Page 10 of Irish Legacy

“Why don’t we go back into the snug?” Quinn asked, voice low enough that it stayed between them.

Trish gave a short nod, snagged her pint off the counter, and headed for the snug. Quinn slid in right behind her, bringing the scent of rain and expensive fabric into the confined space.

“I’m surprised you’re still out,” Trish said. “You got in this morning?”

Quinn offered a half smile that hit somewhere low in Trish’s stomach. The expression pulled at the corner of her mouth, lighting those blue eyes with open, unmistakable invitation.

“I’m coming up to twenty-four hours awake. Yeah. I might be getting a little delirious.”

“Hm. Could be those.” Trish tipped her chin toward the Corona bottle, trying to keep her tone light.

“That too. But I’ve really had one of the best nights of my life, so I’m glad I didn’t give in to the tiredness.”

A rough laugh escaped Trish’s throat before she could catch it. A world-famous actress sitting in O’Shea’s claiming this as one of her best nights. The idea was ridiculous. “How is that possible?”

Quinn sighed and leaned back against the high wooden panel. The movement stretched the thin fabric of her jumper taut across her collarbones. Trish’s gaze caught on the hollow of her throat before she forced it away.

“It’s just been such a long time since I’ve been able to relax and be myself. Even with friends. With women. I feel like I’m always trying to live up to my name, my reputation. Tonight has been the opposite of that. No one has even glanced in my direction. I loved working with Natalie, so it was great to see her again, and yeah… I’ve just had such an unexpectedly amazing night.”

This woman had the entire world at her feet, yet here she sat, sounding almost grateful for the anonymity of a half-empty Irish pub. It made something dangerous flicker behind Trish’s ribs, a crack in the routine she’d built so carefully.

“Well, maybe you’re just easily pleased.” The double meaning dropped out of her mouth on its own. The words hung there between them, too late to pull back.

Quinn’s grin spread slow and wicked, the kind that probably closed film deals and started scandals. “That is actually a pretty accurate statement.”

Sharp, uninvited heat rushed through Trish. A heavy pulse thrummed low in her belly, a raw want she hadn’t entertained in years. She shifted on the bench, thighs pressing together against the sudden ache.

Her mind supplied an immediate, vivid image of exactly how easily pleased Quinn might be, those blue eyes going hazy, that mouth parted on a gasp.

“Turn around,” Quinn said.

Trish blinked, the pint glass halfway to her lips. She must have misheard. “What?”

“Turn around.” Quinn’s voice dropped. The seduction in it was unmistakable now, low enough that it vibrated straight into Trish’s sternum.

Trish took a long gulp of Guinness, letting the cold bite ground her, then set the glass down with a dull clunk. She twisted awkwardly on the hard wooden bench until her back faced Quinn.

Quinn scooted closer. The bench creaked under the shift in weight. Then fingers brushed Trish’s hair, and Quinn gathered the heavy waves and pushed them gently over her left shoulder. The touch left a trail of heat along her scalp. Quinn’s hands settled next, fingertips light on the tight cords of Trish’s neck, palms pressing into the slope of her shoulders.

“Is this okay?” Quinn asked, voice barely above a whisper, warm breath ghosting the shell of Trish’s ear.

Those hands settled fully on her neck and shoulders. Warm. Confident. The pads of Quinn’s thumbs found the knot that had lived under Trish’s right shoulder blade for years.

Trish cleared her throat against the sudden thickness there. “Yeah, but what⁠—”

“You were rubbing your neck earlier.” Quinn cut her off, voice intimate in the tiny space. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good with my hands, so… let me see if I can improve things.”

Trish barely had time to register the words before Quinn committed. Both hands worked into the tight muscles, thumbs circling deep, fingers spreading to knead the slope of her shoulders. The pressure was perfect, firm enough to border on pain and then easing into pure relief. A moan tried to climb out of Trish’s throat. She bit it back, teeth sinking into her lower lip until it stung.

Quinn’s breath ghosted warm over her ear. “Just relax. You’re so tense.”

Relax.

An impossible demand to make while pressing bare hands right over Trish’s collarbone.

She tried anyway, forcing her shoulders to drop, letting her head tip forward. The movement bared more of her neck, and Quinn took it as permission. Her fingers slid higher, working into the base of Trish’s skull with slow, deliberate strokes.

Each pass unspooled the tension in Trish’s spine, sending the energy straight downward. The ache sharpened into a hollow, insistent need that made her shift on the hard bench. Denim dragged against her center, pulling a soft, bitten-off intake of breath from her lungs.