Page 49 of Experiments in Offline Dating

“Just a sec! This is beautiful. I need some photos.” Otherwise Simone is going to deep-fry my still-beating heart in copycat-KFC batter.

It was truly postcard perfection. To my left, down the hill, was a handful of picturesque cottages on a slanted road in yellows, oranges, reds, blues, and even one squat little cottage in bright pink with a thatched roof.

As if in competition for best view, the sea edged in on the other side to flirt with the river, waves churning up painted white crests, and behind it, hills that turned into dramatic cliffs in the distance in a green so bright that it looked surreal against the bright blue sky.

I leaned over a stone wall, cold and damp on my belly, and took some shots, then turned the phone around for a selfie. Tadhg, who had not stopped walking, started to undress, and I froze and watched him. He had arrived that morning in jeans and a casual linen button-down in a soft green, attempting to look extra Irish, I assumed, for the elderly woman he’d thought he’d be driving around like Miss Daisy. But with the blazing Irish sun (see: moderate), he’d unbuttoned the shirt and slid it off his shoulders to reveal a white T-shirt that looked unintentionally snug and classically sexy—1980s Coke-ad sexy. Of course. And goddamn him for it.

He turned around and caught me staring. His face tightened in disapproval before he slung the shirt over a shoulder and walked away faster.

I set off after him down the hill and eventually caught up. “God, this is gorgeous.”

He harrumphed: clearly his favorite word.

“What are we doing here?”

“You’ve a date.”

“Wait. What? Another one? Right now?”

“Unfortunately for him, yes.”

“Well, who is it? What are we doing?”

“Kevin. Lunch.”

“Do you know Kevin too?”

“No more questions.”

“Tell me!”

Another grumbly sound effect.

We walked past a cluster of little cottage-shops; various knitted sweaters, scarves, and blankets tried very hard to snag my hand and make me spend all my money. But of course, I couldn’t slow down. It was all I could do to keep up with the beast’s long-legged pace.

At the bottom of the hill, we stopped just before the road turned and carried on over a prettily arched stone bridge, and we curled left into a gorgeous little courtyard. A sign out front read “The Ivy Cottage”—and there was a cottage, and there were vines and lots of flowers, and they served food, and I was in heaven.

The sky was a rare, brilliant blue that probably would not last long, so we chose (without bothering to discuss it with our English words) to sit in the garden next to the stream. It was strung liberally with leafy vines overhead, and twinkling bistro lights, and was picture perfect, down to the gentle breeze and the babble of the water. To make things even more divine, my churlish chauffeur chose to sit at a table on the other end of the garden, where I could ignore him entirely.

A few minutes later, I got a text from an unknown number:

running late go ahead 🤷

Uhhh. Was this my date? How late? An emoji? Could I safely assume that meant he was probably under seventy?

All right. Sitting outside. Looking forward to it!

At least I could make an effort to punctuate.

A pretty girl with a French accent came to the table with the menu, but I had already seen what I wanted on other people’s tables. I ordered a glass of chardonnay and “whatever that is,” which turned out to be crab claws in a rich yellow cream sauce with a hunk of fresh bread.

It seemed weird to order without my date. I would have waited, but I was starving, and my mystery date had said to go ahead. Who knew how long he would be or whether he’d want to eat when he finally arrived.

The waitress brought my crisp white wine, and I pulled my book out and settled back, happy to wait all afternoon if I must. Because I’m admirably devoted to my work.

Ten minutes later, I looked up and blinked as someone called me back from the world of sexy, magical Vikings. Granted, they didn’t call my name, but it was close enough. “Mia?”

I looked up and smiled at the confused-looking guy scanning the tables.