Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81009 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81009 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
To us. What we had. I hope it’s truly beautiful on the other side. Side note: can you believe I’m in Florida? I swore I’d never come back, yet, without you…I’m lost.
New England wasn’t home with Eamon gone. I was tired of walking into our house and being the only one there. It was like living in an echo that went on forever. The same thing every day. I was on autopilot and had been for a year.
Picking up the mug of beer, I scrunched my nose and took another drink. Yuck. I hated this stuff, but if Eamon was watching me from wherever he was now, then this would give him a laugh. We both needed it today. Twelve months since he’d taken his last breath while I held his hand. His last words, weak and a struggle for him to get out, still haunted me. I wanted to forget them. Pretend he’d said something else, yet like all things in life, Eamon had said exactly what he was thinking.
I just wished he hadn’t been thinking that in his last moments on earth. I’d beaten myself up over it so many times this last year that it was my closest friend now. The guilt of not being able to hide all my wounds, yet never sharing them with him had become a weight I carried around my neck. He’d known anyway.
“We have some real nice cocktails that you might enjoy more than that beer you’re trying to drink,” a female voice said, jerking me out of the deep thoughts I’d been letting take my mood down.
I lifted my head to see a blonde woman—with tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a black halter top that had Paradise Brew stretched across the front of her chest—smirking at me. She had one hand on her hip, and although she was gorgeous, she had a badass presence. It was an interesting combination. One of her eyebrows slightly rose in question, and I realized I’d been staring at her.
Feeling slightly embarrassed by that and the fact that someone had noticed me struggling to drink this beer, I gave her a sheepish smile and scrunched my nose.
“I have no doubt. It wouldn’t be difficult to make a cocktail that tasted better than this,” I quipped.
She let out an amused chuckle. “Please tell me this isn’t your first time drinking. If so, let me guide you to other options.”
This time, I laughed and shook my head. “God, no,” I replied. “I love a good cocktail, but this…” I paused, thinking of what I should say.
I’d learned that when people found out your husband was dead, they got weird and awkward. As if I were going to fall apart on them at any moment. But then I doubted I’d ever see this woman again, and she didn’t appear to be the type who didn’t know how to react to something. There was a strength in her gaze I wished I had.
“This was my husband’s favorite drink. He was Irish. Born right outside of Dublin.” I sighed, then smiled and held it up. “I’m drinking it for him. Sláinte, as he would say.” Then I downed some more.
When I set the mug back on the table, the woman looked at it, then back at me. “I’m sure he’s looking at you from the hereafter, laughing his ass off at the face you make every time you take a drink, wishing you’d order a drink that you wanted. Let me bring you something that agrees with your taste buds, and you can sit here and sláinte him for as long as you want. I can keep ’em coming.”
I stared at her. There was no pity in her eyes. When was the last time I’d looked at someone after they found out my husband was dead and not seen that? I hadn’t known how bad I needed it until now. It gave me a feeling of normalcy.
“I’m not planning on staying long. I’m in town for a job interview, and I’m alone. Being out late drinking isn’t the smartest idea. But thank you.”
She tilted her head to the side and gave me a pointed look. “You’ll be safe here. I’ll make sure of it. The Irish like to drink, and I’d bet your husband would have wanted you to enjoy yourself—with something other than Guinness, that is,” she told me. “I’m Pepper Abe. I own this bar. When you’re ready to go, I’ll have my security get you safely to your hotel. Relax. Stay awhile. The band tonight is popular with the locals. They do a bunch of old rock—’80s mostly.”
A brunette with a braid draped over her shoulder, dressed in shorts and a top identical to Pepper’s, walked behind her.
Pepper glanced back over her shoulder. “April, get my friend here…”