The older lady smiled a friendly welcome that rivaled her preserves for sweet appeal. She could have been someone’s grandmother complete with close-cropped white hair if she wasn’t wearing a worn Grateful Dead T-shirt over a long-sleeved thermal. The 1987 Summer Tour.

Everyone helping out was supposed to make me feel better, but it actually made me feel more like a screw up.

Murphy didn’t appear to notice my chagrin, but instead pulled up the hem of his long-sleeved tee to wipe at his face. Since he flashed his sculpted abdominals right at me, I grew hot and flushed. I mean, you could see every dip and curve, including the ones on either hip that made a V to lead the eye to the fly of his jeans.

That’s not Eire. Everyone always thinks that, but we’re not shamrocks and wee men. You should know the difference.

Ah, that’s just sean nós singing and dancing. Something to do around the pub of an evening.

How would we get corporate sponsorship if we were just a bunch of thugs?

I love the man,” Megan said as she took a seat, “but honestly he needs to learn when not to agree with me.

That’s the problem! She doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me like she’s hypnotized, like she thinks I’m a god, but then she runs off squeaking if I try to talk to her.”“I don’t squeak,” I protested. “Maybe she’s not looking at you like you’re a god. Maybe she thinks you’re more of a freak,” Fergus mused.“I’m not a freak.” Murphy jerked his head as if dodging a fly or tossing his hair. “It’s definitely a ‘you’re a god’ look. She practically drools.

I’m an ass,” the voice on the phone said. “A complete and total ass.