Chasing River (Burying Water #3) (10 page)

“Tomorrow.” I flex my right hand, my knuckles sore after leaving Benoit with a few marks to remind him what will happen if he ever steps foot inside here again. Rowen’s warning hung in the back of my mind, though, keeping me from going overboard. “It’s one o’clock in the morning. She’ll be sound asleep.” I’m not entirely sure that’s true, after what she’s been through these past few days. I could have called her as soon as I found it, put her mind to rest.

Only, my mind was busying deciding how I want to use this opportunity.
If
I want to use this opportunity.

“I bet she’ll be grateful. Even for an American princess.” Rowen doesn’t have to explain where he’s going with this; the smirk on his face tells me. He assumes I’ve got plans to bang her, if I haven’t already. Though he’d know if I had. For Christ’s sake, we’re practically attached at the hip. We live and work together, and when we’re not at home or at the pub, we’re usually texting or talking on the phone.

“It’s not like that,” I mutter, pulling out the various slips of paper tucked into the little pockets. Mostly receipts. A taxi from the airport, a large latte with extra sugar. A scone and tea from a place on Grafton Street earlier today. Not surprising, seeing as she’s a tourist. Though there are better, less expensive places than that to go.

I unfold a sheet of lined paper, filled with feminine writing.

My eyebrows spike with the first line.

1. Have torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD.

“What is it?” Rowen watches me from behind a sip of his closing-time pint.

“Nothing.” It’s something, alright. I’m guessing it involves getting laid. I need to look
torrid
up in the dictionary. I scan the piece of paper. It’s some sort of “to-do” list. She must have a dozen different countries mentioned here.

14. Do NOT get eaten by a lion. The Serengeti, Tanzania.

“Liar,” Rowen mutters when I start to chuckle. He leans forward and I shift farther back. I’m guessing this isn’t something Amber wants anyone reading.

24. Spend a day on a nude beach. Athens, Greece.

Christ.
Blood starts flowing to my cock with the mental image of those legs attached to a naked body, sprawled out in the sand. Maybe she isn’t such a princess after all.

I quickly scan over the rest. A few of them are already marked with little checks, including the last one, clearly a recent addition, about the bomb in the Green. Yeah, I’ll bet she never forgets that day as long as she lives.

I note that number one isn’t marked off. That makes me smile. And wonder.

And hope.

Rowen hits the lights and throws me into darkness. “Come on, it’s fucking late. I’m setting the alarm.”

Downing the last of my own pint, I fold the page and stick it in my pocket.

Maybe all her memories involving me don’t have to be bad.

The shrill ring of my phone wakes me from a dead sleep. I simply stare at it lying on the nightstand for a long moment, trying to figure out who it could be, seeing as my family is eight hours behind and asleep. Do I even have the brainpower required to speak, after a night of tossing and turning with that sick burn in my stomach over my wallet?

In the end, I reach for it. A groggy “hello” escapes.

“Still sleeping, are ya?”

My eyes spring open at that deep male voice, laced with a light Irish accent, that I somehow can’t mistake. “River? Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

My heart begins racing. “Hey! How are you?” I sound way too eager.

“Tired. I didn’t get to bed until close to three.”

“What time is . . .” I glance at the clock to see that it’s only ten a.m. “Why are you awake, then?”

“Too many things to do before work tonight.” I can hear a smile in his voice. “Like tell you that I have your wallet.”

My covers tumble away as I sit up, relief making me heave an obnoxious groan. “You’re joking!”

“I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”

“But . . . how? Did someone turn it in?”

There’s a short pause. “It was in with the rubbish.”

Tossed. Just like Jesse said it would be. Whatever. It’s found. Empty of cash, I’m sure. “Is my license there, at least?”

“It is, Miss Amber Mae Welles from Oregon.”

My cheeks flush, knowing he’s been looking at my information, my picture. “Great. I’ll get dressed and come to the bar at noon, if you’re open by then?”

“We are.” There’s a pause. “I have a better idea, though.”

“Haunting, isn’t it?”

My breath hitches with surprise as I spin around to find River standing behind me with two Starbucks cups in his hands, his smile reaching his eyes. “They’re . . . incredible,” I say.

His sneakers scrape against the cobblestones beneath us as he closes the distance, his threadbare navy T-shirt damp from the off-and-on drizzle falling, the strands of wet hair pushed back in a careless way.

He’s even more attractive than I remember.

My heart skips a few beats when he thrusts a cup forward, the crisp white paper highlighting his red, scraped knuckles. They weren’t like that yesterday. I know because I got a good look at his hands when I was checking for a wedding band.

“Latte, with sugar.”

I frown.

“You keep your receipts.”

“Right. I do that.” I like to keep track of my spending. Heat climbs up my neck. That means he went through my entire wallet. And he must have seen that stupid list. While that doesn’t make me feel as violated as having the asshole who stole my wallet see it, it still stirs a feeling of vulnerability. River may have saved my life, but I don’t know anything about him. And now he knows me down to my home address and weight, and he probably thinks that I’m shopping for a movie-style fling on this trip.

Did he actually read it? What would have gone through his head when he saw number one?

I push the thought aside. “Thank you.” I accept the cup and our fingertips graze, sending a warm current through me.

“Here.” His hand dips into the back pocket of his jeans and reappears with my wallet.

A bubble of relief bursts as I reach for it, followed by another small thrill as his fingertips graze mine again. “God! Thank you! This is . . . you have no idea . . .” I expected it to be flimsy, the money all gone, but it has weight to it. When I open it and find the stack of colorful bills, I feel the deep furrow between my eyes form, the one that my mother warns me is going to leave a deep wrinkle by the time I’m thirty-five if I don’t stop frowning. “But, how . . .”

“Our security cameras caught it all. The muppet was still in the pub, so I had words with him.”

River said that he found it in the “rubbish”—their word for trash. “Muppet” or not, there’s no way the thief threw it out with the cash, so . . . “He gave all my money back?”

“With his deepest apologies.” River’s right hand balls up into a fist before stretching out next to his thigh. And I suddenly understand why his knuckles are all bruised.

“You had words with him . . . Exactly how many ‘words’ did it take to drag out his remorse?”

That smirk reappears. “Are you angry with me?”

“No . . .” I’m not entirely sure what I am. I’ve never been a fan of violence, of guys pounding on each other. I see the ugly results of it at work all the time. At home, Alex’s face is a constant reminder. But right now, it’s making River all the more attractive to me. He must have watched the security tapes as soon as his brother told him—how did he have time for that?—and gone through the trash can to find it. “You could have kept the money—you know that, right? And just blamed the thief.”

“But then that would make
me
a thief, wouldn’t it?” A curious look flickers across his face that I can’t read. “Is that what you think of me?”

“No, I didn’t mean . . . A lot of regular people would have pocketed it.”

“I guess I’m not regular people then.”

You most certainly are not.
I study his knuckles again—red and swollen. “You’re not going to get into trouble, are you?”

“Trouble?” He frowns. “Trouble with who?”

“I don’t know. With the police. With your boss?” I don’t know how many times I’ve seen the cops in the parking lot outside Roadside after a fight broke out back home. All it takes is one call from the bartender.

But, in this case, that’s River.

A soft chuckle escapes him. Nothing about his face or his stance says he’s sorry for whatever he did. He’s definitely not afraid. Is he afraid of anything?

Yes, he is
, I remind myself. He’s afraid of whoever set that bomb.

“Benoit isn’t going to go to the gardai because he stole your wallet. And Ma and Da aren’t gonna fire their son for giving someone what they were owed.”

Ma and Da . . . “Your parents own the bar?”

“They do. Rowen and I keep it going for them.”

Huh.
“River Delaney?”

He nods. Somehow that piece of news makes him working as a bartender in a dive bar different. Like, if I were to tell my friends about him, and they asked what he did, my answer wouldn’t be, “He’s a bartender.” It would be, “He runs his family’s pub.” It sounds better in my head. I know it would sound better to the sheriff’s ears. Not a lot better, but still . . .

With a slow, calming exhale, I turn back to study the seven statues—six people and one dog—looming before me again, their faces gaunt, their lanky bronze forms in tattered, dirty clothes. It took half an hour for me to walk here from the house, but it was easy enough to find. “So you live nearby?”

“Ten-minute drive.”

I frown. “Why’d you pick this place to meet, then?”

River takes a sip of his coffee and I inhale the clean, crisp smell of his soap with his movement. I’m guessing he jumped out of the shower, threw on some clothes, and came here. Such a difference between guys and girls—I primped for over an hour. Basically, since the second I knew I would see River today. I even curled my hair, something I only normally do now when I’m going out to a bar.

“A million Irish lives were lost to a great famine in the 1840s. It’s one of the most critical events in our country’s history, and this monument was erected to remind us of it. Do you know how many times I see a tourist walk past these statues, or stop to take a picture of themselves next to one, and I wish they had a bleeding idea what it stands for?”

Bleeding.
That seems to be a popular word around here. My cab driver from the airport used it a lot. “Are you calling me an ignorant tourist?”

He smiles. “Ireland is about more than Temple Bar and kissing stones.”

Ugh.
That was on my list. He must have read it. “So you want to make sure I know what this monument stands for?” My gaze follows him as he strolls around each weathered statue, his shoulders broad and strong, his posture straight and proud.

He pauses to peer down at the homely dog, immortalized. “That. And I wanted to make sure you don’t spend the rest of your trip in hiding, afraid of being blown up or robbed.” He wanders back toward me with a soft smile, his gaze resting on my still-healing lip for a long moment before meeting my eyes again. “How are you?”

I shrug, trying to brush his worries off. “I’ll have memories to bring home with me.”

His gaze drifts over the River Liffey, which flows calmly next to us as he sips his coffee. I’m desperate to know what’s going on inside that head of his. “How long are you here for?”

“Eight more days.”

A drop catches his long lashes. It’s going to start raining again any minute. “Staying with friends?”

“House-sitting for someone.”

He nods slowly and silence hangs, prompting me to talk. “Now that I have my license back, I’m going to do a bunch of day trips, out to Cork and Galway. Maybe do some of those ignorant tourist tours.” Unlike my trek across Canada, which was planned down to the day, with little downtime, I’m glad I decided to do Ireland differently. Mostly spur-of-the-moment and unplanned. Very unlike me.

He chuckles. “Sounds grand.”

I hesitate bringing the bombing up, but since he kind of already did . . . “How are you?” He frowns slightly, as if confused, forcing me to elaborate. “I saw the blood on your back when you ran.” I assume he didn’t go to a hospital, since the police would have been scouring emergency rooms. Thanks to me warning them to.

Understanding flickers in his eyes. “Never been better.” Downing the rest of his coffee, River wanders over to a nearby trash can to stuff the cup in. “I need to run now.”

Already? He obviously made a special trip this way and he’s been here all of five minutes, if that. I struggle to keep the disappointment from my face. Why not just let me come to the bar and pick my wallet up, then? Unless . . . maybe he didn’t want me lingering there after all. I clear my throat to ensure my voice is light as I tease, “I thought you were here to teach me about Irish history?”

A playful smirk curls his lips. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to see my parents today, before work. But we have fantastic museums, with tours for your kind.”

Is this really it, then? Are we saying goodbye already? I open my mouth to thank him yet again, but falter, not sure that the simple words are enough anymore. Not for me, anyway. Taking a deep breath, I close the small gap between us and reach out, wrapping my arms around River’s neck, coffee cup and all. Just tight enough to feel his chest against mine. His body stiffens under my touch for just a moment, and then his arms rope around my waist, squeezing me into a tight embrace, until I can feel his heartbeat and I’m resting my head against his shoulder like we’ve known each other for years. The lightest caress of his breath against my neck sends shivers through my body.