Page 11 of Irish Legacy

Trish kept her eyes closed. Quinn’s thumbs worked slow circles into the base of her skull, pressing out years of tension stored in the tight muscles there. The pressure blurred the edges of the room. She had no idea how long she had been sitting like this. Minutes. Longer. The only thing that existed was the steady rhythm of those hands and the heavy drag of want building low in her belly every time Quinn’s breath brushed the side of her neck.

She should pull away. She should say something about closing time, anything that would reestablish the boundary between them.

Instead Trish let herself lean back, the last of her resistance dissolving as her shoulders found the solid warmth of Quinn’s chest. She gave in to it, let the weight of her own body press into that steady strength, the heat of Quinn seeping through the thin fabric of her shirt.

Quinn didn’t shift away or tense up. She simply took the weight, her chest lifting in a slow breath that pushed right between Trish’s shoulder blades.

The side door slammed shut with a sharp bang.

Trish jerked upright, snapping away from the contact. Quinn’s hands slid off her shoulders, leaving damp, cold air in their place.

The pub had gone completely quiet except for the steady sound of rain tapping against the front windows.

Quinn stood. The bench creaked as she moved. She stuck her head around the partition, blond hair swinging with the motion.

“They’re all gone,” Quinn said.

Trish stared at the empty pint glass in front of her, her mind still thick and slow, wrapped in the memory of those fingers on her skin. She dragged a hand through her hair. “Okay. Time to lock up then.”

She pushed to her feet, her legs unsteady underneath her. The snug suddenly seemed far too small.

Quinn hadn’t moved from the doorway. She stood there watching Trish with those blue eyes that had been fixed on her all night.

Trish stepped past her into the main bar. The gap was too narrow. She lifted a hand to make the turn, her palm catching on the flare of Quinn’s hip. Quinn’s body was solid and warm under the thin jumper, yielding slightly to the pressure as Trish slid past. Their chests brushed anyway, a firm press of breast against breast that locked Trish’s breath in her throat.

Trish kept moving. She started gathering the last glasses, stacking them, and bringing them behind the bar to load up the dishwasher, keeping the counter between them.

In a few days she would be fifty. Part of her wanted to give in to whatever Quinn was offering, to do something that was uncharacteristic of her, but why? Was she having a mid-life crisis?

Why had she imagined Quinn’s hands touching way more than her neck and shoulders?

Why had she felt more with Quinn than she had on any of the dates she’d gone on in the last ten years combined?

It wasn’t because Quinn was famous. That much Trish could be sure of.

She had zero interest in celebrity news, in living a lifestyle that Trish couldn’t even begin to fathom, with mansions and sports cars. It just wasn’t something that intrigued her.

But Quinn did.

The question was, what was she going to do about it?

6

The press of Trish’s body lingered against Quinn’s front, the brief drag of fingertips across her hip playing on a loop. The contact had lasted less than a second. Her chest held the memory of Trish’s breasts, a solid warmth that tightened Quinn’s stomach. She stood frozen by the snug’s half-door while Trish moved behind the bar like nothing had happened.

Trish’s dark hair swung with each efficient motion. The worn cotton of her shirt stretched across her back. Those shoulders had yielded under Quinn’s hands minutes ago, tight muscle unwinding by slow degrees. She wanted to put her palms there again. She wanted to slide them lower, map the dip of Trish’s waist, learn exactly how that body would react if she pressed closer.

Rain lashed the dark windows. Quinn crossed to the nearest table. She lifted a stool, flipped it, and set it on the scarred wood with a soft thud. Her hands carried the memory of kneading those knots. Trish had melted back into her chest with a silent surrender that left an ache high in Quinn’s thighs.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Trish’s voice came low from behind the bar. Quinn met her steady gaze across the room. Trish watched her with a guarded expression, one hand resting on the counter, the other holding a glass.

“If I help, we’ll get out of here faster.” The words left Quinn’s mouth before she could weigh them. They landed heavier than intended. Her mind supplied images she had no business imagining—Trish’s mouth on hers, that dark hair spread across a pillow, the sound Trish might make if Quinn got her hands where she wanted them. Emma’s words echoed anyway. She’s single. She’s out. But I don’t think she’d be interested.

Trish stared at her for a long second. There was no flinch and no invitation, just a quiet assessment that made Quinn feel exposed in a way red carpets never had.

“Where will I find the mop?”