I really have no idea what to make of all this.

Our day has been amazing. It’s undoubtedly an experience that will stay with me until I’m lying on my death bed.

The people, the culture, the sights and sounds are all truly breathtaking.

Especially the Irish countryside. It’s like serenity captured in a painting that’s too beautiful to be real.

But it is.

Even if I stay here my entire life, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to accept that this place exists in the ugly, dirty and only occasionally beautiful reality I’ve known most my life.

It will always seem unreal.

Killian seems unreal, too. At times he’s his own work of art.

Like an Irish version of Michelangelo’s David, but much more well-hung.

But then we come here, to this damn pub again, and Killian becomes a completely different person from when we’re alone.

“Thank you, Killian.”

I appreciate that he’s apologized. I really do.

It’s just that I can’t help but wonder what version of Killian I’m dealing with now.

“Hey, Killian Walsh.”

A couple of women, who look to be in their late twenties, approach us—or rather Killian—with coquettish smiles.

“We’re big fans. Can we buy you and your friend here a round? Maybe a couple shots of Jameson?”

At least they’re polite enough to include me in the offer and not act like I don’t exist.

“No, thank you, ladies. It’s quite alright. I thank you for your patronage. It means the world to me.”

His voice is full of life. Vibrant and charming like the Killian I met in Dublin years ago.

Like the Killian who takes me to bed.

“Well I just want to say that A Moon in the Alley is my all-time favorite book. It’s amazing,” one of the girls—a brunette with big doe eyes and breasts to match—gushes.

“Well thank you, lass. Truly, I appreciate it.”

The girls wave goodbye and stumble towards the rest of their drunken evening.

I watch them walk away, but Killian’s gaze turns back to the half empty pint in front of him.

Is this why he’s such an asshole in public?

Has all this constant adoration gone so much to his head that he thinks he can just be an asshole and nobody will be offended by it?

Does he truly believe that he’s now The Great Killian Fucking Walsh and that he can do no harm?

“You totally get off on this, don’t you?”

I don’t know why I blurted it out, but it’s too late. And honestly, I want to hear his response.

“Not in the slightest, Rebecca,” he answers dryly.

The smile that he had for the girls fades from his face—which is a shame since he has a truly beautiful smile—and is replaced by a look of mild boredom.

“Bullshit. You went from asshole to Prince Charming the moment compliments and tits showed up.”

“Honestly, lass. It’s all an act. I didn’t get into writing to be some big celebrity or be admired. I really can’t stand all the adulation. And whenever people show up and approach me like that? I don’t really know how to deal with it except to be as nice as I can and send them on their way as quickly as possible.”

I hear this mix of tenderness and embarrassment in his voice that leads me to believe that maybe, just maybe, he’s being upfront about this.

But I’ve seen several sides of him today that it’s getting hard to know which ones are genuine and which ones aren’t.

And that thought makes me go back to questioning his apology.

Was it genuine?

Was he talking to me like he does his fans?

Is he telling me what I want to hear—or rather, what he thinks I want to hear?

I take another sip of my coffee, which has proven to be quite the delightful treat. I never thought that I would enjoy the stuff regularly, even with the one mug a day habit I’ve been developing.

Even if I decide to nip this daily habit in the bud, I can see myself enjoying a cup of nice, strong coffee on St Patrick’s Day.

That and some of the Locke’s single malt. That was yet another nice surprise in the world of Irish beverages.

And yes, Irish drinking—alcoholic and non—is a whole world unto itself. The amount of stouts, whiskeys, and spirits that the Irish have made is mind boggling. I can probably spend a year here just exploring it all.

Maybe I’ll convince Stephanie to take a year off and come join me someday when I’m enjoying a bit of booze again. I’m sure she’d love to roll out a yoga mat and try a Full Lotus or a Downward Dog out in the middle of the Irish countryside.

She can absolutely meditate out here, too, I’m sure. I don’t know how she does it—I don’t think I could ever relax that much—but more power to her.

“And again, I’m sorry, Rebecca. I don’t mean to be such a colossal arse. My social skills may have fermented a little in recent years, or decades.”

Another apology.

But, can I believe it?

A lot of men apologize when called out on their bullshit. Even my ex-husband—Captain Dickhead von Fuckstick—apologized when he hurt me.

Didn’t always mean they were sorry. And it certainly didn’t fucking mean that they weren’t going to do it again.

And with Killian acting so strange, I’m still wondering if I can believe him. If I can trust him.

How do I know he won’t make some other accusation—a hurtful one at that—or blame me for some crime that has never been defined?

“Rebecca? Rebecca Doyle? Is that you?”

I can’t even begin to express how shocked I am right now to hear someone who isn’t Killian calling out my name.

I turn on my stool to see a tall, well-dressed Irishman standing before me.

Unlike Killian, this man is exactly what you expect a native Irishman to look like.

He has short strawberry red hair and a thick beard of the same color that blends into it perfectly. He has the same blue eyes that Killian has, but this man’s eyes are softer—almost jovial.

And though he may be dressed like a stock broker, his roguish smile certainly hints at a man who’s more mischievous with his time than watching the market.

“I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

“My apologies. Where are my manners?” He laughs and offers his hand to me. “Flanagan. Brian Flanagan. I’m a tremendous admirer of your work. Though not nearly as much as my nephew. The Butterfly and The Bee is his all-time favorite book. He adores the butterfly. All of the artwork on my sister’s fridge is of the butterfly.”

I take his hand in mine for a polite handshake, “Brian Flanagan, the writer?”

He nods, “One and the same.”

“I’m a fan myself. I was actually reading Light at Sea on my flight here. I adore Malcolm as a protagonist. It’s not often you see male characters embrace their vulnerability and turn it into a strength.”

“Well, in truth, Malcolm is just a pale intimation of my father. That man defined, to me at least, what man can and should be. Far too often men close themselves off from the world. They believe solitude and booze are strengths. There is nothing wrong with embracing the softness of one’s heart and letting it shine through.”

Oh, this guy is good.

Handsome? Check.

Well-dressed? Check.

Talented? Check.

Can make a subtle dig at Killian so that I don’t have to? Double check.

From behind me, I hear the sound of an empty glass slamming down against the bar.

I turn to look and I’m not surprised to see that Killian has finished the rest of his pint in one big drink.

“Oh, Killian. You know...”

“Yes, I know Brian quite well thank you,” Killian cuts me off with an abrasive tone that I’ve never heard from him until now.

“Killian and I go way back, don’t we? We grew up together in this very county. He’s always been an inspiration for my own writing, and I hope to someday prove to be his equal.”

Brian’s tone is both smug and humble—something I didn’t ever think was possible to do—but I’ll be damned if he didn’t just pull it off.

The man is far better than I give him credit for.

A flush of red appears in Killian cheeks and I’d be lying if I said I don’t enjoy it.

It’s nice to see the roles reversed for once.

I do feel a twinge of guilt for getting pleasure out of seeing Killian’s displeasure, though.

“Well, looks like you’ll just have to keep at it, won’t you, boyo?”

Killian tries to match Brian’s tone, but he fails. He sounds bitter more than anything else.

“Oh, please. You two are both immensely talented writers. I dare say you’re the best to ever come out of Ireland.”

“Indeed,” Killian mutters.

“You are far too kind, Miss Doyle. But who am I to refuse such a compliment from someone as talented as yourself?”

Who knew Irishmen could be so smooth?

The smiling bartender brings over a new pint for Killian to consume, and Brian immediately reaches for his wallet.

“Here, Charlie. Their drinks are on me tonight.”

Charlie takes the money from Brian, and Killian’s face turns nearly as red as my hair.

I’m not sure this is going to end well, but I’m not about to let Killian ruin my night.

After all, it’s not like I’m his or anything.

Our relationship is purely a business arrangement. Nothing more.