Free Chasing River (Burying Water #3) by K. A. Tucker

for her, but, really, she should be a bit more wary of me. Yet it’s that trust, that admiration that radiates from her as she watches me, that’s reeling me in tighter by the second, making me lean forward even closer, ignoring the printer that keeps churning with orders. “Go on, then . . . Try it. This one’s on me.”
    A small bloom of red touches her cheeks and I wonder what that’s about, as she brings the glass to her mouth to take the tiniest sip. A caramel froth mustache decorates her top lip when she pulls it away, smiling. When she catches me staring at it—at her lips—her cheeks brighten even more.
    “Better than what you’ve had before, right?”
    She nods, swiping at the foam with her thumb. Thoughts flicker across her face. “How did you know?”
    “Because Guinness doesn’t travel well. Everyone says it’s better when poured at home.”
    She leans in, settling a shrewd gaze on me, her voice low and suddenly so serious. “That’s not what I meant.”
    In the blink of an eye, we’re back to the Green. I still don’t know what to say, so I peel away from the counter and grab a few orders to stall. The bar’s filling up quick. Soon I’ll have customers banking either side of us and this conversation won’t be able to continue. I could drag it out, let her walk out of here without any answers at all. I could let her form her own conclusions.
    Likely they’d be bad.
    Maybe they’d be right.
    “I was jogging in the park,” I finally say. “I saw a guy drop it in the grass before you came running.”
    “I didn’t see anyone else.” Her pretty brow pinches in thought. “Then again, I didn’t see you either. I guess I was more focused on my map.” A pause. “How did you know it was going to go off when it did?”
    “I didn’t,” I lie. “I saw it and I saw you, and I ran as fast as I could.” My gaze drifts over that creamy, perfect skin, that long neck, those slender arms. What would she have looked like, shredded by flying plastic?
    “But why wouldn’t you stay and tell the police? The . . . gardai.” She tests that word out on her tongue with a cute scowl.
    Selma slides in then to grab napkins and more drink orders, stalling the conversation. I wait until she’s gone to lean over the bar again, this time closer. Close enough to avoid ears, close enough to catch the smell of spearmint on her breath. I remember it now. It’s all coming back to me, the feel of her beneath me on that grass. The terror that stopped my heart as I ran for her, believing I wouldn’t make it. The overwhelming relief I felt when I knew she’d be okay.
    When I don’t answer, she pushes. “You saw the guy who did it. You could identify him.” She watches me and I can’t help but think that this innocent-looking American bird is weighing my answers with the skill of someone who can see through bullshit.
    So I decide on a skewed version of the truth. “What if I don’t want that person knowing who I am, or that I could put him in prison?” I’m sure she’s read the papers. They didn’t waste time throwing out suspect groups. One, in particular. Pipe bombs are one of their signature methods, after all. She can’t be so ignorant as to not understand the dangers associated with those three little letters that mean so much when combined. IRA.
    She nods slowly. “You’re scared of what he may do to you.”
    “And to my family.” Now it’s my turn to ask a question. “What did you tell the gardai about me?”
    A flash of guilt fills her face. “They were asking me a lot of questions and inspecting my backpack. At first, I’m pretty sure they thought I set the bomb and was pretending to be a victim.”
    “You’re joking.” I definitely didn’t see that coming, but I guess female bombers aren’t unheard of. Especially young, innocent-looking ones.
    “I wasn’t hurt, right? Other than this gash on my lip.” She touches it lightly with her fingertip, drawing my attention to it