Page 99 of Experiments in Offline Dating

Mm. That tone. Will there be spanking?

Okay. I had officially gone off the deep end. An audiobook was an excellent idea. Total distraction.

Libby open, I clicked a title with a classic high-fantasy cover: a single character in a cape looking off into the distance, ready to set out on a sex-free adventure—Curse of the Flame Hunter, one of the few on my TBR that looked somewhat safe. I scanned the blurb for the usual signs of smut. We could handle one chili, maybe, but the last thing I needed was to be stuck in a car listening to Kiss of the Basilisk with Tadhg and his penis sitting right next to me.

“ ‘In a land torn by shadows and ancient grudges, a forgotten power sparks once more,’” I read. “Does that work for you?”

“Have you read it before?”

“Nope. Not even sure when I added this to my TBR. I don’t remember anything about it. Cover looks suitably cool and mysterious, though.”

“Okay. Sure.”

I connected to the Bluetooth and pressed play. “Buckle up and get ready to escape into the Nightbound Realm!”

Chapter 27 An Experiment in Becoming the Butt of Your Own Joke

Tadhg’s promise of a quiet day had materialized. While spark mages were getting gruesomely murdered by shadow wielders left and right, my libido finally calmed the fuck down. The Irish scenery held every bit as much magic as the Nightbound Realm. We weren’t expected until dinnertime, and we drove around, the three of us, taking in the views, stopping whenever we felt like it.

The Cé Dhún Chaoin, or Dunquin Pier, had a steep, winding path that twisted back and forth very prettily down to a green rocky point where two sharp wedges of mountain stuck out of a dangerous, churning sea.

We stopped at Gallarus Oratory, a perfect little pointed stone elf hut built in the eleventh century. We saw the ruins of Minard Castle, its tower still holding strong against time and centuries of storms. And we were positively spoiled for beaches. We stopped at three, took our shoes off, listening to the strange crunch of the coral sand at Coumeenoole Beach, and walked in the waves, the cold water banishing from our minds any cozy thoughts of naps, while Finn ran absolutely wild, crashing into the water, chasing a tennis ball, and getting completely covered in wet sand from head to tail. Between stops, we loaded back into the Jeep and listened to a little bit more of our audiobook, which had turned out to be a dark and engrossing tale of vengeance.

But in the golden haze of those perfect memories, my very favorite thing that day was—much to my chagrin—the sheep. Or, rather, one lamb in particular.

There were many a handmade sign along this tourist trail, offering tours, eggs for sale, coffees, and home baked goods, and one we zoomed past that said it was a donkey museum.

“What’s a donkey museum?” I gasped.

“No.”

“But we just passed it. What’s inside? It could be anything!”

“It’s for your own good. If I take you there, you’ll end up somehow buying a donkey and scheming to take it on the plane as your emotional support animal. Would you like to see the beehive huts instead?”

“The what huts?”

“The old beehive huts. There’s a sign there.”

SEE HISTORIC BEEHIVE HUTS AND PET A LAMB—4 EURO

“Ooh. That sounds like a bargain. Sure. Let’s go see these huts.”

Tadhg pulled in, and we were met by a farmer who had some land right on the road with a view of the sea.

“Here to see the huts?” He had a cloth napkin tucked into his collar, as he was eating a cookie.

“We are, thanks,” Tadhg answered and handed over the eight euro.

“Follow that path around the house and let yourself in through the gate. You’ll see ’em.” He turned around and went back inside. Four euro didn’t get us a VIP tour, then.

We passed right by his cottage, went through the gate, and walked up a hill to find several little stone huts in the shape of beehives. They were tiny and looked out over the sea. There was no mortar, and the sun shone through the cracks between the stones, and moss grew everywhere it could.

“Wow. These are. Just so tiny. Did people live in these?”

We circled around the outside, and I wondered that it hadn’t blown over in a gale or been broken by some naughty goat or itchy horse after all these years.

“Yep. I believe it was devout people who wanted to be closer to God, like the monks on Skellig Michael.”