Wild Irish Rose

by Ava Miles

  “Yes, but I’m in Stockholm.”

  “Do I want to know why?”

  “It’s August and beautiful and the days are long,” Flynn said with a sigh. “Gorgeous women abound.”

  Normal Flynn speak. “If you like blondes…” Right now, Trevor was into brunettes, namely one. Becca O’Neill.

  “You’re in the mood I expected. I heard Connor just busted your balls. Do you need a Band-Aid?” His brother laughed.

  “Like I’d let you get that close to my jewels,” Trev said. “What do you want? Is the tech side of the company getting you down? Do you need to get off on torturing me?”

  “You wound me. I called to check up on you, Trev. Few people get under your skin like Connor.”

  Trevor poured himself more coffee. “He gets under everyone’s skin. I’d like to say it’s because he needs to get laid, but I don’t think that would improve anything. Maybe I’ll ask Santa to bring him a cute little Mrs. Santa for Christmas. What’s new with you?”

  “That brings us to the other reason for my call,” Flynn said. “Aunt Clara and Uncle Arthur are starting their European tour.”

  He sloshed his coffee. “Their what?”

  At his eightieth birthday party in Dare Valley, Colorado in May, his adopted great-uncle had threatened to visit all of the still-single Merriam children, with Trevor at the top of the list. The reason was terrifying. Uncle Arthur—as they called him—had just married Trevor’s Aunt Clara, who’d been estranged from the family until recently. After their success in matching up Trevor’s twin, J.T., with Arthur’s grandniece, they’d decided to take up matchmaking. Trevor feared Uncle Arthur would pour as much energy into this endeavor as he’d given the newspaper he’d founded and run for decades.

  If they were on their way to Europe, he was in trouble.

  “You heard me,” Flynn said. “I was just talking with J.T., and he said Aunt Clara was talking about a second honeymoon—in Europe.”

  “Didn’t they just finish a honeymoon in Arizona?” Aunt Clara had talked Uncle Arthur into driving to the Grand Canyon in his new convertible.

  “You have to admire the man, don’t you? Two honeymoons at eighty. I want to be him when I grow up.”

  Trevor had told Uncle Arthur as much on occasion, which didn’t make him any more eager to be set up by a couple of senior citizens. “I don’t want their help finding a woman.”

  And yet he found himself thinking of Becca O’Neill again. Surely she was the kind of woman King Boru had fought to protect during the Vikings’ invasions.

  Trevor would have picked up a broadsword to defend her had she been his. Oh, he was talking nonsense. She was a takeover target. But he wanted her to be so much more…

  “Well, they’re coming your way. Cheer up. Maybe they can help you with the bed and breakfast owner. Connor said she’s as tough as nails. I bet him a hundred you couldn’t make the deal in a week’s time.”

  He stabbed one of the blood sausages, much like he wanted to stab his brother with the fork. Flynn often initiated side bets on the more interesting business activities. “That seems almost sacrilegious when you think of Corey.”

  Silence reigned over the line. “You can be such a dick sometimes. Corey would have doubled the bet if he were still with us.”

  True that.

  “You know…you aren’t going to want to hear it, but it needs to be said. You and Connor are taking things a little too far here. Quinn too. What happened to Corey wasn’t your fault. Heck, it wasn’t anyone’s fault.” Which was the only reason he was here in the first place. Had circumstances been different, he would have told Connor to drop this.

  “I was just telling myself that earlier, dammit,” Trevor said. “You need to up your bet with Connor. A hundred won’t do it, Flynn. She’s a challenge.”

  “And we all know how you love challenges,” Flynn said. “I’ll increase it to a thousand and give you two weeks.”

  Two weeks to dance with Becca O’Neill. This might be a bet to lose.

  “If I win, I get to bring the new French model I’ve met to your place in Dublin for the weekend. I’ve told her about the music scene, and she’s intrigued.”

  “You’re a moron,” Trev said. “First, your bet is with Connor so I shouldn’t have to pay you shit, and second, French models are high-maintenance.”

  “You think all models are high-maintenance,” Flynn said.

  For sure. Trevor liked a woman with more substance, one who knew what was important in life and would stand up beside him when the chips were down. Rather like Becca O’Neill.

  “Personally, models are great because they’re beautiful, have their own careers, and travel a lot. There’s a low commitment factor. I like them for all that. That’s why I get laid more.”

  Trevor laughed. “In your dreams…”

  “Uncle Arthur and Aunt Clara are going to change your solitary existence, bro. Soon you’ll be walking up to your front door whistling at the very thought of seeing your lovely missus inside.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Have fun with Uncle Arthur and Aunt Clara,” Flynn said. “Tell them I said hi.”

  With that threat, his brother hung up. “Moron,” he said out loud.

  And then it hit him. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if his aunt and uncle did drop in on him. The Wild Irish Rose had a five-star honeymoon package, he’d seen on the website, with a private cottage on the grounds. If Uncle Arthur and Aunt Clara stayed there, he could visit them. Surely Becca wouldn’t throw out a devoted nephew visiting his elderly relatives. He almost laughed. They’d both beat him to death with an umbrella for calling them elderly.

  But no one who worked for Becca was going to help him, he expected. Certainly not the older man who’d watched him like a hawk from the stairs. And the one who’d brought him the scones with the sweet smile on her face. Aileen? She had turned as cold as an Irish winter the moment he’d given his name.

  He decided to bide his time until his aunt and uncle called. It only took a few hours, he was delighted to discover.

  He connected them to FaceTime and settled back in his rickety chair. “Well, hello, you two. You’re up early. How’s marital bliss?”

  “Marital bliss?” Uncle Arthur scoffed, crunching on what Trevor knew to be one of his favorite red hot candies. “At our age? Pull yourself together, Young Trevor.”

  Aunt Clara socked him, a picture in a white ruffled blouse. Even though he hadn’t known her until recently, she looked years younger than her long white hair suggested.

  “Our bliss is fine, Trevor,” Aunt Clara said. “It’s yours we’re worried about. I was sorry to hear about your cousin, Corey.”

  They’d been on their extended road trip/honeymoon when the accident had occurred. “I appreciate that, Aunt. How’s everything in Dare Valley?”

  “Pretty much the same as it’s been since I came here in 1960,” Uncle Arthur blustered.

  “It’s wonderful,” Aunt Clara said after giving her new husband a harsh look. “But we’re hankering for another trip.”

  “You and Hargreaves are, my dear,” Uncle Arthur said.

  Hargreaves was his aunt’s English butler, who was as old as the couple he served. Trevor found him hilarious, what with his formality and dry wit. He always traveled with them. His aunt had said she couldn’t do without the man or his Indian food. He served as a cook and chauffeur as well, something Uncle Arthur blustered about constantly.

  “We’re coming to Dublin to see you, dear,” Aunt Clara said. “J.T. said you’d love a visit.”

  J.T. had told them that? He wasn’t sure whether to kill him or kiss him. Time would tell. “I’m not in Dublin right now, Aunt. I’m in the countryside.”

  “Even better,” she said, bouncing in her seat. “I’ve always wanted to see the Irish countryside. The green hills, the mist, the rainbows—”

  “Don’t forget the unicorns and leprechauns,” Uncle Arthur quipped. “My passport isn’t in order.”


  “Bull,” his aunt said. “Hargreaves and I found it in your sock drawer yesterday. Now, Trevor, we won’t be in your hair all the time. We know you have work and such. Plus, this will be like a second honeymoon.”

  “You’re supposed to take that after you’ve been married a while, Clara,” his uncle barked.

  “But we’re old and need to make up for lost time,” she said, glaring at him. “Especially after your heart attack. Enough. Trevor, please text me the town you’re in, and I’ll have Hargreaves look for a charming place for us to stay.”

  “She texts now,” Uncle Arthur said, peering closer at him over the phone. “It’s terrifying.”

  He fought laughter. “I don’t want you to have to do any research, Aunt. I know of a bed and breakfast with a really great honeymoon cottage.”

  And a beautiful owner to boot. Part of his motivation, he realized, was simply to see her, and their presence would give him the excuse.

  “I’ll send you the information. I’m staying in town because I wanted to be closer to the pub, but I think it will be perfect for you and Uncle Arthur.”

  She clapped her hands. “How nice! Doesn’t that sound nice?”

  “If the plane ride over doesn’t kill me,” his uncle said, all bluster like usual.

  “Can you come right away?” Trevor asked. “I shouldn’t be here more than a week or so.”

  “We’ll be on the next plane if we can,” his aunt said. “Arthur, I won’t hear another word.”

  “Might get trampled if I say more,” his uncle said, his lips twitching. “Let the boy go, Clara. You got what you wanted.”

  His aunt turned. “What I wanted? Have you forgotten that this was your idea, you addled old man?”

  “Goodbye, Young Trevor,” Uncle Arthur said as he leaned forward, ignoring Clara’s sputtering, and disconnected them.

  Trevor let loose the laughter he’d been fighting. Oh, they were a perfect pair. He wondered if he should feel bad for using them when they planned to come and do their own matchmaking.

  Nah.

  * * *

  “That was way too easy,” Arthur said, studying the phone.

  “You’re being paranoid,” Clara responded, transferring to his lap. “Who wouldn’t like a visit from us?”

  Arthur decided to let it go. “You need to remember we’re only there to have a good time. Not find Trevor a wife.”

  “But you said—”

  “Okay, we might give the countryside a look around for a good woman,” he said, thinking it over. “After all, my track record isn’t bad here in Dare Valley.”

  “So you keep saying,” Clara said. “This time I’d like to take the lead. However will I catch up to your matchmaking record if I’m not given a handicap?”

  “A handicap? Lord Almighty, Clara, I can get you one of those handicap signs for your car.”

  “The limo? Hargreaves wouldn’t appreciate that, and neither would I.”

  Why the woman insisted on being ushered around in a limo in Dare Valley he’d never understand. This wasn’t Manhattan, after all. Hadn’t she left her New York City ways behind her? As he looked at the ruffled white blouse she wore, he acknowledged she hadn’t. Honestly, she looked so good in it he wasn’t going to complain. If there was one thing he wasn’t, it was a stupid man.

  Clara’s phone gave a honk, the horrible sound alert she’d chosen for her texting.

  “Must you have that tone, my dear?” he asked, putting his hands over his ears playfully.

  She kissed his cheek before hopping off his lap. “I chose it to make you crazy, my love. Have to keep you on your toes now that we’re married.”

  She certainly did that, and he did love it despite his grumbling. He had to keep her on her toes too.

  Picking up her phone, she sighed like a girl being asked for her first dance.

  “What did he send you?” he barked. “Some picture of a hot Irish guy?”

  She laughed. “No, The Wild Irish Rose Inn. Oh, Arthur, it’s perfect. We’re going to have such a wonderful time there. I know it.”

  He imagined they would, and besides, seeing Trevor would be nice.

  “All right, go ahead and book the honeymoon cottage,” he said. Truth be told, he’d do anything to keep that glow about her, and didn’t she know it.

  She gave him that special soft smile he loved so much. “I’ll have Hargreaves prepare everything. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

  He hadn’t believed it when she’d said so earlier. “Tomorrow? But that’s—”

  “Tomorrow,” she said dryly, her head buried in her phone. “I can’t put my finger on it, but Trevor needs us. Maybe he’s more upset about his cousin’s death than he’s letting on. J.T. said Connor is mad with grief.”

  Mad with grief? What was this? Hamlet?

  “After being out of my family’s lives for so long, I want to help any way I can.”

  Oh no, she was developing motherly instincts. Merriams, look out. Of course, she could be right about the cousin’s death. Something like that would upset anyone. Still… “Trevor needs us like a pair of pants needs a dress.”

  She leveled him a look, and he shut up.

  “We’ll go tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  Becca couldn’t help but smile as she surveyed the older couple standing in front of her on the stone steps of the bed and breakfast. They were by far the oldest honeymooners The Wild Irish Rose had hosted.

  An elderly man in a black raincoat was holding an umbrella over their heads, and she knew he must be the butler they’d secured a room for in the main house. His dubious gaze was fixed on Boru, who was bouncing in place by her side. Her dog knew who the special guests were the moment he laid eyes on them. Hatshep was a tougher nut to crack. It took a true treasure of a person to win her loyalty.

  The memory of Hatshep making figure eights around a certain unwelcome guest’s feet intruded on her consciousness before she could banish it. That he should ask for half her land! The audacity. And yet she hadn’t stopped hoping he’d show up at her door with a new offer she could deny. Drat.

  “Welcome to The Wild Irish Rose,” Becca said, gesturing for the couple to come in out of the rain. “It’s a grand treat, having you stay with us. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely visit.”

  “I’m Clara, and this is my beloved husband, Arthur,” the woman said, shrugging out of her pink raincoat with Arthur’s help while the butler closed the umbrella and placed it on the rack for drying. “Hargreaves, our butler.”

  “Good God, woman, don’t say ‘our butler,’” Arthur said, taking off his wet spectacles and drying them with a white handkerchief. “He’s part of your entourage. I can tie my own shoes and button my cardigan just dandy on my own.”

  “He’s cross from the plane ride,” Clara said. “Ignore him. He’s usually a lovely conversationalist. On the way here, he was telling me about the last time he visited your fine country.”

  “Don’t tell her how long it’s been,” Arthur said, his American accent crisp. “If she guesses how old we are, we might not qualify for this honeymooner cottage you’re so set on.”

  The man shot Becca a cheeky grin then, and she fought the urge to laugh out loud. So he was all bluster, like storm clouds that produced no rain showers.

  Aileen bustled in with a tray filled with scones and a tea service. “Age wouldn’t disqualify you,” she said, setting the tray on the side tea table. “In fact, we’re downright tickled to see two people finding love at your age. Aren’t we, Becca?”

  “We are, indeed,” she said. “Everything is in readiness at the cottage, Mr. and Mrs. Hale. Mr. Hargreaves, we have a fine room for you with a view of the sea.”

  “It’s Hargreaves only, miss,” the man said in a formal English accent. “Any room will be fine. I plan to catch up on my reading and do some bird watching.”

  “You read and watch birds at home,” Arthur said. “Nothing much new there. At least someone else will be doing the cooking. I’m in a
n Indian-free cooking zone while we’re here.”

  After the grin he gave her, she couldn’t resist teasing him. “I’m afraid to burst your bubble, Mr. Hale. We serve Indian food exclusively on Wednesdays.”

  His mouth twitched. “Clara, we’ll have to eat elsewhere on Wednesdays.”

  “She was kidding, Arthur. Good heavens, most people would be grateful to enjoy Hargreaves’ naan bread. He’s a master in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you, madam,” the butler said, almost bowing. “Should I see to your things?”

  “No, you’re on vacation too,” Clara said. “He’s been with me for decades.”

  “Few men have their wives bring their butler along on their honeymoon,” Arthur said. “I hit the jackpot with this one.”

  The woman gave him a playful punch as Aileen’s laughter spurted out. “You did indeed, and don’t you forget it.”

  “Oh, you two are going to be so much fun to have around,” Aileen said. “Anything you need, you just let us know. I’m going to hustle off to call for my husband, Cian. He’ll get your baggage squared away.”

  “Seriously, madam, I can see to the bags,” Hargreaves said, looking a bit squeamish.

  “Not on your life,” Clara said. “Now, let’s go see this wonderful cottage. The pictures on the website were amazing, but I know it will be even better in person.”

  Arthur grabbed a scone off the tray and broke it in half, giving the better portion to his wife, who lifted onto her toes and kissed his weathered cheek. Becca thought it adorable.

  “We’ll see you later, Hargreaves,” Arthur said. “You might check out the deer stalking I saw online. You’d be a prime candidate for lurking in the woods.” He delivered that last comment with a delighted bark of a laugh, which made Boru bark as well. Arthur leaned down when Boru came to his side and scratched under the dog’s ears, making his tail twitch. “He’s a fine dog, I imagine.”

  “I prefer the cat I see lurking under the sofa over there,” Clara said. “Is she a Persian?”

  “Yes,” Becca said. “Her name is Hatshep, and this one is Boru. They’ll leave you in peace if you wish or settle down at your feet if you have a mind for some company.”