Page 27 of Irish Legacy

Trish shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets against the October chill. The tarpaulin hung heavy over the bronze statue on its plinth, the ropes ready to pull it free. A decent crowd had turned out, maybe sixty people clustered on the green, boots scuffing the damp grass. Quinn stood beside the covered figure in a tailored black wool coat that cut sharp at the waist and fell to mid-thigh. Blond hair loose around her shoulders, blue eyes steady on the podium. She looked every inch the star. Wanting settled heavy in Trish’s stomach just watching her stand there.

That same face had been the first thing she woke to this morning.

At nine the alarm had blared through the bedroom. Quinn had been draped half across her, one leg thrown over Trish’s thigh, arm curled under her breasts, breathing slow and warm against her neck.

Trish had lain there a moment, body heavy with a forgotten ache. Every muscle remembered the night. Hours of it. Quinn’s mouth, Quinn’s hands, the way she had looked up from between Trish’s legs like she had all the time in the world. Trish’s stomach had let out a low, traitorous rumble, loud enough to make Quinn stir.

Quinn had reached out, slapped the phone silent without lifting her head. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that at eight.”

“Did I?” Quinn’s voice had come out gravel-rough. She had pressed a lazy kiss beneath Trish’s ear, then another lower, teeth grazing the tendon. “We didn’t fall asleep till two.”

Trish had rolled over to look at Quinn’s face properly. She had looked soft in the morning light, lips still swollen, faint marks on her collarbones where Trish had gotten carried away. The wanting flared all over again.

They had made it to the shower eventually. Together. Soap-slick skin, Quinn’s back against the tiles, Trish on her knees again because she couldn’t seem to stop wanting to taste her. Breakfast had been rushed after that. They ate eggs and toast standing up at the counter, Quinn stealing bites from Trish’s plate between kisses that kept threatening to turn into more.

They had barely made it to the green by eleven. People were already gathered, folding chairs set out for the older villagers, kids kicking a ball near the trees. Trish had slipped into the crowd while Quinn went to stand with Margaret. Now here they were.

Emma and Natalie appeared at her elbow. Natalie gave her a quick smile. Emma’s mouth curved with something far too knowing.

“Morning,” Emma said, voice low. “You look refreshed.”

Warmth crept up Trish’s neck, but she kept her face neutral. “I slept well. That’s all.”

Emma didn’t buy a word of it, the smirk deepening.

Before she could say anything else, Margaret Donovan tapped the microphone to quiet the green. Margaret’s voice carried clear across the grass.

“Today we remember a man who left Kilvolan as a young man but never forgot where he came from. Anthony Fallon loved this place. His granddaughter, Quinn Fallon, has come all the way from Los Angeles to be with us.”

Cheering broke out across the damp grass.

“Is Trish O’Shea here?” Margaret’s voice cut straight through the noise.

Trish went entirely still. She had no business up there. This was Quinn’s moment, Quinn’s grandfather. She stayed exactly where she was, shoulders tight.

Margaret scanned the faces and spotted her. “Trish, come up here.”

Her neck burned. Heads turned. Margaret had no reason to drag her into this.

Trish walked forward, boots slipping on the wet grass. Quinn stood motionless beside the draped statue with her coat collar turned up against the wind. Trish stopped next to her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Neither of them shifted away. The contact was an anchor in the sudden wash of village attention.

Quinn didn’t turn her head. She spoke low enough for Trish alone, the words barely moving her lips. “Did you know about this?”

Trish kept her eyes on Margaret. “Know what?”

Quinn didn’t know either. The realization hovered between them in the cold air. Trish swallowed hard against the tightness in her throat. After everything they had done in the dark last night, standing beside her in daylight in front of the entire parish felt ten times more dangerous.

Margaret held out two ends of a thick rope cord. She pressed one into Quinn’s hand and the other into Trish’s. The fibers scratched rough against Trish’s palm.

“It’s only right that Anthony’s granddaughter and Séamus’s daughter do the honours.”

Séamus’s daughter. The words landed wrong. This statue was for Tony Fallon. Her father had nothing to do with it.

The rope weighed more than it should. Quinn’s fingers tightened on her end. She glanced over for half a second, the shared confusion obvious in the tight line of her mouth.

Quinn started the count under her breath. “On three. One, two…”