“They’re savages,” Ash says, handing over her half-eaten plate.
“Blame Ma,” Ro says, cutting into his egg. “She always gave us seconds.”
“It’s so unfair,” Cat says. “I only have to look at that greasy plate, and it goes straight on my hips. You three shovel food into your gobs like it’s a national sport, and you all look like that!” She waves her hands in their direction.
“Jesus, Cat.” Ash shakes her head. “Their egos are already floating near Mars. Let’s not give them bigger heads.”
“It’s not our fault the lovely Catriona recognizes potent male sexiness when she sees it,” Jamie lifts the hem of his shirt, tracing his fingers across his toned abs. “Can’t help if the ladies love what we’re offering.”
Ash’s eyes are trained to Jamie’s stomach, and he isn’t the only one noticing. I kick her leg under the table, subtly moving my eyes in Dillon’s direction. She straightens up, coughing. “Come on, slow coaches. Hurry the fuck up. We’ve got a full agenda.”
I insist on getting the check despite my friends’ half-hearted protests. Everyone is giving their time today to come with me, and it’s the least I can do. I have also organized a little surprise for tonight. One I hope won’t backfire on me.
We set off around the city on foot, and I’m glad I wore my trusty sneakers. We visit the GPO, the headquarters of the Irish postal service. It was also the headquarters of the leaders of the Easter Rising, a pivotal moment in Irish history when the Irish tried to take back control of their country from the British. Gunfire was traded, and much of the building was destroyed but later rebuilt. Dillon points out divots in the gray stone pillars where bullets tore into the impressive building. We wander around the visitor center for a bit before we continue our tour.
Next, we head to the National Wax Museum, and they tease Ash and me mercilessly for taking our time in the Irish Writers section. We are escorted out of the building by security after Dillon is caught with his face buried underneath Mrs. Doyle’s skirt in the Father Ted Room. I laugh so hard I almost pee my pants.
A guided tour of the Guinness Storehouse and a beer-tasting session follows, and I readily hand my drinks to the guys while I stock up on souvenirs in the store. We visit Christchurch Cathedral before enjoying chicken wings at Temple Bar. Then we take an Uber to a different part of Dublin to visit Croke Park.
We saunter through the museum to learn the history of GAA—Ireland’s national sport—before taking a tour of the stadium, but my favorite part is the Skyline Tour. The stunning rooftop walkway is Dublin’s highest open-viewing platform offering incredible panoramic views of the city and the sea.
“Wow, this is breathtaking,” I admit, stopping at the highest point to admire the view.
“It blows my mind every time I come up here,” Dillon says, leaning his elbows on the railing. We’re all wearing harnesses, and the others are a few steps ahead, listening to whatever bit of history the tour guide is explaining now. “Do you know anything about Bloody Sunday?” he asks, after a few silent beats.
“Only the U2 song,” I admit. Although, all I know is it was Bono’s way of venting his frustration at the IRA.
“There are two Bloody Sundays in our past. The one U2 referenced was the 1972 massacre of twenty-six innocent civilians in Derry, which is in Northern Ireland. In 1920, the full island of Ireland was still under British rule, and armed police stormed Croke Park during a GAA match and killed fourteen people, including one of the players, and injured many more. It was retaliation for the IRA’s assassination of British intelligence officers known as The Cairo Gang.”
“That’s awful.”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and he looks straight ahead as he continues speaking. “Can you imagine the chaos?” He points at the massive pitch below. “Can you visualize all the crowds in the stands? The players racing after the ball across the field? And then police charge the ground, opening fire.” A veil of sadness washes over his handsome features. “If I close my eyes, I can almost hear the screams and the cries as men, women, and children fled for their lives.”
“You’re passionate about your country’s past,” I softly say.
“I’m passionate about injustice.” His eyes burn with indecipherable emotion as he faces me. “What gives anyone the right to take action which decides another person’s fate without their knowledge or permission? Who decides what is morally just and right? And when is it ever right to justify heinous crimes in retaliation for something else? How can people value other lives so flippantly?”
I’m wondering if we’re even still talking about the same thing. “It’s not right. There are many injustices in the world, and people don’t seem to learn from the past.”
“Unless they’re forced to learn that lesson,” he clips out.
I’m not really sure how to respond to that, and I’m not sure I want to get into some big political debate either.
Silence descends for a few minutes, but it’s not uncomfortable.
“You should see a match before you head back to the States,” he says, doing a complete three-sixty. “The buzz is amazing.”
I roll with it. “When does the season run?” I ask, trying to ignore how close we’re standing. I can almost feel the heat rising from his body.
“From May to September.”
“I’ll probably stick around for the summer, so maybe I can catch a game then.” I’m loving it here, and it’s definitely helping to be away from the press intrusion in the States.
Dillon turns his head to stare at me, drilling me with one of those deep intense looks of his, as if he’s looking straight into my soul and discovering all my secrets.
“What?” I ask, worried I might have dried sauce left on my face from lunch.
“Nothing.” He offers me a tight smile before turning his head.
I grind my teeth to the molars. “I know you have something on your mind, so just say it.”
He looks straight ahead as I stare at the side of his face, noting the tense set of his jaw. He has a gorgeous side profile. Chiseled high cheekbone. Full soft lips I’m sure deliver the best kisses. And a strong jawline coated in a sexy layer of stubble that would feel delicious scraping against my thighs. Arousal swirls in my belly, and I try to focus my thoughts because swooning over a guy like Dillon is only inviting a world of hurt.
His face isn’t perfect though. The little ridge on his nose and the small scar over his right eyebrow ensure that. Yet these small flaws only add to his appeal, as well as the conundrum his personality presents.
We’ve been chatting a lot today, and he’s almost like a different person. He’s been in great spirits, and he has a wicked sense of humor. I doubt we needed any of our tour guides as his local knowledge and memory for historical facts is incredible. When he’s not acting the clown, he’s articulate and intelligent, and I’m struggling to see how a guy like this could deem himself unworthy of love. Unless he normally keeps this side of himself hidden, and the hostile angry version I was presented with at first is the mask he usually wears.
“I was expecting you to run back home to your boyfriend the instant exams are over,” he says, through gritted teeth, yanking me out of my head.
Panic flares to life in my chest at his words. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I croak, glancing around to ensure the others are out of earshot.
“Don’t you?” he asks, eyeballing me again.
“Not anymore,” I whisper.
His gaze turns dark as his eyes bore into mine. Tension filters into the air, and I swallow the painful lump in my throat to force more words out. “You know who I am.”
He nods, and I try to control my errant breathing, gripping the rail and exhaling heavily.
“Breathe,” he says, placing his large palm against my lower back. Heat seeps into my body from his touch, even through my clothes. “I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s why you’re panicking.”