Page 21 of Irish Legacy

“I’ll make it up to you. I promise,” Quinn murmured against her mouth.

“Enjoy your dinner,” Trish said. She gave her a brief, closing kiss, then watched Quinn turn and leave the room. The floorboards creaked as she headed down the stairs.

Trish swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, smoothing her clothes before fixing her hair. Then she headed for the door and started down the stairs.

14

Steam curled off the surface of the bathwater, thick enough to blur the edges of the room. The roar of the running tap echoed off the tiles, holding the deep, heavy silence of the rental house at bay. Quinn reached down, turned the brass knob, and cut the flow.

Stillness settled in immediately, but for once, it didn’t press on her chest.

Quinn leaned back against the smooth porcelain, letting the heat soak into her shoulders. Four days in Ireland, and the frantic, buzzing energy of Los Angeles had finally drained out of her blood. Instead of the usual restless churn, her mind just kept snagging on the memory of Trish’s hand hooked into her belt loop.

She looked toward the dark window. She’d lost complete track of time on that bed upstairs above the bar. She’d nearly missed her dinner meeting entirely because Trish had pinned her to a mattress and kissed every coherent thought out of her head.

Trish wanted her. Not the actress. Just her.

On the drive back from the hotel, Quinn had slowed the rental car as she passed O’Shea’s. Light from the front windows had cut across the wet street. She’d killed the engine for a second, staring at the heavy wood door, fighting the urge to walk straight up the side alley and knock until Trish answered.

She’d started the car again instead. She’d told Trish she would make it up to her, and turning up at eleven on a Sunday night just because it was convenient wasn’t making it up to anyone. Trish wasn’t a late-night option to pick up and drop whenever Quinn had a spare hour. She deserved better than that.

Quinn slid deeper into the bath, the heat loosening the tight knot between her shoulder blades. She reached out to the chair beside her and picked up her phone.

She unlocked the screen and opened a new message to Natalie.

Hey. Quick question for you. When’s Trish’s birthday?

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Tomorrow.

Any plans?

No. Emma just double-checked with her yesterday. She doesn’t want a party or anything so no plans.

Quinn shifted against the porcelain.

What about a night off?

Yeah. I’m sure Emma could step in. Convincing Trish will be another thing.

Quinn let out a quiet laugh.

She deserves that much at least.

What are you up to?

Quinn looked down at the glowing screen.

I’m not even sure.

15

So this is what fifty feels like.

Trish had been dreading the number for the last year. Now it had come and gone, and unsurprisingly nothing had changed. It was just a number.

Some of that was Quinn. Trish didn’t fight it. All day she’d caught herself stopped mid-task, the rag gone still, her thumb pressed to her bottom lip. Yesterday’s kiss had left her with a low hum she hadn’t felt in a very long time.