Cocktails on the Beach

by Helen Hardt

  A hostess shows us to a table on a patio lit by colorful paper lanterns suspended from the branches of a gnarly algarrobo tree. Fionn pulls out the chair facing the sea and waits for me to sit before folding his massive body into the chair opposite me. A waitress appears to take our drink order. I order chardonnay. Fionn orders a sparkling water.

  “Am I blocking your view?” he asks.

  “Baby, you are the view,” I say.

  “Ahha!” He laughs, but spots of color appear on his cheeks. “Stop! No compliments.”

  Ireland has the reputation of being the most magical place on earth—the land of pookahs, selkies, fairies, and leprechauns—but the most mystical creature of all has to be the one sitting across from me—a panty-dropping gorgeous man in possession of humility. How often do you spot one of those?

  “Fionn?”

  “Marlow?”

  “You mentioned you don’t drink alcohol.” I keep my shoulders relaxed, look him in the eye, and smile softly, the approachable posture I adopt when I ask tough questions during interviews. “I don’t want to be a buzzkill, but my reporter sense is tingling. There’s a story behind your sobriety, isn’t there?”

  He leans back in his chair and inhales until his shirt is stretched so tight across his chest, I expect the buttons to pop off and whizz through the air at me. The open gaze becomes shuttered like Ibizan windows against the afternoon sunshine. This. This is the classic defensive interviewee posture. I expect him to evade the question, but he doesn’t.

  “Timothy, my older brother, was murdered. Stabbed on a football pitch in Dublin two years ago.”

  He holds my gaze, but a current passes below the surface of his sea blue eyes, something dark and dangerous, and I know he’s struggling against waves of pain. I hate that I caused those waves. I reach across the table and rest my hand on top of his.

  “Were you close?”

  “He was my best mate.”

  “I’m sorry, Fionn.”

  “Ah, sure, look. Death is a part of life.”

  The waitress returns with our drinks.

  “I’m sorry”—I lift the chilled chardonnay glass off the table and hand it back to the waitress—“but I’ve changed my mind. Could I please have a sparkling water with a twist of lime? Thank you.”

  “Ye didn’t need to do that,” Fionn says, after the server hurries away to replace my white wine with lime water. “It doesn’t bother me when people drink around me.”

  “I would hope not, because”—I glance around quickly and lower my voice to a whisper—“Fionn? You work in a bar. People drink around you every day.”

  He laughs and the sound fills me with the same warmth and contentment I felt yesterday, when I was stretched out on the chair beside the pool, the sun on my bare skin, a book in my hands.

  The waitress returns with my lime water. She asks us if we need more time to peruse the menu. Fionn orders for us to share—spicy red seafood curry, chicken coconut curry, and jasmine rice. Once the waitress takes our menus and hurries off to place our order, Fionn tells me about the days following his brother’s murder.

  “I was gutted, like someone reached inside and ripped out my heart and lungs.”

  His voice catches on the last word and I feel gutted for him. The only other time I’ve felt this desperate need to ease someone’s suffering was when I found my mom curled up on her bathroom floor, sobbing into a wad of mascara-stained Kleenex because she found out my father had popped the question to Amy, the cat-loving, Yoga-pants-wearing, Herpes-infected, horse-faced medical assistant.

  “I went on the lash after Timothy died.”

  “On the lash?”

  “Go out drinking,” he says. “I spent the better part of the year wrecked. One night I stayed in the pub after closing, determined to drink myself stupid to numb the pain. I don’t know how many pints I had that night. I don’t remember leaving the pub. My uncle found my car wrapped around a light pole the next morning. I had gone through the windshield and spent the night lying unconscious and bleeding in a field.”

  “Oh my God!” I curl my fingers around his hand. “You could have died, Fionn.”

  “I nearly did,” he says, lacing his fingers through mine. “Fractured skull, broken ribs, punctured lung.”

  “I am glad you didn’t die.”

  “Me too.” He rubs his thumb against the back of my hand.

  “I am sorry about my comment yesterday.”

  He frowns.

  “I said an Irishman who doesn’t drink is an oxymoron.”

  “Jaysus, go on with ye.”

  There is something more, something deeper and sweeter, about this guy. He’s more than his Hollywood hot looks and gym rat bod. He brings out my deeper, sweeter, softer side, and it scares me. I catch flights, not feelings.

  “What about you?” he asks.

  “What about me?”

  “Tell me about Marlow Donnelly.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.” He grins. “I want to hear the story of your life. Where were you born? Do ye have a big family? Are ye close?”

  I tell him about growing up in Los Angeles, the daughter of a powerful, wealthy man and his beautiful style icon wife, about the pressure I felt to be as spectacular as my mother, the pressure I still feel. You can’t grow up the daughter of the woman who may have inspired the Material Girl and not feel pressure to be fabulous, like wearing pearls to bed when you’re eight years old, fasting the week before prom so you could fit into one of your mom’s double zero Dior gowns, or landing an internship at the most famous luxury magazine in the world and then clawing your way up the corporate ladder to become their premiere lifestyle reporter. I tell him about my parents’ divorce, my father’s new family, and my mother’s phoenix-like rising from the ashes of her heartbreak.

  When the waitress arrives with our food, pungent-smelling fish and chicken in fluorescent sauces, I’m grateful for the interruption. Thank God something has happened to stem the verbal diarrhea that’s been flowing freely from me for the last half hour. Fionn knows more about me than my last twenty dates combined.

  Fionn serves me a helping of each dish before serving himself. I’m mesmerized by his hands, the graceful way he moves them despite his obvious masculinity, the numerous small scars on his knuckles that suggest the boy has brawled.

  “Do ye have a fella, Marlow? Anyone you’re kissing on?”

  “Kissing on?”

  “Anyone you’re serious about?”

  I laugh. “I don’t do serious.”

  He frowns. “Ye’ve never had a serious boyfriend?”

  “I did, once. In college.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was two years older, a football player. He was drafted to play pro ball and was injured his first season. I went to see him in the hospital, and he broke up with me. Broke my heart.”

  “That’s it? Ye never saw him again?”

  “Actually…”

  He looks at me, brow raised.

  “He’s here.”

  “Here?” He looks over my shoulder. “In this restaurant?”

  “No,” I laugh. “In Ibiza. At the singles retreat.”

  He frowns. “Is that why ye came here? To see him again?”

  “What?” I try to keep the incredulity out of my voice because I know if the roles were reversed I’d find it difficult to believe Fionn and his ex-girlfriend ended up at the same singles retreat by coincidence. “I am not in Ibiza to stalk Terrell Rose. I didn’t know he was here until today.”

  “Did seeing him bring up any feelings?”

  “Anger.” I pick up my fork and move the disturbingly yellow chicken around my plate. The truth is, seeing Terrell brought up all the feels, from anger to sadness to lust, but I’m not emotionally sophisticated enough to deal with more than one feeling at a time, so I’m sticking with anger. “He rolled up like he was still BMOC and I was his girl.”

  “BMOC?”

  “Big
man on campus.”

  “Ah.” Fionn takes a bite of the seafood curry. “Any chance ye could be his girl again?”

  “None.”

  He wrinkles his nose.

  “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “I believe ye.” He presses his fist to his lips and clears his throat. “It’s the curry.”

  “Spicy?”

  “Shite.”

  “No way!” I look from his face to the food coagulating on his plate, feigning surprise. “Are you telling me the fish glowing on your plate like radioactive waste is unpalatable?”

  “Can ye believe it?” He forks a piece of chicken and offers it to me.

  “Nah, baby,” I laugh, turning my face away. “I’m good.”

  He laughs and returns his fork to his plate. I know this moment is going to become our inside joke. If we live until we’re ninety-three years old, we’ll remember the shite curry we shared in an empty restaurant in Ibiza, and we’ll laugh.

  “Fionn?”

  “Marlow?” he says, drawing my name out.

  “I’m sorry for going so deep on our first date.”

  “Go on with ye.” He pushes his plate away. “I like to go deep.”

  He presses his knee against mine, sparking my desire and dozens of dirty, dirty thoughts. I imagine myself straddling his leg, my hot, wet sex against his knee, him bouncing me up and down until my breasts jiggle out of my dress, my nails digging into his thighs, his hand tangled in my hair, pulling my head back, until my throat is raw from moaning his name. Jesus! If a simple touch of his knee against mine brings me to orgasm, what would happen if he pushed my legs apart and buried himself in me to the hilt?

  “Wait! First date?” He grins. “Does that mean there will be a second one?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “It depends.” I lean forward, tilting my head. “You talked a big game yesterday, Irish. Telling me what a great dancer you were. If you want a second date you’d better bring your moves tonight.”

  He stares at me for several excruciatingly long, delicious seconds before pressing his knee harder against mine. “Not a bother.”

  The curry-scented air is crackling with sexual tension. He’s giving me serious lady wood. What would happen if we dropped to the floor and fucked until the candles in the paper lanterns melted down? Focus Marlow. Unless you want this to be another meaningless hookup with a rando, forget the way his knee feels against yours and focus on forming sentences that don’t include double entendre. I turn to the side and cross my legs.

  “Tell me something I wouldn’t expect about you,” I ask, using my serious reporter voice.

  Fionn smiles in a way that tells me he knows about my lady wood. “I love Motown.”

  “Motown? Like Smokey Robinson, James Brown, The Temptations?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got me. I wouldn’t have expected a ripped, surfing, dancing Irish bartender living in Ibiza to listen to oldies. You intrigue me, Fionn O’Connell.”

  “Good. I want to intrigue you.”

  “Okay, next question. If you could go on a date with any celebrity, who would it be, and where would you take her?”

  “Is that the best question ye’ve got?” He grins again. “Easy. Marlow Donnelly, world famous journalist. A shite curry place on Ibiza, of course.”

  Why are my cheeks suddenly so hot? For fuck’s sake. Am I blushing?

  “Thank you.”

  “My turn,” he says. “Finish this sentence, ‘Never have I ever…’”

  “Never have I ever”—I lick my lips—“wanted to kiss someone more than I want to kiss you, right now, Fionn O’Connell.”

  He leans across the table and presses his lips to mine. I keep my hands curled around the arms of my chair to stop myself from sweeping the dishes to the floor and climbing over the table onto his lap. The kiss is over before I have the chance to close my eyes or flick my tongue over his lips.

  “I’ve another question,” he says, sitting back down. “If you could spend the day with anyone, who would it be, and what would you do?”

  “Easy. Fionn O’Connell. Eating shite curry in Ibiza.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Good curry.” He grins. “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Steak and truffle fries.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I joke about many things, but never truffle fries,” I deadpan.

  “I’ve never met a woman as fit as ye who ate anything beyond salads and kale smoothies.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Do.”

  Some people smile with their mouths. Fionn smiles with his whole body.

  “Tell me something ye do in the shower ye wouldn’t want everyone to know.”

  “Pass.”

  “Ye can’t pass. It’s the rule.”

  “What rule? There are no rules.”

  “There are now. Answer the question.”

  “I sing freaky songs operatic style.”

  “Freaky? Like scary?”

  “Freaky like dirty.”

  He sits forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Example?”

  “Have you heard the song ‘Broke Leg’ by Tory Lanez and Quavo?”

  He shakes his head. “Sing it for me.”

  “Not happening, Irish. Google the lyrics and you’ll see why.”

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket, moves his thumbs over the screen. His eyes dart back and forth as he reads the lyrics. He stops reading and looks at me, whistling.

  “Marlow Donnelly. Ye are a dirty, dirty girl.”

  “Guilty.” I look at him through lowered lids and twist a lock of hair around my finger. “Lady in public and dirty, dirty girl in private.”

  He lifts his arm and looks at the heavy Rolex on his tanned wrist. “Is it too soon to go back to your room?”

  Um, no. Fuck no. Saddle up, cowboy, because I am ready to ride.

  The waitress arrives. She must not notice the uneaten food on our plates because she asks if we’re ready to order dessert. Fionn looks at me. I shake my head.

  “No, thank you,” he says.

  She hands him the bill and hurries away before he has a chance to say anything else, as if she’s used to customers refusing to pay their bill. Fionn is not that guy. He throws down a wad of bills and we leave the restaurant, his hand on the small of my back again. When we’re back on the street, Fionn grabs my hand, laces his fingers through mine.

  “Ye must be starving. I know I could murder a pizza.”

  “I am a little hungry.”

  “I know a place…”

  We walk to a place that could only be described as a hole in the wall. The mouthwatering scent of garlic and melted cheese tickles my nose before I see the thick-crust pizza they’re selling by the slice. Fionn orders us each a slice and two bottles of Coke. We sit on two stools, “murdering” our pizza.

  “I am sorry about the shite curry, Marlow,” Fionn says.

  “Not a bother,” I say, doing my best to copy his accent.

  “It is a bother.” He unfolds a napkin and lays it over my skirt. “You’re dashing, Marlow. You deserve better than a stool and a slice.”

  “I’ve been to some of the finest restaurants in the world and not enjoyed myself half as much as I am right now, sharing a slice with a sweet guy.”

  “Ye mean it?”

  He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers brushing against my throat, and my bones suddenly feel like they’ve turned to jelly, like I might slide off the stool, and pool up around his feet.

  “I mean it.”

  “Brilliant,” he says, staring into my eyes.

  Fuck me! I do. I really do mean it.

  I don’t get it. If any other guy had taken me to a crappy curry place on our first date, I would have mentally checked out before the bill arrived, but I’m still here, present, focused on this perfectly
imperfect date.

  “Fionn?” I shake off my sappy, soppy thoughts. “If you could have a superpower, what would it be?”

  “I would manipulate time. How great would it be to go back and relive your happiest moments?”

  “I love that answer,” I say, honestly. “Which moments would you revisit?”

  He closes his eyes for just a second. “I would relive a day from three years ago. It was October, after the high season. Timothy and I went for a hike on the cliffs, from Doolin to Liscannor. We climbed down into a cave and sat in there talking for hours. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I remember it was great craic. One of those perfectly imperfect moments ye forget until ye realize there’s no chance of ever having one like it again. Do ye know what I mean?”

  I nod, not wanting to break the spell of his words, stunned he used the phrase I thought to describe our date—perfectly imperfect.

  “I would relive that moment with my brother”—he balls up his napkin and tosses it into a nearby garbage can—“and the one where ye walked into the bar for the first time.”

  “Seriously?” I tilt my head and look at him through narrowed lids. “Of all of the moments you’ve had in your life, you want to relive the one where I thought you were offering me drugs?”

  “Serious. I looked at ye and my heart stopped. I wanted to text Timothy.”

  “What would you have texted?”

  “I’ve just met the love of my life.”

  Love? Whoa. What the actual fuck? I imagine the robot from Lost in Space waving his arms and intoning Danger! Danger!

  “What do you think Timothy would have texted you back?”

  “Stop acting the maggot and get back to work,” he says, laughing. “Then he would have called me a thick cunt or dope.”

  “Thick cunt,” I chuckle. “I love it! What a fabulous insult. Timothy would have been my people.”

  He grabs my hand and kisses the back of it. “You’re gas, Marlow Donnelly. Lethal craic!”

  We finish our sodas, toss the empties in the garbage can, and walk outside.

  “Some lads I know from back home are performing in a pub not far from here,” he says, holding my hand. “Do ye want to go listen to them?”