It doesn’t seem real. Places like this only exist in movies. I’m Cameron Diaz in that film where she switches lives with Kate Winslet. A director is about to yell cut. Someone get my extra hot oat milk latte.

“So this is Mairead,” Freya says without any of the enthusiasm she had when talking about penguins and Archie. “It’s not quite London or New York City, but y’know, we’ve got a pub and a Tesco and sometimes we light things on fire in the woods, which is always a laugh.”

She’s right. This definitely isn’t New York City. There’s no constant thrum of traffic. No executives in Gucci spilling onto the streets. No tourists stopping in the middle of the road. No overcrowded clubs. No hand crawling up my thigh. No meet me in my office. Or baby, it’s just business.

I’m in a goddamn fairytale. Woodland creatures are probably going to start singing to me. What did I get myself into?

“I figured I’d drop you off at Naomhán House so you can get settled in for the night, and then tomorrow you’ll meet everyone. We’re doing a Sunday roast and Holly’s coming up to see you, so you’ll definitely need some rest. I hope you like Pictionary because we’re very competitive.”

“I’ve… never played Pictionary.”

Or had a family dinner.

“That’s a shame,” she says. “It’s easy. You’ve just got to draw things. Ollie’s not here, so there will be significantly less random willies. Mum always starts him off at -10 points because he takes the piss out of everything.”

From the few encounters I’ve had with Ollie Dunbar, that sounds about right. He was a client at the PR firm I was interning at last year. His former publicist, Asher McGowan, was always complaining about something Ollie had done. I never thought much of it. Asher complained about everything.

But I’d rather not think about Asher McGowan or his girlfriend, Olivia Langley. Because I still haven’t forgiven myself for the mess I made.

“Here we are.”

Freya stops towards the end of the village center. Outside of the car, a streetlight flickers against an emerald green door and a matching sign of a pub that reads THE ARCHER’S BOW in faded gold letters. It’s sandwiched between a pharmacy that’s closed and out-of-place storefront that’s painted a crisp white with neatly trimmed vines outlining the lilac window frames. In spring, I imagine, brightly colored flowers bloom in all four window boxes.

“This doesn’t look like a hotel,” I say.

“That’s because it’s not,” Freya says. “It’s Gran’s house.”

“Holly made arrangements for me at Naomhán House.”