Page 101 of The Irish Goodbye

Aside from the two new menu items, everything was the same as the Fallen Star in Dublin, right down to the kitchen floor that Patrick and Deirdre had fucked on. And since Niall hadn’t actually opened that restaurant, he didn’t feel much ownership over either locale. He couldn’t believe he was admitting this, but he actually missed working at O’Connor’s. He missed the way Darragh would joke with him, he missed Colin playing music every night, he missed Shauna’s cheerful smile. He even missed his father’s surliness.

Christ, would wonders never cease.

It’s not only them you miss, he thought sourly.

The clientele in London was a far cry from Inishmore too. Niall was sick of having food sent back by people who didn’t know how to order steak, or ridiculous substitution requests, or—worst of all—vegans. But what else could he do? Where else would he go? He was head chef. He should be fucking grateful. He’d gotten all he wanted.

It just didn’t feel the way he thought it would.

“You okay, Chef?” Michel asked.

“Fine,” Niall said. He was being absolutely ridiculous. Look at all he had. Look at what he’d achieved. And here he was, wishing he were somewhere else.

Service began and Niall lost himself in the flow and movement of the kitchen. It was a busy night—he could imagine the controlled chaos happening in the front of house.

“Roger, I need more mussels,” he called to one of the line cooks. “Luis, don’t you dare take that fucking risotto out looking like—Michel, where’s the goddamn garnish for the risotto?”

“Here, Chef!”

“Oui, Chef.”

“Mussels are up, Chef.”

Deirdre burst through the kitchen doors. “Niall, you’ve got visitors!”

Niall thought he might throttle her—could she not see how busy he was?—when a familiar face peered around her shoulder.

“Out o’ my way, you fecking trollop,” Róisín said, pushing Deirdre to one side and eliciting a chortle from Michel. “Niall O’Connor, my god man, my god. Would ya look at this place?”

“Róisín!” Niall cried. “What are you doing here?”

“We came to see your restaurant, you daft bastard, what do you think?”

“We?” Niall asked and the unabashed hope in his voice rang so clear even Róisín heard it. Her mouth puckered.

“Your parents came too,” she clarified. “But Owen said not to be bothering you in the kitchen during the dinner rush. Ha! As if I could ever be a bother. Ooooh, that smells delicious,” she said as a runner left with a tray of risotto and mussels.

Niall didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Róisín, you gorgeous creature,” he said, scooping her up in a hug. “Look, I’m totally slammed, let me—”

“Go on, you’ve got a job to do,” Róisín said with a wave of her hand. “I’ll not distract. But if you wouldn’t mind sending some o’ those mussels over to the table, I’d thank you for it.”

“I’m sending you guys everything,” Niall said. “Mam and Da are out there?”

Róisín leaned close. “Your da just about burst the buttons on his coat walking through the doors,” she said. “He’s that proud.”

Niall felt a warmth spread from the center of his chest. Róisín turned on her heel, gave Deirdre a withering glare, and left the kitchen.

“Friend of yours?” Michel asked.

Niall smiled. “She’s family.”

Later that evening, once the rush was over, Niall was finally able to sneak out of the kitchen and see his parents.

“My sweet boy,” Fiona said, enveloping him in a hug.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Niall asked.

“We didn’t want to bother you,” Fiona said.