Page 12 of Irish Legacy

Trish’s mouth curved in a slow smirk. “Maybe you are delirious.” She slipped out from behind the bar, hips moving with a steady, unhurried grace, and disappeared into a back room. She returned carrying a mop and bucket. The faint scent of pine cleaner trailed her. She set them down near the wall. “Last chance to run.”

Quinn stepped in and took the mop handle. Their fingers brushed. Quinn smiled. “You’re stuck with me.”

Trish gave a small huff that might have been a laugh and turned back to the bar. Quinn pushed the mop across the stone floor in steady arcs. The rhythm kept her hands busy while her mind wandered back to the snug, to the sharp intake of air from Trish under her thumbs, the faint scent of stout and rain and warm skin. Behind the counter Trish moved with practiced efficiency. Glasses clinked as she loaded the dishwasher. The machine hummed to life. Steam rose in faint curls. Quinn tracked the flex of Trish’s forearms, the sure grip of her fingers on each pint glass.

The mop slid under the last table. Quinn wrung it out. Trish finished with the glasses and wiped down the taps, her movements grounded in years of doing this alone. The peat fire had burned to embers. Quinn’s rental house waited cold and empty a short walk away. The thought of going back there to more silence sat heavy in her stomach.

Quinn set the mop back in the bucket by the wall. The wooden handle clacked against the metal rim, cold water sloshing against her knuckles. Trish looked up from behind the bar. Quinn’s gaze dropped to Trish’s mouth for half a second before she caught herself.

“You really didn’t have to stay and help,” Trish said.

“I wanted to.” Quinn held her gaze, letting the truth sit there without decoration.

Trish wiped her hands on a dry towel and met Quinn’s eyes across the polished counter. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Quinn walked back to the bar, studying the long stretch of wood that still separated them.

Maybe she should take the hint. Emma had basically spelled it out earlier. Trish wouldn’t be interested. The sting hit sharper than it should after only one night. But Quinn hadn’t imagined the shift in the snug, the way Trish’s body had yielded under her hands, the soft sound she’d bitten back when Quinn’s thumbs dug into that stubborn knot. She had been melting the ice.

Or maybe she’d only imagined it because she wanted it so badly.

“Well, I guess I’ll go.” Quinn kept her voice light. She half hoped Trish would step out from behind that damn bar, close some of the distance, but the older woman stayed put, hands resting on the wood like she belonged there and nowhere else. “Thanks again for tonight. For being so welcoming.”

Trish lifted one eyebrow. That sharp jaw, the faint lines at the corners of her eyes. She was stunning. “Don’t get your expectations up too high. This wasn’t a normal night in O’Shea’s. It’ll be much quieter tomorrow. Well, later today.”

The correction sat between them, practical and final. Quinn turned before she could say something stupid and slipped back into the snug. Her coat hung over the high-backed seat, still damp from the rain she’d arrived in hours ago.

She wanted to make another move, to test the heat she knew had been building all night, but Trish wasn’t handing her anything to work with. Confidence had never been a problem for Quinn until this grounded, unimpressed pub owner.

Quinn shrugged into the coat. “I think I’d be happy here any night.” The words came out warmer than she meant them. It had been good to sit in the corner where nobody cared who she was.

She flashed a smile as she zipped up, the automatic expression that usually got her whatever she wanted. It withered under Trish’s gaze. Quinn gave up and headed for the side door.

The moment she cracked it open, rain slammed down in heavy sheets, bouncing off the lane. Wind whistled through the narrow gap, cold and sharp enough to cut through her coat. “Shit.” She yanked the door shut again.

Trish came out from behind the bar then, movements unhurried. “I’ll wait with you until it eases off.”

Quinn made her way back over, peeling the coat off again and hanging it on a hook under the bar. Trish pushed herself up onto a stool a few inches away. Quinn stepped into her space. She moved between Trish’s knees, close enough that the denim of her jeans brushed the inside of Trish’s black pants.

Quinn rested her palms lightly on Trish’s thighs. The fabric was warm. Her mouth went dry. This close, a faint flush sat high on Trish’s cheeks, her chest rising and falling in a quicker rhythm.

“I can’t figure you out,” Quinn said, the words spilling straight from the mess in her head. She kept her voice low.

“No?”

That single syllable settled deep in Quinn’s chest. She stayed anchored between Trish’s legs. Her fingertips moved slowly over the black fabric. “I feel like I’ve dropped enough subtle hints over the course of the night.” Her palms flattened against the outside of Trish’s thighs, thumbs smoothing over the material. “And while I’m pretty sure you’re interested, you’re not exactly…” She paused, searching for words that wouldn’t send Trish walking away. “Giving me the go-ahead. I feel like you’re running from me.”

Trish tilted her head slightly. The movement exposed the long line of her throat, the same spot Quinn had wanted to taste earlier. “You might be the most confident woman I’ve ever met.”

Quinn wanted to push harder, to earn a real reaction. Her thumbs stroked slow circles on Trish’s thighs. A faint tremor lived under the fabric, betraying the calm mask. It matched the sharp need that had started the moment those shoulders had leaned back into her chest.

“Are you saying I’ve got it wrong? That I’m being presumptuous?” Quinn leaned in a fraction more. She wanted to slide her hands higher, but she held back. Barely.

Trish’s lips parted. She didn’t close the distance. Instead she studied Quinn, tracing the lines of her face with a heavy, unreadable attention. Quinn had spent years with women throwing themselves at her, yet here she stood, terrified this one would send her away.

“You’re not wrong.” Trish’s voice dropped to a near whisper.

Quinn’s thumbs kept stroking, slow and deliberate. Trish’s breath quickened. Her pupils swallowed the dark irises. Quinn shifted her weight, pressing closer until their chests nearly brushed.