Page 22 of Irish Legacy

Around five o’clock Emma came in, but didn’t stop at the taps the way a customer would, and walked straight around the end of the bar. She wrapped both arms around Trish and held on.

“Happy birthday,” Emma said against her shoulder, quiet enough that the man at the end of the counter didn’t look up from his pint.

“Thanks.”

Emma pulled back, grinning. “My present to you is a night off.”

“I don’t need a night off.”

“Take it anyway.”

“I’ve no plans, Emma. A night off would be wasted on me.”

“Put on your jacket and go outside. See what happens.”

“Outside.” Trish set the rag down. “Now?”

“Now.”

“If you’ve set something up, I’ll never forgive you. I mean it.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Emma lifted both hands, but her face gave her away. “Just go.”

Trish took her jacket off the hook by the till. She pushed her arms into the sleeves and braced for the worst. She really didn’t like surprises.

The chilly evening air hit her the second she pushed the door open. A silver car sat parked across the narrow street, and Quinn leaned against it with her ankles crossed.

Trish stopped on the step.

Navy trousers, cut close through the hip. A navy striped waistcoat with nothing over it, buttoned up over Quinn’s ribs and leaving her arms bare. Her blond hair fell across her shoulders in loose waves, dark liner heavy around her blue eyes, looking completely unfazed by the cold.

Trish gripped the edge of the doorframe. “Are you here for me?”

“Yes.”

“Where are we going?”

“No idea.” Quinn pushed off the car and slid her hands into her pockets. The waistcoat pulled tight across her chest. “Where would you go if you could go anywhere?”

The sensible answers came first, the way they always did.

Somewhere to watch the sunset.

The little Italian place on Quay Street she’d saved for a special occasion.

But she was tired of being sensible.

“Take me back to yours.”

The words came out low, almost rough, and they surprised her as much as they seemed to surprise Quinn.

16

Quinn turned the key and the heavy oak door gave way without a sound. Cool air brushed her face, carrying the damp from the tall windows. She stepped aside so Trish could enter first. The small courtesy was the only solid thing she had left to hold on to.

Trish moved past her into the pale living room, jacket still buttoned, shoulders set like she was measuring every inch of the space. The purple blouse underneath caught the lamplight when she shifted. Quinn closed the door, turning the lock out of habit. The house expanded outward the second the latch clicked. Every small sound sat exposed under the high ceilings.

“I have wine,” Quinn said. “Red or white?”