Beware of the Pretty Colleens

The girl, still laughing, kicked the stool out and gestured with her glass of whiskey. "You must have run all the way there and back. No one even walked by, so I didn't have a chance to offer it to someone else."

"And lose my place next to the prettiest girl in all of New York? I couldn't take a chance on that."

Her smile dimmed a bit as she turned to face forward. A slim finger lifted and pointed at her glass, letting the barman know she was ready for another.

"Jameson?"

"Tullamore Dew," she corrected, aiming her grin at the man who refilled her glass.

"That shite?" The words leapt from his mouth, and he stared after them in horror. Way to insult the pretty girl. Would he ever learn to think before speaking? As quickly as he could, he changed the subject. "Do ye live here in New York? It's a grand city, all the same."

"Not in the city, no. Just here for the weekend." She sipped her whiskey with a pointed look over the rim of the glass, letting him know her choice wasn't shite at all. At least she was still talking to him.

"Ah, me too. I'm Edward, by the way. Edward Cullen."

Well, you're a right eejit, ya feckin' gobshite. He resisted the urge to clatter himself on the head and grabbed his beer instead.

"I'm Bella. You really came from Ireland just for the weekend? That's a long trip."

"Aye. Well, I guess I'll be here four days. Until Monday. There's a hurling tournament here, you see. Hurling is an Irish sport—three thousand years old. Oldest sport still played. And there aren't a lot of people who play it here—not the way we do in Ireland, of course—but the ones who do are putting on a big tournament, and I'm playing in it… I guess I already said that."

The Bella girl set down her glass and turned to face him, eyes sparking with interest. "You came over here just to play in an American tournament? Is that even allowed? I mean, if it's an Irish sport and you're Irish, seems like you'd have a big advantage."

Edward gulped another big swallow of beer. "Strictly speakin', it's not-"

"There you are, Anthony!"

Feckin' Jane. Edward knew she'd be trouble. Pretty Bella's brow furrowed at the name Feckin' Jane had called him, obviously confused.

"Middle name," he muttered. "Have to go now."

Bella slumped a little on her stool and waved him off with a weak laugh. "It's okay. It was nice to talk to you. Welcome to America."

Edward lingered for a moment, tipping back the last of his beer. Feckin' Jane seemed satisfied that he'd follow her, and moved toward the bar exit. Edward did take two steps in that direction, but then stopped and turned.

"I'll be honest with ye, Bella, because I'll probably never see you again. I wish I'd seen ye sooner so we could have talked longer. I wish I hadn't called your whiskey shite, even if I think it is. And I wish I'd asked you questions instead of running my damn mouth all night. Because you're about the prettiest girl I've ever seen, and when I go back to Ardmore, I'll think of you. I'll think of you and wish I had some of your words to keep when the memory of your big brown eyes fades."