by Amy Andrews
“It’s not so bad,” the nearest one said. “Spring’s on its way.”
Jesus. If this was spring on its way, Raf was pleased he’d missed full-on winter.
“Fire over there,” another one said indicating the crackling flames with a nod of his head.
Sounded pretty bloody good to Raf. “Thanks,” he said, nodding and headed in the direction of the fireplace.
The long wooden bar ran down one side of the pub. Stools with what appeared to be red leather seats were placed down the length of it about a foot apart. There must have been twenty at least. No one was behind the bar so Raf made a beeline for the massive fireplace past about a dozen dark panelled booths sporting the same red leather seats.
The orange flames danced behind the grate as he pulled his hands out of his pockets and held them close reveling in the heat licking up his arms and bathing his front. Reveling in the fact he was beginning to feel more like a human and less like a popsicle.
A large portrait of JFK hung over the mantle and he absently noted the tiled surround boasted shamrocks. He swiveled his head to the right noting an area with about a dozen small tables and chairs, their dark wood melding in with the overall cozy appeal. In the far left corner was a step up to what appeared to be a small stage. An upright piano that looked like it had seen better days fitted snugly against the wall. To the far right was an open door through which he could just glimpse a corridor and a staircase. The sign above the door indicated the location of the restrooms.
Satisfied with what he saw, Raf returned his attention to the fire. Sully’s was cozy. Just the kind of pub he had in mind.
Mercy had been right.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Can I get you something?”
Raf turned at the sweet, husky inquiry to find a woman with wild brown curls smiling at him all open and easy. She was wearing jeans that clung in all the right places and a black t-shirt with a Sullivan’s logo and The Best Beer In Brooklyn stamped right across her breasts. She looked like a tropical mirage in the middle of the arctic and all the places that had felt cold only seconds ago flooded with warmth.
Blood flowed again. Everywhere. His balls suddenly dropped right back into place.
Raf checked his watch. Mercy wasn’t due for another half hour but it was after midday…His gaze drifted to her t-shirt as he walked towards her. “Looks like I’d better have a beer.”
“Oh,” she said and he could have sworn her cheeks turned a shade pinker. Her curls flopped forward a little to hide her face as she reached for a glass. “What’s your poison?”
Feeling more than a little warm now, Raf shrugged out of his coat, then his jacket and unwound his scarf as he pulled up a bar stool.
The view up closer was very fine indeed.
“What lager would you recommend?” he asked as he pushed up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows and leaned into the polished smoothness of the bar in all its dark, grainy glory.
Her gaze strayed to his bared arms and seemed to linger for a moment before she dragged it back to his face. She smiled at him again. “Guinness.”
Raf laughed. Pretty barmaid with quick wit and flirty tone – another check in the pro column. Get her on side and she could be his best asset as far as pushing his beer went.
“You don’t like lager?”
“We have ten beers on tap here. Two of them are lagers. You do the math.”
Normally them would be fighting words for Raf but the devil danced in her eyes and he knew better than to rise to the bait. He liked her voice though. The slight husky quality of it softened her accent to a nice warm hum.
“Well, I guess given that I’m in an Irish pub I have no choice but to try the Guinness.”
She nodded. “Good choice. When in an Irish pub in New York do what the Irish do I always say. Got a preference?”
Raf shook his head. “Whatever’s the most popular.” It paid to know the competition after all.
Raf watched her as she busied herself with his drink. Her technique at pouring Guinness was perfect – angling the glass, not letting the tap touch it in any way as she filled it three quarters then setting it down to rest for a bit.
His gaze roved over her face as she waited patiently for the beer to settle. She had a cute nose, dark blue eyes and chipmunk cheeks. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and he liked that he could see the real her.
She had an interesting face. It wasn’t classically beautiful but it had a certain something about it that was instantly fascinating. There was no pretention about it, just nicely assembled, including her mouth which seemed just right – not too big or too small, sitting perfectly right in the middle there. It looked like it laughed a lot.
Probably kissed a lot too.
And then there was her hair.
He’d bet money she hated it – he’d never met a woman with curly hair that didn’t hate it passionately. But it was the most glorious mahogany tumble, curls kicking around her face and brushing over her shoulders. He had the insane urge to reach out and pull on one and see how far it would unwind.
An even crazier urge to find out how good they’d look spread on his pillow. His blood stirred at the thought and his body warmed another degree.
When the beer had settled to her satisfaction she topped it up and handed it over. Raf pulled out a note but she waved the money aside. “Converting lager drinkers is my sport.”
Raf laughed as he pocketed the bill. “Never.” He took a moment to admire the perfect head of foam before taking a sip of the cold, creamy beer, flicking his tongue out to catch the froth he knew would be decorating his upper lip.
His belly tightened as her gaze briefly followed the action before she quickly looked away and fiddled with some glasses.
“It’s good,” he said, placing it down on the bar. “Smooth. There’s almost a chocolatey consistency to it.”
It reminded him of her hair – rich and complex.
“You’ve got a good nose.”
Raf smiled at the husky compliment deciding to omit telling her his beer background. Or that she had a lovely nose too.
And an even lovelier mouth.
“You don’t sound like you’re from around these parts?”
“You’ve got a good ear,” he said, with a grin. “I’m from Australia. Sydney.”
She looked at his arms again then back at him. “Let me guess. You spend all your time at the beach. Bondi, that’s in Sydney, right?”
He laughed. “Coogee, actually. But close enough.”
“And are you here on business or pleasure?”
“Business.” He put his drink down as the idea of indulging in a little something else took root. “But I could be persuaded.”
Flirting came easy to Raf. Flirting with this woman especially. So it was surprising to see her startled owlish blink as her hands stilled on the glasses.
Interesting…
“Coney Island’s fun,” she said after a beat or two, her unadorned fingers fiddling with the glasses again.
Raf couldn’t work out if it was a polite I’m-working-don’t-bother-me blowoff or a serious not-interested one.
Nor why it bothered him so much.
“Thanks.” He took another sip of his Guinness. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
She glanced in the direction of the door as if she was hoping for the relief of a customer but it remained stubbornly shut. When she dragged her gaze back to him she was clearly torn between wanting to flee and good manners that dictated she stay and talk with her customer.
He found it surprisingly endearing.
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
Then she blushed and looked like she wanted to take it back in case he got the wrong idea. He chuckled at her consternation. It was a reasonable question to ask. Just because he’d flirted with her a little didn’t mean he couldn’t tell the difference between genuine interest in his sleeping arrangements and small talk.
“In Manhattan. At the Marriott Marquis.”<
br />
“On Times Square?” She kicked up an eyebrow, clearly surprised, her awkwardness vanishing as quickly as it had arrived. “And just how did you stumble across our establishment? We’re a little off the beaten path.”
“Apart from being convenient shelter from the freezing cold you mean?”
“Oh,” she said, her expression deadpan. “Is it cold out?”
Raf laughed. “Just a tad. Actually a friend recommended Sully’s, I’m meeting her here.” He checked his watch. “She shouldn’t be too much longer.”
*
A little light of hope, of potential, inside Faith stuttered and died in that instant. Of course there would be a woman. A friend. The guy was a tall, blonde, gorgeous Australian. With crazy-good stubble a shade or two darker than his sandy hair, shoulders wide enough to hold up the world and beautifully tanned and muscled forearms, he probably had a harem of women servicing his flirtatious ways.
Her eyes locked on his hands, the network of bulging blue veins was fascinating, like something from an art textbook. A sudden urge to sketch his hands and forearms accosted her. The golden skin, the blonde hairs, the prominent vasculature….
Greek statue meets flesh and blood man.
So very male. So very hot.
“Ah,” the guy with the arms said, dragging her gaze back to his face. But he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking towards the door. At his friend. “Here she is.” He waved a hand at her. “Mercy. Over here!”
Mercy? Faith frowned, turning her head towards the curvy Argentinian she knew so well, striding their way, shedding her coat, her hips swinging in her tight jeans and knee high boots. Her hair swung like a glossy curtain and even after all these years Faith still envied Mercy her gorgeous, long, locks.
She was in New York studying for her MBA but if she failed that she could always get a job as a model for shampoo commercials.
“Mercy?” she said.
“Surprise,” she said, grinned at Faith, only the slightest hint of an accent slanting her speech. She stepped up onto the low brass railing at her feet that ran down the length of the bar and leaned as far forward as she could, one leg kicking out behind her for balance.
Faith leaned across too, accepting the double-cheeked kiss on auto-pilot. Then Mercy turned to the hunky Australian.
“Rafael,” she said as she went up on tippy toe and bestowed the same favor on both of his cheeks.
Rafael. His name was Rafael.
But how on earth did Mercy know this guy? And why was she meeting him? Of course, had Mercy not been deliriously in love with Seb, Faith would totally get why. The tall, tanned Australian and the sexy Argentinian made for a gorgeous pairing – like two tropical birds.
But Mercy was, indeed, very much in love.
In fact, within the last year Faith had not only reconnected with her old school friends but all of them had paired off and were in stable relationships.
Except her.
Mercy had Seb, Dawn had Finn and Zel had Ty.
It was hard to believe it had happened in such a short space of time. Even harder to believe that Dawn and Zel had hooked up with two of her brothers. And Mercy had snagged Zel’s brother.
Her mother had always told Faith that one day she’d meet a man and she’d know. She’d just know. That’s how it was with your father. But many years later Faith had given up on the whole one-day-my-prince-will-come romantic bullshit.
And this last year in particular?
She was beginning to feel like she was always going to be the bridesmaid.
“I see you two have already met,” Mercy said.
“Not officially, no,” he said and held out his hand to her. “I’m Rafael Quartermaine.”
His broad accent with flattened vowels rolled over her as did the warmth from his hand. She glanced down at it, fascinated anew by the veins. She wanted to trace her finger along them, memorize each one for later when she would be getting out her sketch pad but she forced herself to drop it instead.
“With a ph like the painter?”
“With an f. But most people just call me Raf.”
“Faith,” she said. “Faith Sullivan.”
“Ah,” he said, his eyes lighting up. They were a clear aquamarine that reminded her of the ocean. They suited his blonde coloring. “You’re the owner’s daughter?”
“That’s right,” Mercy jumped in. “Although Faith pretty much runs the whole place single-handedly, don’t you?”
Faith knew Mercy meant it as a compliment but, as always, she felt the need to protect her ailing father’s positon as boss and head of the household. Even though she’d also been running the household since his first heart attack just before she’d been due to start her fine arts degree at Columbia.
James Patrick Sullivan, or JP to his friends, was a proud man and Sully’s had been pretty much his everything since her mother had died. His father had established it not long after immigrating from Dublin in the fifties and Pop clung to it with a nostalgia for the old country that had only become more ardent.
Her father was determined to leave a lasting legacy. “It’s a family affair,” she said vaguely.
“She’s being too modest,” Mercy said, dismissively. “The whole pub would fall apart without her. She loves this place like crazy.”
Faith smiled at Mercy. Her friend was right – she did love this place. Deeply. She had, after all, lived in this big old pub in this working class neighborhood in the Bay Ridge area of Brooklyn for her entire life. Some of her best memories were encapsulated within these four walls. And her mother was also here in every nook and cranny.
She loved Sully’s. So why, suddenly, wasn’t it enough?
Faith glanced at Rafael. He was watching her intently, a little line tugging two sandy-colored eyebrows together. She wondered if he could see her disquiet? See the growing despair she felt that she was going to be stuck here forever, a spinster barmaid, her fine arts degree a distant ambition.
She plastered a smile on her face. “Drink?” she asked Mercy.
Mercy glanced at Raf’s beer. “You’re drinking Guinness?” She tutted playfully. “Isn’t that sacrilege to a lager man?”
“Good beer is good beer,” he said with a grin. “And when in an Irish pub…”
“Absolutely,” Mercy agreed. “I’ll have the usual.”
Faith grabbed a half pint glass and pulled Mercy’s favorite brand of Guinness. If they stayed for a second, Faith knew Mercy would switch to orange juice thanks to her strict self-imposed, one-drink policy she’d developed after growing up in and around the wine industry.
Not to mention the Great Altar Wine Debacle.
Faith eavesdropped on their conversation while she waited for the beer to settle. They obviously knew each other reasonably well. Faith wondered just how well and was surprised to find it bothered her. She placed the beer in front of Mercy and once again waved the payment away.
“On the house.”
Mercy tried to protest. “You can get the first round tomorrow night,” Faith insisted.
On the second Thursday of every month all four women got together at Sully’s for a girl’s night. Faith had worried that it would stop now her friends were in relationships but the tradition was going strong.
“Salud,” Mercy said raising her glass to Rafael.
“Salud,” he responded, tapping the rim of his glass to hers.
Faith was excruciatingly aware of him as he drank. Aware that his sandy-blonde hair was a little longer on the top than the sides. Aware of a tiny little scar beneath his chin that cut a smooth swath through the rough of his stubble. Aware of the way his gaze kept straying to her t-shirt and how he’d tried to flirt with her and the way he’d looked at her before as if he could see past her I’m-fine exterior to the not-fine beneath.
Aware that he was from outside her world and just how damn enticing that made him.
Lordy. This was bad.
A man from outside the neighborhood paid her a little attent
ion and she was already thinking of…what? Running away with him? Preposterous. She couldn’t leave. Not when her father, the pub, relied on her so much.
“Is JP around?” Mercy asked as she licked Guinness from her mouth like she was born to it – not bad for a wine girl.
Faith tensed. “He’s upstairs. He was feeling a little… tired earlier.”
Her father’s worsening heart condition caused its usual flurry of panic inside her. The doctor had increased his medication last week but Faith worried about him constantly. He was seventy-four and looking every one of those years. She’d already lost one parent. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing another.
“You think he might be up to meeting Raf?”
Faith frowned. “Meet Raf?”
“He has a proposal he thinks your dad might be interested in.”
“A proposal?” She looked from one to the other. Mercy looked excited, her dark eyes shining but Faith had a very bad feeling. Pop had a real soft spot for Mercy but she tried to keep the stress of decision making off her father’s shoulders as much possible these days.
“I own a string of successful micro-breweries in Australia and New Zealand. Small scale, boutique beers that kind of thing but I have a product I want to go global with. It’s called Baron lager and I want to start by launching in the US market which is why I’d like to talk to your father about the possibility of putting it on tap here for a trial period.”
Faith blinked. What the fuck? “You want to launch an Australian lager here in Brooklyn, in an Irish pub?”
“Yes.” He smiled and if she hadn’t been feeling so utterly confused and, frankly, horrified, Faith may well have been swept off her feet. “Of course I’d be here to keep a close eye on how it’s going during the trial. I wouldn’t expect you guys to do all the heavy lifting. Do you think he’ll be amenable to meeting with me?”
Rafael, here? Keeping a close eye on things? Looking like that and smiling like that and wanting to put an Australian beer into Sullivan’s?
Messing with tradition?
It would kill her father for sure.
And God only knew what would become of her with him in such close proximity. No,” she said. “No, he would not.”
