Page 29 of Irish Legacy

Margaret’s words about letters and lifelong hope cracked open a space in Quinn she hadn’t known was closed. She stood there fighting tears while the whole village watched.

Trish stood right beside her, solid and quiet. Quinn brushed that single tear from her cheek without thinking. The touch carried more intimacy than anything they had done in the dark.

After the crowd thinned she gave the local reporters all the time they wanted. She didn’t rush off, and she didn’t let a handler hover with a schedule. She answered every question about her grandfather’s life in California, about what it meant to be here in Kilvolan. The evening news crew caught her when the green finally emptied. She spoke straight into the camera with a steady voice, meaning every word.

Now the last stragglers had drifted out into the October mist, their goodnights fading down the wet street. Jack had slipped out the side door with a nod and a quiet happy birthday for his boss, leaving the deadbolt turned behind him.

The pub belonged only to the two of them. The peat fire kept its steady orange glow against the flagstones, and Quinn’s chest still carried the afternoon’s ache—the bronze boys frozen mid-laugh, the press of Trish’s shoulder on the green, the quiet certainty that had settled into Quinn’s ribs before the speeches even ended.

She hadn’t planned any of this. Not the extension on the rental, not the words she was about to say. But standing here, with Trish, the decision anchored her in a way nothing else had in years.

Trish moved behind the counter with that same quiet authority she carried the first night. She dried a pint glass with a cotton cloth, shoulders set like she already knew how this ended. The lines at the corners of her eyes looked deeper tonight. The sight twisted something sharp under Quinn’s ribs.

This woman had run her hands over every inch of Quinn’s body last night and this morning, had knelt in the shower like she never wanted to stop, and still she expected to be left behind. Quinn hated that look on her face.

The words came out softer than Quinn meant them to. “I heard you don’t do one night stands.”

Trish didn’t look up from the glass she was drying. “As a rule.” Her voice stayed flat. “No.”

“Good.” Quinn reached across the bar and took the glass out of her hands. She set it down on the scarred wood, her fingers brushing the damp ring left behind by a coaster. Her pulse beat steady in her throat. “Then let’s not make it one. Let’s call it the first.”

Trish finally lifted her eyes. The doubt there made Quinn’s stomach drop. She had seen Trish wrecked and open in the dark, but this version looked ready to bolt. Quinn’s stomach tightened. She had spent years charming rooms full of people who wanted something from her, but this conversation required something real.

“We live thousands of miles apart,” Trish said. The words came out rough, like they cost her.

“Not for the next six months.” Quinn pulled her phone from her coat pocket and slid it across the bar. The booking confirmation glowed on the screen, the rental house hers until April. She had done it from the rental kitchen right after Trish slipped out to open the bar, her thumb shaking against the screen as she confirmed the payment.

Now the proof sat between them like a dare.

Trish stared at the screen. Shock flickered across her face, then something closer to disbelief. Her fingers hovered near the phone but didn’t touch it. “I’m fifty, Quinn. And you’re… I don’t know how old you are because I can’t bring myself to Google it.”

The admission landed heavy. Quinn fought the urge to smile at how stubbornly Trish had avoided looking her up. “I’m thirty-two.”

Trish shut her eyes. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” She raked a hand through her dark hair, the waves falling messily around her sharp jaw. The motion exposed the long line of her neck, the same neck Quinn had kissed that morning until Trish gasped her name. “I was eighteen when you were born. I was drinking in this pub when you were born.”

The spiral built in Trish’s voice, the same panic she had shown upstairs when she tried to talk herself out of wanting this. Quinn’s own chest ached with it. She had spent four days respecting the distance Trish kept trying to build, but the statue this afternoon had cracked her open. Those two friends hadn’t let fear stop them. Quinn refused to either.

Trish tossed the cloth onto the counter. She stepped out from the narrow space behind the bar, moving onto the open stone floor like she needed room to breathe. Quinn closed the distance between them.

She reached for Trish’s hand. Her other palm cupped Trish’s cheek, thumb brushing the warm skin that still carried a trace of outdoor chill. A low hum traveled up Quinn’s arm. She had touched Trish in every possible way last night, but standing here fully clothed carried a heavier weight.

“Look at me,” Quinn said. “Is that really what you’re scared of?”

“No.” Trish’s breath ghosted across Quinn’s wrist. Her eyes stayed open, meeting Quinn’s gaze entirely. “I’m scared you’ll wake up one morning and wonder what in God’s name you’re doing in Kilvolan.”

The fear in Trish’s voice twisted deeper into Quinn. Natalie and Emma sat in their cottage right now, moving around each other with that easy familiarity, like the village had always been enough. “Look at Natalie and Emma.”

“Natalie gave up her whole life to be here.” Trish’s free hand came up to grip Quinn’s wrist, not pushing away, just holding on. “I won’t have you giving up anything for me.”

Quinn shook her head. Her thumb kept moving over Trish’s cheek in slow strokes, tracing the faint line of tension near her jaw. “Natalie’s still acting. She just doesn’t live in LA anymore. Forget the logistics for a second. I’ve lived more this last week than I ever have. I’d like to see where this goes.” She let the silence sit for a beat, her pulse steady against Trish’s wrist. “So the only question is, do you want this? Because I know I do.”

Trish stared at her. The doubt cracked, just enough. “Yes.”

Then Trish kissed her. The movement came sudden and sure, her mouth tasting faintly of the birthday whiskey they had shared earlier. Quinn’s eyes slid shut. This kiss carried none of the careful restraint from their first night.

Trish’s lips parted, tongue sliding against hers with a hunger that matched the ache Quinn had carried since the shower that morning. A heavy warmth settled low in Quinn’s body. She had spent years letting women chase her, but Trish’s hands on her now offered an anchor she hadn’t known she missed. The memorial, the letters, the break in Trish’s voice on the green—it all sharpened into a single, overriding need.

Trish guided her backward until the edge of a tall wooden stool caught the back of Quinn’s knees. Trish’s hands gripped her waist, pressing her down onto the worn leather seat. Quinn’s legs opened without a thought.