Her Best Laid Plans. Cara McKenna

plans. She was free, and happily adrift until she returned to college in September. A new job awaited her when she got back home, but she had nothing on her agenda for this trip. Maybe she’d let Google be her driving instructor out on these quiet country lanes. Why not? No witnesses. She could lurch and stall and curse all she wanted! She’d teach herself to drive well enough to reach a city, with real bars and restaurants and activities and guys. Irish guys. No med students. And no plans.

      Of course, this in itself was a plan.

      Shit.

      Oh, well. She’d figure it out tomorrow. For tonight she had her phone to keep her occupied, and she could feign interest in the soccer. And there was a pool table—or whatever pool was called here. She was good at pool. She’d spent entire summers at her dad’s place outside Atlantic City playing at the bar and grill in the bottom floor of his apartment building, blowing time while he was working.

      Still, she hadn’t traveled across an entire ocean to feel as if she was back on the Jersey Shore.

      Jamie pulled out her phone, needing proof she hadn’t wandered into some cruel joke. She typed a message to Kate, her first since she’d landed in Shannon.

      I think I’m at a bar.

      The answer came almost immediately: You think?!

      Unconfirmed. Could be a retirement home.

      !!!LOL. So much for our visions of raunchy Irish flings!

      I seriously won’t be shocked if somebody announces it’s bingo night. So what are y—

      Her fingers froze midtext. A man had materialized behind the bar. A different man. A man born in the last three decades.

      And sweet Jesus, what a man.

      She deleted the message and tapped out a new one.

      Hang on. An oasis just appeared. Must ascertain whether it’s a mirage or not...

       ???

      She ignored Kate’s text but kept her phone in hand, holding it casually before her, the perfect excuse to keep her eyes aimed in the mystery guy’s general direction. The earlier barman gave him a clap on the shoulder, and she detected a resemblance—father and son? The older man bade his replacement and the regulars a good night.

      Jamie watched as the new guy poured someone’s pint a few feet to her left. Holy shit. Were forearms an accepted fetish object? Because his were perfect. Muscular but lean, like the rest of him, she’d bet. He was tall, maybe six-one? A good six inches taller than she, at any rate. And long—the solidly slender sort of build she associated with swimmers, and graceful hands to match. His hair was light brown and overdue for a trim, glowing blond at the edges from the overhead light. He was in need of a shave as well—not a complaint—which, coupled with his rumpled short-sleeved button-up, open at the collar, lent him an air of supreme relaxation. As though he’d rolled out of a bed one floor above, dropped straight through the ceiling and landed behind this bar.

      A customer made a joke Jamie didn’t catch, and the new bartender laughed, his smile seeming to crack his handsome face wide open and drop Jamie’s IQ fifty points.

      Drink fast, a voice in her head commanded. Sooner you finish this one, the sooner you’ll have an excuse to talk to him.

      She downed the pint in four gulps.

      The new barman spotted her empty glass as she slid it forward, approaching with lazy, effortless steps that matched every single one of her preconceived notions about him. His gaze seemed to catch on hers, telling her he was equally surprised to have stumbled across a peer in this geriatric pub.

      “Hello, stranger. How’s the form?” Oh, that voice. That accent, gentle and wicked at once. He might as well have asked her if she’d like to wake up tangled in his sheets tomorrow morning, to judge by the way her body flushed. “Another Guinness?”

      “Yes, please.”

      He caught her own accent in those two syllables, smiling differently now—curious. “States?” he asked as he set a glass below the tap. “Or Canada?”

      “States.”

      “Whereabouts?”

      “Boston. I just moved back after a few years in California.” And thank goodness. Noel and his broken promises had wrecked palm trees for her permanently.

      “Boston. I hear your lot stole a fair few of my ancestors,” her barman teased, crossing his arms as her stout settled. No ring. Prove there’s a God and tell me you’re single.

      Jamie pursed her lips, holding in a scheme for just long enough to decide it was genius. “Would you mind if I took your picture, while you’re pouring that?”

      One of his shapely eyebrows arched.

      “My friend was supposed to be on this trip with me,” she explained, “but she ditched me at the last minute. I’m dying to show off that I’m drinking a Guinness in Ireland while she’s stuck in an office back home.”

      He smiled at that and nodded to her phone, waiting as she opened the camera app. “Far be it from me to deny a lady her revenge. Just say when.”

      Jamie scooted back to frame the shot, making sure those forearms were front and center, and that gorgeous face.

      She snapped a series as he finished her pour, and on the very last shot, his eyes rose to meet hers through the screen. Her heart stopped, every cell frozen for an eternal breath, until he looked away.

      She prayed the phone’s glow was camouflaging her blush as she flipped through the photos. Every one did his good looks justice, but that final shot...shiver. And some silly part of her couldn’t help but think, That glance was meant for me. A message from one man to one woman, the most intimate look two complete strangers could exchange. She picked one of the photos with his eyes averted and typed a message to Kate.

      Holy HOLY. Seriously.

      He delivered her glass and a coaster, then turned to fill someone else’s order. Kate’s reply buzzed in Jamie’s hand.

      OH MY OHHH.

      No Photoshop involved I swear. Totally real. I can smell him.

      What’s he smell like???

      Limes. And linen. And Irishness.

      Kate’s text came after a pause: I hate you. All I can smell is my cube mate’s nasty body spray.

      Jamie smiled.

      That’s what you get for putting professional development over our friendship. I’ll let you know what happens. For now, I have some hardcore flirting to do.

      She set her phone aside.

      She glanced over, seeking that handsome face, and was embarrassed to find his eyes already on her. Busted. She lifted her glass in a little toast and took a sip. It tasted so right. So much better than her first round somehow.

      She shed her zip-up and shoved it in her bag. She was wearing her favorite top, a slouchy green scoop-neck tee that looked good with her with her dark hair and eyes and performed true miracles with her modest cleavage. No sense stifling its powers. Plus she suddenly felt rather warm.

      Jamie’s barman sidled up after delivering a whiskey to her neighbor. “She jealous, your friend?”

      “Very.”

      For a long moment he held her eyes, one corner of his lips curled with unmistakable mischief. She expected some offhand remark, but when he spoke, all that came was, “What’s your name?” Three simple words, but loaded somehow in his hushed, conspiring tone, warmed by that melodic accent.

      She swallowed. “Jamie. What’s yours?”

      “Connor.” He offered the silliest of gestures, miming a curtsy with an invisible skirt. She laughed.

      “And what brings you to the dullest pub in all of Country Cork,