Love Like This. Sophie Love

Viatorum magazine.”

      “I can’t hear yee! Speak up!”

      Keira raised her voice over the live folk music and repeated her name. “I have a room booked here,” she added when the man just looked at her with a blank frown. “I’m a writer from America.”

      At last the man seemed to understand who she was and why she was there.

      “Of course!” he exclaimed, a smile spreading across his face. “From the paper with the fancy Latin name.”

      He had a warm aura about him, very grandfatherly, and Keira felt herself relax again.

      “That’s the one,” she confirmed.

      “I’m Orin,” he said. “I own the St. Paddy. Live here too. And this is for you.” Suddenly, a pint of Guinness was plonked onto the bar in front of Keira. “A traditional St. Paddy welcome.”

      Keira was taken aback. “I’m not much of a drinker,” she laughed.

      Orin gave her a look. “You are while you’re in County Clare, my lass! You’re here to let your hair down just like the rest of the locals. And anyway, we have to toast your safe journey! Thanks be to the Virgin Mary.” He crossed his chest.

      Keira felt a bit shy as she accepted the Guinness and took a sip of the strong, creamy liquid. She’d never tasted Guinness before and the flavor wasn’t particularly agreeable to her. After just one sip she was certain she wouldn’t be able to finish the entire pint.

      “Everyone,” Orin called out to the patrons in the pub, “this is the American reporter!”

      Keira cringed as the whole pub turned around and began clapping and cheering like she was some kind of celebrity.

      “We’re so excited you’re here!” a woman with frizzy hair said, leaning in a little too close and smiling a little too widely for Keira’s comfort. Then in a lower voice she added, “You might want to wipe off your Guinness stash.”

      Feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment, Keira quickly wiped the suds from her top lip. A second later, another of the pub’s patrons had wedged her way forward, barging elbows with others on her way – not that anyone seemed to mind. Her drink spilled a little as she stumbled. “I can’t wait to read your piece!”

      “Oh, thanks,” Keira said, shrugging. It hadn’t occurred to her that the people here would want to read what she’d written about them. It might make the whole cynical angle a little harder for her to pull off.

      “So what made you want to be a reporter?” the man next to her said.

      “I’m just a writer,” Keira said with a blush, “not a reporter.”

      “Just a writer?” the man exclaimed, speaking loudly and looking for the attention of the others around him. “You hear that? She says she’s just a writer. Well, I can barely hold a pen so you’re a genius as far as I’m concerned.”

      Everyone laughed. Keira nervously drank small sips of her Guinness. The Irish hospitality was very welcome but it was also a culture shock, and she found herself cringing, thinking of the myriad ways she could bash this place in her piece.

      “I’ll show you to your room,” Orin said finally, once she’d managed to drink almost half the pint of Guinness.

      She followed him up a creaking, narrow stairway and along a corridor with a threadbare carpet that smelled strongly of dust. Keira walked silently, taking it all in, constructing cutting sentences in her head as she observed the dated decor. The walls were decorated with framed, faded photographs of local soccer teams from the past and Keira smirked when she saw that the majority of the players shared the same surname, O’Sullivan. She took a discreet picture of the black-and-white soccer team and pinged it off to Zach with the caption: Mr. O’Sullivan must have been a prolific breeder.

      “Here you go,” Orin said, opening a door and showing her inside.

      The room was awful. Though large, with a double bed and a huge window, it was decorated horribly. The wallpaper was a sort of peach color, stained in places as if from years of grubby handprints. The bed had a thin duvet on it, which was quilted but not in an endearing country-house way, more in a thrift store castaway way.

      “This is the room with the desk,” Orin said, grinning with pride, gesturing to a small wooden desk under the window. “For your writing.”

      Keira blushed. She was inwardly horrified at the thought of staying in the grimy room for an entire month, but she managed to squeeze out a grateful, “Thank you.” So much for thinking she’d be able to slum it for a month!

      “Do you want a bit of time to settle in before meeting Shane?” Orin asked.

      Keira frowned, confused. “Who’s Shane?”

      “Shane Lawder. Your tour guide. For the festival,” Orin explained.

      “Of course,” Keira said, remembering in Heather’s notes she’d said there would be a tour guide. “Yes, please, I’d like to meet Shane.” She had no desire to spend another minute in the room, so she dumped her bag on the bed and headed back down the creaking staircase.

      “Shane!” Orin cried as he took his position back behind the bar.

      To Keira’s surprise, it was the fiddle player who responded. He put his instrument down – though the group of musicians he was playing with carried on as if nothing had happened at all – and came over.

      Beneath his scraggly beard, Keira could tell he had a chiseled jawline. In fact, if it weren’t for his hair, which desperately needed cutting, and scruffy clothing, Shane would be quite handsome. Keira felt guilty for thinking such a thing, especially since things with Zach were on such rocky ground at the moment, but she thought of Bryn’s motto: Ain’t nothing wrong with looking.

      “You don’t look much like a Joshua,” Shane said as he shook her hand.

      “Oh, didn’t anyone tell you?” Keira said. “Something came up so I was sent instead. Sorry about that.”

      Shane gave her a cheeky look. “What are you apologizing about? I’d much prefer to spend thirty days with a fine-looking lady like you. No offense to this Joshua fellow, I’m sure he’s attractive enough, but he doesn’t sound like my type. You know, being male and all.”

      Keira gulped. She hadn’t expected Irish men to be quite so forward. But she reminded herself of Zach and repeated the mantra in her head that she was just looking.

      As Shane took a barstool beside her, Orin put a Guinness in front of each of them. Keira groaned silently. She couldn’t handle this much alcohol!

      Shane took a deep sip of his drink, then spread some documents onto the bar.

      “The Festival of Love is thirty days long,” he explained. “Most of the activities don’t start until the evenings so I’ve prepared an itinerary of places we can visit while you’re here, so you can get a better feel of the country as a whole. We’ll start with the Burren for the mountain scenes, then the Cliffs of Moher to look at the ocean, then we’ll head over to the next county, Kerry, to the beautiful old stately home in Killarney, then onwards to Dingle.”

      “I thought you were just guiding me through the festival,” Keira said. “Not the whole country!”

      “You’ll go crazy if you don’t get a bit of space from Lisdoonvarna during the day,” Shane explained. “The sheer amount of groups of people coming and going, it gets a little much.”

      Keira laughed silently to herself. She seriously doubted Lisdoonvarna was anywhere near as hectic during the festival as New York City was on any normal day.

      “There’s a lot of drinking,” Shane continued. “Some of the parties go on until the early hours of the next day. I say some, but really it’s most.”

      Keira thought of the rowdy stag party she’d shared the flight over with and wondered whether she was going to get any sleep over the next month at all.

      “This