Page 2 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

“Are you okay?” Nora asked, passing by me again.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

She didn’t believe me, but she didn’t need to say it. Before she could push further, a whistle cut through the noise from the far end of the bar. It was annoying and too familiar. I turned, a towel still in my hand.

That’s when I saw them: four men in the corner booth, not regulars. They looked posh, clean, and expensive, not like people who came to a place like Murphy’s. They didn’t even sit like customers. They sat like they were waiting for something, or maybe someone. One of them was staring at me. I looked away and got back to my work, but I felt like he was still looking at me.

Ten minutes passed before I caught it again—that same look, from the same man, staring at me like I was a piece of cake. He lifted his glass at me, like we shared something I hadn’t agreed to. Something in my stomach turned, but I told myself it was nothing.

Murphy’s was still bubbling and noisy, but the room felt different after I noticed him. I kept working, serving everyone as requested, and all was well. Well, until I heard his voice.

“Jameson and ginger.” The voice came from right in front of me, close enough to cut through everything else.

The man from the corner booth who’d been looking at me had left his group, and now he was in front of me at the bar. Hehad dark hair, an expensive watch, and a clean shirt that didn’t belong in a place like Murphy’s. He was in his mid-thirties and handsome, but not really my type. He was the kind of man who thought he looked good when he leaned into a counter.

“Coming up,” I said as I reached for the bottle and started pouring his order.

“You from Southie?” he asked.

“No.”

“Boston?”

“Fourteen dollars,” I replied, sliding the glass toward him.

He smiled faintly and ran his hand through his hair, like I’d passed a test. “You always answer questions like that?”

“Like what?”

“With deflection.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That earned me a short laugh. “What’s your name?”

“Maeve.”

“Maeve,” he said, like he was testing how it sat in his mouth. “That’s Irish.”

“Congratulations. I’m afraid we’re fresh out of trophies, but you deserve one.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Congratulations? For what?”

“For figuring out my very common name is Irish.”

That made him pause just for a second, but then the amusement came back, sharper now. “Are you always this…friendly?”

“I’m at work,” I said. “Friendliness isn’t required.”

Behind him, his friends were watching like this was a show. I could’ve sworn they’d placed bets on how this conversation would go, based on how intently they were looking at us.

“So you’re always like this with customers?”

“Only the ones who ask too many questions.”

His smile lingered, too comfortable and interested. “Another Jameson,” he said.

I reached for the bottle without looking at him. “Rough night?”