Read Online Mismatched by Elle Casey, Amanda McKeon - Free Book Online Page B

Romans do. Comprende?”
    I sit on the end of the bed, genuinely flummoxed once again by Ridlee’s logic. “Sorry, no—no comprendo. Are we gonna eat gelato and strut in the street? ‘Cause the west of Ireland doesn’t really allow for that kinda thing. There’s the weather for one, it’s waay too cold for gelato in the evenings, and strutting in the rain seems kinda desperate. And it almost always rains here.”
    Ridlee raises her eyes to the heavens theatrically. “No muppet, we’re gonna get us some cute Irish guys.” It’s her ta-da moment.
    “Eh, I hate to rain on your parade, Rid, but I think you’ll find that the term cute Irish guys is in fact an oxymoron. Why do you think I moved to the States?” I ask over my shoulder, as I head to the bathroom to freshen up.
    Fifteen minutes later I am showered and dressed in a clean pair of jeans, a crisp-ish white shirt, and I’ve changed my green sneakers for my newer white ones.
    Ridlee gives me the once-over, her chin resting in her hand. Then she takes a hair comb, emblazoned with emerald-coloured stones from the dresser and expertly puts my hair into one of those messy chignon buns. Next, she pulls out what looks like lipgloss and rubs a finger tip full across my lips and into my cheeks. “Better,” she murmurs to herself. She steps back again and looks me up and down. “Something’s missing…”
    “It’s cool, Rid. Let’s go. It’s bum-fuck Ireland. It really doesn’t matter what I look like. We’re here to find this Flanagan guy and go, right?”
    “Aha!” Ridlee searches through the tiny wardrobe in the corner. That’s one thing about Rid, she takes care of her clothes. I notice now that she has unpacked her cases and is airing any items that may have suffered creasing while in transit. She produces a cute, tailored navy jacket and holds it out for me to put on.
    “Nah, Ridlee. That’s your Prada jacket. What if I spill a drink on it or something?”
    “Then you’ll have a dry-cleaning bill, won’t you?”
    Reluctantly I shuffle into the jacket.
    “Spill anything on this and you’re dead,” she whispers in my ear.
    I snap my head around to see if she’s smiling, but she’s turned away reaching for something else on the dresser.
    “Scary Ridlee.”
    “It’s a joke, silly! But seriously, just be careful.”
    I check myself out in the mirror and smile. I look good. The jacket is beautifully cut and even makes my Gap jeans look stylish. Ridlee looks amazing in her five-hundred-dollar jeans, vintage chiffon blouse, angora sweater, and brown leather boots just high enough to be sexy but low enough for the countryside. We stand in front of the mirror, arms linked, smiling.
    “Let’s go paint Doolin red!” cries Ridlee with more exuberance than I’ve seen in her since she started at law school. I guess she’s ready to let her hair down. We march down the stairs, passing Mrs. O’Grady on the way out.
    “Is off out dancin’ youse are?” she asks, brightly.
    “Yes, Mrs. O’Grady. We thought we’d have a glass of sherry or a shandy or something in one of the pubs,” I say, expertly using my older people skills again to deflect any suspicion that we are anything other than angelic.
    “Who’s Sherry?” asks Ridlee, utterly perplexed. I elbow her in the ribs.
    “Sure the craic will be ninety. Go on. Enjoy yerselves. But not too much!” Mrs. O'Grady chuckles to herself as she walks back toward the kitchen.
    “Don’t forget, eleven pm curfew, ladies!” she yells just as I’ve almost steered Ridlee out the door.
    “What? Wait…was that old lady trying to sell us crack cocaine?” Ridlee’s aghast. “And what the hell was that about a curfew? I’m twenty-four years old.” We’re walking down the street but Ridlee keeps straining her head to look back at the B&B.
    “Relax, Ridlee. Craic! It means fun and lively conversation.”
    “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” She stops dead in her tracks and pulls on the sleeve of my