Page 87 of Experiments in Offline Dating

“Which ram, he says! The ram that’s so goddamn special that you’re willing to take three weeks out of your life to lock yourself in a Jeep with a woman that you hate more than anything you’ve ever hated in your whole grumpy life.”

He smirked. “Oh yeah. That ram. I’m pinning all my hopes on that ram.”

I gasped. “You have hopes?”

“I do. For instance, right now I hope the server will hurry back so I don’t have to continue this fecking interview without another drink in my hand.”

I caught the waiter’s eye and made some two more drinks gestures. “Okay. Now tell me about this golden ram of hope.”

He sighed, but I raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Fine. He’s a Norsk Villsau, a very hardy sheep from Norway, an old breed. I don’t know how Mrs. Keilty got her hands on him, but as far as I know, he’s the only one in Ireland. I want to crossbreed him with a Bluefaced Leicester because I think the breed might be . . . special, different from what you normally get. The wool, especially.”

“Cool. I’m into wool!”

He smirked. “I know.”

“Where’s your farm? Is it close to your father?”

His smirk dropped a little. “Probably too close.”

The server arrived with the beer and cleared our plates away, and another server brought the mains. I took a bite of my lamb stew and had to close my eyes for a few seconds and give the stew the moment it deserved before I offered it to Tadhg. He shook his head and pushed over his fried-chicken burger.

“Tell me where you live. I want to picture the lair of the beast. Is it littered with bones?”

“Yes. The skeletons of opinionated American tourists. You should stay well away.”

I laughed and picked up the burger. I liked to share food, but I didn’t usually bite after people where saliva might be transferred. I paused and wondered momentarily if I minded, but I realized that I didn’t. “I’m going to take an extra-huge bite just for that!”

“Hey! Be careful. You’ll have your hand off!”

I laughed around my full mouth. “Mm—oh my God, this is good.” I pushed the plate back. “So, how many sheep do you have out there? One million? Two million?”

His face tightened. He may not have been the sort of man who was forthcoming about his emotions, but while he seldom spoke them, they were always there on his face, so clear that even I could usually read them.

“I, uhh. I don’t really have a flock anymore. I used to, but, um . . . things have changed.” He looked at his plate while he said this, rather than at me. “I . . . had to start over. But I recently bought a small bit of land. It’s not perfect, but . . .”

“But soon you’re going to have a new flock.” I smiled. “And the little lambs will baa with Norwegian accents?”

“Something like that.” His mouth ticked up, then dropped, and he took a sip of his beer. “I’m—It’ll take time, but I’m not afraid of hard work.”

I tried to picture him out there—hand on his hip, watching the sunrise in the morning with a cup of coffee in his hand as he leaned casually against the open doorframe and surveyed his new land . . . naked. Dammit!

“What’s the house like?”

He shook his head and took another sip. “Just a caravan for now. Building something is the next step.”

And now he was building a house from the ground up with his callused hands, wearing a heavy tool belt and no shirt. Dammit!

“Sounds kinda great, actually.”

He looked up at me then. “It does?”

“Yeah.”

The server came back with the dessert menu.

“Whatcha thinking, Davis? Too dainty for ice cream?”