have whinged a little about how I’d worked my fingers to the bone and I wasn’t going to let my investment be given away to some stranger … or something to that effect.”

I bury my face in my pillow until I know I can give my friend a calmer expression. I slide the pillow down a few seconds later. “Okay. Fine. What’s done is done. But no more of that bullshit. I don’t care how tight his ass is, okay?”

She grins. “He does have a tight ass, that’s a fact. I’d forgotten just how tight until today.” Her eyes get a faraway look to them. “He’s handsomer in Boston. Is that possible, to be better looking in one country over another?”

I kick her thigh. “Focus, Erin. Seriously. Obviously he knows the effect he has on you and he’s playing you like a fiddle. Please don’t be so naive. This is your business. Your
life
. If you fuck this up, you put your entire
future
in jeopardy.”

She loses all that fantasy goo-goo eyed stuff and goes fearful. “Are you serious or are you just trying to scare me?”

I lower my head and stare her down. “What do you think?”

“You look serious.”

“I am. Worst case scenario, you say the wrong thing, he brings that info to his lawyer, they sue you, and you lose.”

“What happens then?”

“You have to get a loan to pay him off, which you probably won’t qualify for, or you bring him on as a partner if that’s what he wants — and then forget having control over the business decisions from then on — or even worse … you have a firesale of the bar.”

“A firesale? What’s that?”

“Where you sell fast to the highest bidder, and everyone bidding knows you’re in distress so they never offer even close to market value. You’ll lose pretty much everything. And then you share that terrible deal with Michaél!”

She buries her face in her pillow. I can barely understand her when she talks like that. “I am so fucked.”

“No, you’re not. Not necessarily.” I lean forward and pull her pillow off her face. “I need you to listen very carefully. I have a plan.”

She nods, blinking the tears away. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“Do you trust me?”

She nods again. “Completely.”

“Okay, then, do what I tell you to do without questioning it. Just do it.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Tonight, you go back to your apartment and you say nothing. Be too tired. Sleep alone, in your own room. Lock the door. You are not to have any sexual or semi-sexual interactions with him until this is all done.”

“I knew this plan would suck.”

I almost yell, I’m so frustrated. “What’s more important to you, Erin? A piece of ass or your bar?!”

She wrinkles her mouth up in anger, barely getting the words out. “My bar.”

“Fine. Then act like it. This is war, my friend, not love.”

She nods, seemingly resolute. “Right.”

“When you get up in the morning, you get to work. You work your ass off. You show him how running that bar is a six in the morning until two in the morning next day gig.”

“Right. Okay. Hard work. Got it.”

“Get his lawyer’s contact information first thing and text it to me. And you can inform him that you have been instructed not to discuss the business with him until the attorneys have discussed the situation. And then
don’t do it
, okay? Do not discuss the business at all. Not even for a second.”

“So he can’t work at the bar?”

“No, he can’t work at the bar. He can sit at the bar and be a customer, but no way in hell can he work there until I see what’s going on with his attorney.”

“Okay. So he’ll just sit there all day and stare at me.”

“If he wants to be a dick, sure.”

“How long? I mean, how many days?”

“Until I talk to the lawyer. It could be only one day. It could be weeks. I won’t know until we have that conversation.”

“Okay and what about after-hours?”

“What after-hours? You’re sleeping four hours a day. You’re working otherwise. There are no after-hours.”

“He’s my roommate. Surely we’ll share a meal or two.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t. But you’re an adult, so I’ll leave that up to you. Just remember, keep it professional. No flirting, no sex, not even any kissing.”

“You have no idea how hard this is going to be for me.”

“I can imagine. He’s pretty cute.”

She grins. “He is, right?” A long sigh comes out and she shifts into sadness again. “Why did things have to turn out this way? I mean with him living in Ireland and us meeting at that pub? Destiny must really hate me.”

“You were bound to meet him anyway. If you want to blame someone, blame your grandmother. She’s the one who got you two together.”

“Do you think she did it on purpose?” Erin asks, intrigued by the idea.

I shrug. “Who knows what that old battle-axe had up her sleeve. She was a tricky bitch.”

“That she was.” Erin slides her legs off the couch and stands. “Thanks, Rid, for all your advice.”

“The advice is only worth anything if you follow it.”

“I know, I know. Jaysus, when did you become such a nag?”

“When I got you as a client.” I stand too and give her a hug, patting her on the back. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to work out okay.”

“I hope so. Because if it doesn’t, I’m moving in with you and becoming your housekeeper.”

“Excellent motivation to help me win your case.” I walk her to the door and kiss her on the cheek as she stops in the entrance. “Call me tomorrow?”

“Sure thing. And I’ll text you whenever I have any questions. Be on the lookout and don’t make me wait for your answers. I’m liable to screw everything up and lose the bar in the process.” She walks out into the hallway.

“Just remember,” I say, going serious again, “this is war. He’s the enemy, not your lover, not your friend, not your countryman. Until this is all settled, he is not to be trusted.”

She nods once. “Okay. I can do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

I slowly shut the door as she turns and walks down the hallway. She thinks I can’t hear her when she mumbles, but she’s wrong. Her words come to my ears loud and clear.

“I don’t care what you say. He’s not my enemy.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ERIN

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘FULL access’? You said that he wouldn’t be able to see how the business is run, Rid!” I have to stop myself from stamping my foot. It’s early Sunday morning and I have come down to the office in the bar to call Ridlee in private. She texted me late last night to let me know that she had finally gotten in touch with Micheál’s lawyer. It’s as quiet as a tomb; there’s no one around. I kept Micheál up as late as I could last night and then snuck out this morning without waking him. He has been shadowing me faithfully since Friday afternoon and I haven’t let him have a minute’s rest. All this work is taking its toll on me too, though, and I’m knackered.

“Erin, stay calm. This is the situation and this is what we have to work with,” says my friend stifling a yawn. A pang of guilt reminds me what a favor she’s doing me.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“Yeah, I know.”

“When did you talk to her?”

“Yesterday. On Skype, actually.”

“On a Saturday? She works Saturdays?” I imagine some gorgeous, successful young thing who has boundless energy and the hots for Micheál.
 

“In this game, honey, we all work Saturdays. And Sundays for that matter. This call is a case in point.”

“Are you charging me for this?” I pretend to be alarmed. I’m trying to keep things light but the situation with Michaél is becoming untenable.

“No, Erin, like I told you on Friday night, it’s pro bono.”

“Oh yeah, thanks.” Of course I hadn’t forgotten. “She’s probably working pro boner for him.” I add bitterly.

“Bono.” She corrects me.

“Bono? Huff! You think I should contact Bono and get him to talk to Micheál about debt forgiveness? Ha!”

“Focus, Erin,” cautions my friend. “Where is he now?”

“He’s still asleep. Or at least I hope he is.” I open the door to the office and peek outside. The coast appears to be clear. I close the door. “So, Rid, what do I have to do?”

“Well, I’ve agreed to let him see the books, business operations, employee records, tax documents, etc.”

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, Ridlee! I won’t be able to afford to buy him out once he knows what the bar makes. I pay the bank manager, my staff, my costs and there’s barely anything left.”

“Well, let him see that. We’ll negotiate a good deal, if it comes to it. Maybe you should appeal to his better nature, Erin.”

“He doesn’t have one anymore. He left it in Ireland. He’s different now, Rid. Edgy. Cold, even.”

“So, no hanky-panky then? That’s good. Remember what I told you,” she says in her most serious lawyer tone.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, there’s no danger of that. He hates me. Meanwhile, the girls who come into the bar are throwing themselves at him. They keep asking him if he’s Colin Fooking Farrell. It’s
extremely
annoying. I can’t believe that I have to suffer this for twelve fooking weeks!” I moan bent over double in despair.

Just then the door opens. “Ah, there you are! Why didn’t you wake me? It’s almost 7 am.”

It’s
him
, standing in the doorway, bright as a button.

“Ok, well deliveries all come round the back. Yup, Yup.” I pick up a bit of paper that I spy on the floor and stand up properly. Putting my hand over the mouthpiece of the phone I whisper, “Delivery stuff. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay!” he mouths back, exaggerating the O and the K.

“He’s gone,” I say into the phone. Just then the door opens again.

“Say hi to Ridlee for me,” says my pest-guest, ducking his head quickly out again before I can respond.

“You see!” I hiss. “Shadow-man!”

“Look, be nice to him. Be transparent. We don’t want his lawyer getting up your butt, okay?”

“But you said…”

“Erin, I know what I said. He should have done his due diligence and I stand by that. Just don’t antagonise him, okay?”

“Was she pretty?” I ask. The question has been burning in me since she mentioned the Skype call.

“Who?”

“The lawyer, Rid, the lawyer!”

“Not as pretty as you,” she says without missing a beat.

“Ahh… is that an honest answer or a best friend answer? ‘Cause I can take the truth…”

“Goodbye, Erin.” And with that the line goes dead.

I take a deep breath and open the office door to go in search of Micheál. He’s sitting at one of the high tables in the window having a coffee. I duck out of the bar and run into the fancy French bakery next door to grab us a couple of croissants.

Time to make peace. The last couple of days have been tense with Micheál shadowing me and watching my every move. I’ve felt his eyes on me all the time and it’s not a friendly feeling. I come back inside and stop at the coffee machine to make myself an espresso.
 

“Good news!” I declare as I sit down across from him handing him a croissant.

“Delivery arriving on time?” he asks archly.

I smile at him genuinely for the first time since Ireland. “Truce?”

“Maybe,” he says taking a bite of his croissant. “What’s the good news?”

“Well, the lawyers have talked and basically they recommend that we work it out between ourselves.”

“Another deal?” he asks, amused.

I ignore the remark and continue. “You can have access to the books, business operations, employee records, tax documents, etc. Full transparency. And, after a designated period of time, enough time for you to get a sense of the business, we may come to a new arrangement.”

“New? Don’t you mean
fair?”

“Micheál, please.”

He stares at me for a long while and I shift uncomfortably. It’s like he’s looking right into my soul and I’m not sure that I want him to. A smile begins and the corners of his beautiful mouth and spreads into a full-on grin.
God, he’s gorgeous.
 

He reaches his hand across the table and I take it. A fizzy electricity passes from him to me. We shake. Well, he shakes, really, because I’m immobilized. It’s a deal.

“Come on, I’ll show you how things work.” I get up and go into the office and he follows. We spend the next few hours looking at spreadsheets and discussing the merits of one supplier or product over another. Micheál clearly has a good head for business and even makes a couple of helpful suggestions, making me wonder why his business in Ireland is struggling. It’s lunchtime by the time we reemerge and the staff are all set up for Sunday lunch.

“What have ye got planned for today?” asks Micheál.

We’ve been getting along well and I misinterpret the question. “Eh, I should really stay here and make sure everything’s ticking over. But you should go out and explore the city.”

“No, Erin. I mean what have ye got planned at the bar? And, just to be clear, I’m not here on holiday. I want to get the best out of this situation.”

“Right, of course,” I say embarrassed. “Um, Sundays we usually don’t do very much…”

“Why don’t ye offer a Sunday Roast lunch? And get some Gaelic football or a hurling match on the TV in the back room? And, ye’d be mad not to do a brunch on a Sunday— people love that.”

“Really?” I ask. “We kind of have a young crowd. They don’t really eat much.”

“You mean the cokeheads? No, I don’t suppose they have great appetites. Is that who ye want to cater to, Erin? Twenty-somethings trying to get off their tits on shots or coke? Is that what a pub is to ye?”

“Look here, Micheál,” I begin, grabbing a handful of knives and forks, ”that’s what the punters want. Cheap shots and loud, bangin’ music. And, yes, neon flashing leprechauns! They don’t want traditional music and readings of Ulysses or bloody bodhrán players.” My voice rises with each syllable.
 

“Okay.” He puts his hands up in surrender. “Ye’re the boss.”

“That’s right,” I say and busy myself with setting up tables. Of course I
know
that cokeheads and burgeoning alcoholics are not the kind of clientele that I had hoped to attract, but times have changed and I’ll be damned if I’m going to turn away paying customers because I’m pining for some lost version of ex-pat Ireland.