Page 67 of Blame it on the Bet
Chapter Twenty-Six
BRYAN
Truittism No.13: It’s all fun and games until it’s not a game anymore.
“I don’t know, Father. I’m thinking this may not have been a good idea,” I mutter as he drags me through the packed pub by my forearm.
We’re nearly a week out from “The Kiss,” and for the first time ever, I’m nervous. Like a geeky guy who wants to date the prom queen kind of nervous. It was a great kiss. Amazing, in fact. I’m just a little…unsure of how to proceed. What’s wrong with me? I’ve had more casual relationships than I can count. But now that I’m interested in something more…
I blame the stupid pie. If Janet Lahti hadn’t made me eat that stupid apple walnut berry thing, I wouldn’t have been overwhelmed by that tremendous sense of well-being and comfort. Well-being and comfort just make me feel out of sorts and anxious.
Go figure.
I’m such an idiot. And I guess I’m not the only one who thinks so, based on the look I’m getting from Hennessy O’Halloran. I guess I should’ve sent flowers after I kissed her. Or, at the very least, a text.
“Nonsense, Bryan, nonsense!” Father Romance reassures me. “You’re as welcome to compete in the pub quiz as anyone else.”
With the clock ticking down faster and faster, this pub quiz is one of the last tricks the O’Halloran sisters have up their sleeves. And, it has to be said, they’ve made impressive progress toward their goal. The crowd tonight is even bigger than the one that was here for the chili cook-off, and combined with the profits from the dart league, their recent theme nights for ladies, students, and the LGBT crowd, I’m guessing they’ve pushed past the fifty-thousand-dollar mark. Still, fifty-thousand only gets them halfway there.
I’ve only agreed to be a last-minute participant in this thing because the good father here told me he was fighting off a migraine and that he was afraid he wouldn’t make it through the night. Funny thing, though. Since he brought me across the street and into the pub, he’s looking like he feels a whole lot better.
“How’s that headache, Father?” I ask pointedly and watch with amusement as his brows draw in and his mouth droops.
“Oh, it’s a killer, Bryan. And it’s so frustrating, you know, because I have relapsing-remitting migraines. Have you heard of that?”
I shake my head. It could be a real thing, but my BS meter is squawking so loud I can hardly hear myself think. And how do you tell a man of God that you think he’s full of crap, anyway? That’s probably just what he’s counting on as Hennessy stalks toward us, looking incredibly sexy in a University of Minnesota sweat shirt, ball cap, and jeans. Jeez, I never expected to find myself hot and bothered by a girl wearing a picture of Goldy Gopher on her chest.
“And what’s going on over here?” she asks when she’s reached where I’m seated in Father Romance’s spot.
“Hennessy, I was just coming to find you,” he starts to explain. “I’m afraid I’m a bit under the weather, and I’ve asked Bryan here to take my place on the church team.”
“Under the weather?” she scoffs. “Please, Father, I just saw you knock back a pint of Guinness and plate of Buffalo wings at the bar.”
“Yes, exactly, Henny. My stomach is in a bit of an uproar,” he’s quick to agree, rubbing his priestly tum-tum.
“Father, didn’t you just say it was a headache?” I remind him.
“Yes, that’s right. A migraine brought on by the wings, no doubt.”
“Uh-huh,” Hennessy says, hands on her deliciously curvy hips. I’m wishing I’d taken the time to put my hands on them when I had the chance. “What?” she asks, suddenly looking in my direction.
“Uh, sorry, what what?” I counter, scrambling to figure out what she’s talking about.
“What are you looking at?”
Oh, that’s what she’s talking about. Squash, squash, squash that grin.
“Nothing…your sweat shirt. I like the gopher.” “Mmmm-hmmm,” she says skeptically, not buying the gopher line for a second.
“I think I’ll just go get myself a little rye to settle the tummy,” Father Romance says, slipping away, leaving me with the woman whose face I devoured right upstairs from where I’m sitting now.
“So,” I begin slowly.
“So…” she echoes, moving closer to my chair so no one will overhear us.
“How’ve you been?” I ask, though the dark circles under her eyes give me a clue.
“You really care?”
