Page 6 of A Billionaire Abroad

“Care to put a wager on that?” he asked as they stepped into the elevator.

He had her interest.

“If, by the end of the day, I haven’t proven myself helpful, I’ll buy you a pint at my local.”

She eyed him sidelong. “I’m going to be punished if you turn out to be useless?”

“It’s a fine spot. Good craic.”

That stopped her in her tracks. She turned wide eyes on him. “Goodcrack?”

He laughed loud and deep. “Another phrase you’ll have to learn. Craic means good conversation and company and a good bit of fun.” As they stepped out onto the ground floor headed for the lobby, he shot her an overdone look of dawning understanding. “Ah, but there’s the problem, yah? You might enjoy yourself at a spot like that. Best not risk it.”

“Okay, here’s my bet with you. If, by the end of the day, I have proven that I do enjoy myself even when I’m working, then you bow out of helping plan this event and let me do my job.”

“Can’t do,” he said. “You didn’t hire me. Westcott did.”

They stepped out into the overcast, cool Dublin afternoon. The wind was blowing. She pulled on and buttoned her jacket. She pulled her phone out and opened her map app.

“I grew up in this city, Keighley,” Conall said. “We don’t need a phone telling us where to go.”

She popped her phone back in her pocket and let him lead the way.

When she’d first gone from the master-planned suburbs of Phoenix to New York City, she’d been a little overwhelmed, in a good way, by how old and historic and eclectic the city was. She’d felt like she was stepping into a history book. Dublin felt even more that way. More than just old . . . it was magical.

Of course, Conall didn’t need to know that. “Tell me about the venues we’re going to look at.”

“Always on the clock, aren’t you?”

“Humor me,” she said dryly.

“The first stop is a pub.”

“Shocking.”

Far from offended, he simply smiled. “This pub has an upper room that’s big and nice. Plenty of room for putting on an impressive do but keeping the congenial feel of an evening out with friends.”

That sounded ideal, actually. “Okay. You have my attention.”

“I also want to drop in on a performance hall I’ve hired before. Nice space. It can be set up any way at all. Tables and chairs, or cocktail tables and a long bar. There’s even a small stage to one end if you’re looking to bring in a band or something.”

She hadn’t thought about a band. But a little music might be nice.

They turned a corner down a narrow but busy street, lined on both sides with an unbroken row of colorful buildings, storefronts at the street level but, likely, apartments above.

“If we go with a venue that has room for musicians, would you suggest quiet instrumental or folk music?” she asked.

“It’s a shame you haven’t a better grasp of the language, Keighley.”

She looked to him, confused. They both were speaking English.

“We don’t call it folk music. It’s trad. Trad music.”

“Trad?” That was an odd word.

“It’s short for ‘traditional,’” he said. “And, yah, trad’d be a good choice. But you’ll want to hire a small group so they’ll not be too loud. People will want to chat.”

“I once made the mistake of hiring a band that thought they were catching their big break. When everyone in the room wastalking instead of listening intently, they started playing louder. So the people started talking louder. And the music got louder.”