Chapter 1
POV: Maeve
I was about an hour into a conversation and I was dying to run away from it…and fast at that.
He’s been talking on and on about himself for the last, let’s see—well, 45 minutes and 20 seconds straight, but who’s counting?
Me. That’s who.
And I wished he’d stop.
After the first five minutes, I began thinking, well he’s successful and attractive and maybe this could work.
After another fifteen minutes after he constantly kept talking about himself without even the need to simply breathe, I knew it wouldn’t.
He was just another egotistical finance bro from Boston. Typical.
And this one I had high hopes for. Tall, 6 foot 3, a full head of brown hair, a smile that could shatter hearts, makes over 6 figures, and is third generation Irish. Not bad, especially for regular Boston’s standards.
Yet, I was left with no attraction to him, probably because of the fact that he wouldn’t stop talking about himself, or glancing at his own reflection in the window. Ego’s were not my thing. And turns out, neither was Robert Casey.
I could’ve done a typical Irish goodbye but instead, like the classy lady I was, I decided to stay for the rest of the date and insist on paying for my half of the bill. I didn’t want him getting any ideas, and that was a clear indicator of ‘not interested’.
I wasn’t getting any younger, I was 30 years old for crying out loud, and while that is not old by any means, my biological clocks’ still ticking away and my search for ‘Mr. Perfect’ wasn’t getting any closer.
As I sat in my uber home for the evening, I thought about my latest failed relationship—which in my defense, wasn’t supposed to fail at all. That was the one that was supposed to work—or at least I thought would work.
Michael.
Michael was supposed to be different.
He had a nice job, he was second generation Irish, he had an Audi he paid in full for, he made me laugh—really laugh, and his family, well they were great, and they loved me. The only issue was that Michael, though he didn’t tell me at the time, wasn’t interested in commitment. Not real commitment. Not the kind I wanted. Michael told me he wasn’t interested in marriage at the moment, though he was 32 and I was 30, he thought he still had a few years left until he wanted children, so after a year of wasting my time, leading me on, and making me fall madly in love with him, I was left disappointed. Again.
I kicked off my heels as I slumped onto the couch and let out a heavy sigh.
And then my phone rang.
I didn’t have to look at who was calling to know.
Grandma Noreen.
Grandma Noreen always had a spidey-sense about bad news.
“Hi Gran,” I answered, less than cheerful.
Her Irish accent was thick. “Maeve dear, how did your date go this evening?”
She always knew. It’s like she had a crystal ball or something. Or maybe just old Irish grandma senses.
“Oh well…”
“Oh, dear.” I heard her let out a sigh on the other end.
“You probably sensed it,” I laughed.
There was a pause, then, “I wish I hadn’t, dearie. You didn’t like him, even a wee bit?”
“No gran,” I let out another sigh as I slumped my head onto the couch’s armrest, “all he could talk about was himself and he didn’t even have a speck of a personality.”
“Well, maybe you would grow to love him,” she offered.
But we both knew better. I wouldn’t.
You don’t grow into love, especially women. And especially me.
She sighed and answered with her own response, “better to find someone else, give it another try elsewhere.”
“I feel like I’ve dated half the male population in Boston,” I laughed.
“Exactly dearie.”
“Exactly? That’s not the kind of answer a girl expects from her grandma!”
“Well,” she paused, adding room for suspense. “I think I have an offer for you, Maeve.”
“I already told you gran, I do not want to go on another date with Daniel, he burps every five seconds and thinks drinking five beers on a first date is casual,” I huffed out.
“Not Daniel, Maeve,” she replied. “Not anyone in Boston.”
“Then who? It’s not like I can go on dates with people from other states now. I’m not desperate, well, maybe, who knows. No, no I’m not,” I finally convinced myself.
Her voice was hopeful. “Well, it is a bit of a far trip, but I think this will answer your dilemma.”
God, when did we start using the word dilemma to describe my non-existent love life?
“I am not going to Ireland gran, I already told you!”
“Maeve Ann O’Connel, when did you stop loving adventure? When you were just a wee child, you loved it. Now, you’ve become stuffy, just like all other American women!” she scolded.
I let out a heavy sigh as I ran my hands over my face.
I knew it was Ireland, that was always her recommendation.
I could hear her now, Oh Maeve, you’ll find a lovely man in Ireland. He’ll have firm hands, always a smile on his face, and he’ll take you dancing every weekend.
Yes, but I’ll also be stuck in the middle of nowhere, and he’ll probably drink like a fish and make jokes I won’t understand.
I’m second generation Irish, my parents were first, and my grandparents still lived there, but that doesn’t mean I belonged there or was meant to marry an Irish man and live in a quaint little cottage near Killarney or worse, the middle of nowhere on the Dingle Peninsula.
“Gran, we’ve talked about this.”
“And we should talk about it again, girl!” she scolded.
“So, you really think I’ll be happy with crappy wifi, as a literal author? Not to mention living in the middle of nowhere? And I’m sure whatever friend’s grandson you’ll set me up with, will own a farm or worse some tourist trap, that I’ll get saddled on running? Gran, this isn’t the 19th century, women, especially American women, want more to life than being a housewife and living in a cottage in the middle of nowhere,” I told her.
I could hear Gran’s frustration through the phone. She wanted to help me but I was being difficult, she always thought I was being difficult, and I guess in her defense, I was at times—well, mostly.
I was a fiction author after all, and fiction authors, though lived in their delusions of fantasy and romance, also happened to be realistic, that’s why we lived there in the first place.
“That’s enough arguing from you. I’ve already bought your plane ticket and signed you up,” she replied with finality.
“Plane ticket?” I nearly yelled. “Signed me up? Signed me up for what?”
Silence.
“Signed me up to be sold for a lot of cattle?” I laughed in disbelief.
“No Maeve, this isn’t the middle ages. I’ve signed you up for the Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival back in County Clare. It’s a wonderful event, it’s the event I met your grandfather at, as you know.” I could hear the proud tone in her voice.
She thought this was it for me—that I’d find my husband there and live happily ever after, as she did.
Oh, god.
“Oh, god.”
“Do not use his name in vain!” she piped up.
Spoken like a true Irish catholic woman.
I shook my head. “I don’t think I’ll find a husband there, at least not one I want, gran.”
Her voice softened. “You never know what fate and the lord has planned for you, Maeve. As an author, you should believe in the magic of love, that it can happen anywhere and at any time, especially when you least expect it.”
“Gran…”
“The nice woman from Aer Lingus said the plane ticket should be in your e-mail. The flight leaves on Thursday at 3:00 pm, dearie.”
“Two days? Gran…I can’t, I have to write a novel in the next two months and I don’t even have an outline plotted out!” I began to hyperventilate, actually hyperventilate.
Do 30 year olds have a high chance of having strokes?
“Well then, this will be the perfect idea for your next novel. I love you, Maeve. Safe travels, call me when you land.” Then the line went dead.
She was a meddler, but this time she outdid herself, truly outdid herself. She had bought me a plane ticket to travel to a matchmaking festival in Ireland.
But the longer I thought about it, I realized that maybe she was right. This could be my next bestseller and could be the opportunity of ending up on the New York Bestseller’s list after all. An Irish Matchmaking romance.
This might be it—my ticket to fame, not love, but fame.
And I guess since love isn’t going my way, fame could at least.
