*AN: Of course I don't own Derek Vinyard, but since I first watched this film nearly 20 years ago, his is a character I just couldn't get out of my head. Eventually all the futures I imagined for him have coalesced into this story and I'm finally sharing it with you. It's the first story I've ever shared, so please be helpful (and kind!). *

Chapter 1: Identity

It was a week until her birthday, and Niamh was determined that this time she was going to make sure Derry came out to party with her. Every time she asked him, he found an excuse, some reason he could not join her and her college friends on their rowdy nights out round the town. Even heavily laden hints about movies she wanted to see, or local sights she wished she had someone to show her fell on studiously deaf ears. She knew she should let it go, he clearly was not comfortable taking their relationship outside of the bar, beyond being her boss, but she still could not accept that the intense, irresistible pull she felt towards him was not reciprocated.

So she had planned this all out. She knew Lamont was due to be working that night, she'd checked the rotas, and picked a particularly quiet night. No ball games, no student events, just a midweek school night, so letting her and her friends take over the bar for the night would barely make a dent in takings. If Derry wouldn't come to her, then she would come to him and find a way to finally make him drop his guard and have some fun. And if she could be part of the fun he would have, well… that would just be the best birthday present ever.

It had been nearly six months now since she had first walked into his bar and within days she found herself falling slowly, inexorably under his spell, until every waking moment was spent thinking about him. She promised herself, if he made an excuse this time, that would be it; she would have to accept that he was not interested and stop trying. Even though the logical part of her brain knew that was the right thing to do, even thinking that thought gave her a stab of pain and renewed her determination to make this work.

Niamh showered and took care dressing for work. She stood scrutinising herself critically in the mirror; her wavy dark hair was freshly washed and the summer halter-neck dress she was wearing was just the right side of being too girlish, showing a glimpse of her breasts from the side when she lifted her arms. She remembered the last time she wore it and flushed at the memory. She had caught Derry looking at her from the corner of her eye, as reached up to get a glass from the shelf. He turned so quickly she couldn't be certain, but surely there had been a glint of desire in his usually so well-guarded and unreadable eyes. Unbidden, the thought of what it would be like to have him slide his hand inside her dress and caress her breast made her catch her breath.

Her desire for him was constantly catching her out like that. It was an intense, heady longing, but with no way of finding release from it, it built to a peak of pain she found at times hard to bear. She rested her head against the cool of the mirror and tried to control her thoughts and slowly bring her breathing under control.

She remembered the day she had first seen him and almost wished, not for the first time, that she had walked away then. She had just arrived from England to take up her place as a doctoral student at the university, and was looking for work to try and supplement the meagre bursary she had fought hard to win. She saw the advert in the window of the Irish bar on campus and figured that having a mother who came from the Old Country and a name like Niamh might count as better qualifications than the suitcase full of prizes and certificates that had not yet helped her find a job in this new country.

She knew she didn't look like an American's idea of an Irish girl, though; her looks more clearly shaped by her father's Jamaican ancestry than that of her mother's Donegal roots. She toyed with putting on an Irish accent – having been brought up by her mother and her grandmother in South London she was familiar enough with the brogue to be able to make a good enough fist of it to fool most people, but decided against it. She'd wasted years pretending to be people she wasn't, trying to find an identity that would be accepted and she was determined not to start again now. She breathed in, squared her shoulders and pushed open the door.

A strong-looking man with short hair and a neat goatee beard stood behind the bar. He wore a long-sleeved black t-shirt pulled tight over a muscular frame, tucked into the neat waist-band of a pair of formal trousers. It was a slightly incongruous look for a student town, out of kilter with either the common slacker look of the crowds, or even the preppy casual expensiveness of the wealthier students. He looked to be in his late twenties, but seemed somehow as if he had stepped out of a different generation to Niamh.

He looked up as she walked in.

'Sorry,' he said, 'we don't open for another half hour'.

'I know.' Niamh replied. 'I'm here about the job?'

She tried to keep the tremor out of her voice and emulate the easy confidence she found so intimidating among the American students she'd met. A week full of rejections had eaten away at her self-belief and she faltered immediately when he turned fully to face her. The intense, almost fierce gaze from the sharp blue eyes under his knotted eyebrows made her begin to blush and she fought the urge to turn round and walk back out into the street.

'Oh,' he said. 'Okay, well I'm looking for someone who can start right away. What experience do you have?'

'Oh, I've done a lot of bar work,' lied Niamh, thinking to herself that a few nights pulling pints in the Union bar on campus back home nearly counted.

'And of course, I am Irish, like, properly Irish from Ireland, not from South Boston!' she added. It had meant to come out jokingly, but she realised immediately it sounded snide and wished she could take it back.

He looked at her quizzically and she braced herself for the usual 'you don't look very Irish' line. Most Americans' idea of Ireland seemed to have stopped sometime around 1950; anyone claiming to be Irish without milk white skin, red hair, freckles and looking like an extra from the 3rd class cabin in The Titanic must be an imposter. She was surprised, then, when he said instead:

'You sound more English than Irish to me.'

'Oh,' she stammered. 'Well yes, I was brought up in England, but my mum is from Donegal. We go there every year, though, and I even have an Irish passport.' God, what a stupid thing to say, she thought, getting more flustered.

She looked up and he seemed to be suppressing a smile, which made his eyes soften and transformed his severe look into something undeniably attractive. She pushed the thought out of her mind that he was trying not to laugh at her, and attempted to force a smile herself.

'What's your name?' he asked.

'Niamh,' she replied, immediately adding: 'So, it's pronounced Neve, but it's the Gaelic spelling: N I A…'

'M H' he finished for her. 'I bet that gets mispronounced a lot here!' he said, smiling again.

Her surprise at his quick acumen made her forget for a moment about her nerves.

'Not just here,' she admitted, 'it happened all the time growing up in London too. I spent my entire life at school trying to explain why I wasn't called Niyamhah. Even to the teachers!'

He laughed and she finally managed a real smile in return.

'So you seem to know a lot about Gaelic names. You must be Irish too?' she said, thinking how stupid that must have made her previous presumption seem.

'Nope.' he replied. 'Not as far as I know, anyways. But my name's Derry and that seems good enough to pass around here.'

He was still looking at her with those intense blue eyes that she found hard to meet, but she forced herself to hold his gaze and say:

'So, when can I start?'