Mismatched by Elle Casey, Amanda McKeon Page B

saying, it’s not in English. I love the cadence of his words, even though I don’t understand a single one of them. And he’s not bad looking, either. Maybe a little rough around the edges, but … hmmmm … maybe this matchmaking festival won’t be all bad after all.
    Now I’m really hoping we can finish the business of getting Erin’s bar put back whole soon so we have some playtime left over. If the shepherds look this good, I can’t imagine what the rest of them might look like. The old feelings are coming back … the ones that say men in suits are boring and men in dirty jeans are fun. Rawr .
    Erin nods a few times and then says, “So how far is it, then?”
    I frown because she seems to have understood him. I thought she said her Irish was rough. “What’d he say?” I ask in a loud whisper.
    She glances over at me. “Can’t you hear him? Clean out your ears.”
    “Of course I can hear him, but that doesn’t mean I understand Irish or Pig Latin or whatever he’s speaking.”
    She laughs. “He’s speaking English, fool.”
    He finishes up whatever it is he was saying and Erin waves, rolling her window back up with the other hand. “Thank you! Good luck to ye!” he shouts with a grin.
    We drive away, and I turn around to stare at him. He’s waving at the back of our car and his dog is running after a stray sheep. I’m kind of hoping he’ll be at the festival tonight. I’d do a turn or two around the dance floor with him.
    “Seriously, what’d he say?” I ask, turning back to look out the front window.
    “He said we’re on the right road. We took the back way, but we won’t lose any time. Doolin’s straight ahead.”
    “What language was he speaking?”
    “I told you. English. He had a bit of an accent, though.”
    I snort. “A bit? Holy understatement. I’m going to need a translation app, I can tell already.” I pull out my phone and then growl when I remember that I can’t use the wifi in this country. The charges on my plan will be more than my mortgage payment, which means no translation app for me.
    She pats me on the arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll start getting it. Oh, look! Houses!”
    My gaze follows her pointing finger. The roofs are almost the same color as the ground and the buildings themselves are very squat and low to the ground. They’d be easy to just drive right by without noticing when they’re off in the distance like that.
    “What are those roofs made of? They look like really thick bushes.”
    “I dunno. Reeds. Straw. Stuff you can grow around here.”
    “Is it waterproof?” I can’t believe the way they swoop and turn around the corners of the houses. They remind me of Lloyd Christmas’s haircut with the way they’re cut straight across, like bangs on a bowl cut.
    “Of course they’re waterproof. Ireland did actually make it out of the middle ages, you know.”
    “But they’re … weeds.”
    “ Reeds , not weeds. And look. There are some more modern roofs too.” She points to the edge of town that’s quickly coming up to meet us. “See? Tile. Just like home.”
    “Home Dublin, not home Boston.”
    “Yeah. Right.” Erin goes silent.
    I’m wondering why the idea of home always seems to shut her up, but I don’t press her for explanations. Now’s not the right time. Our most immediate need is to find shelter, and even though those reedy weedy roofs look interesting, I’m kind of hoping our B&B has a tile roof over our heads. It has to rain a lot here with the way everything is so misty and green, and I seriously doubt I could handle water dripping on my head while I sleep. I’m all up for new experiences and getting into the culture and all, but I’m pretty sure that the water dripping thing is used as a torture device in POW camps. I have to draw the line somewhere. Yes, I’ll eat a few balls and a loop of intestine, but no, I cannot sleep in a rain barrel. I Just. Can’t. Do it. Captain.
    “He said we just have to take five turns and