Page 9 of Irish Legacy

Trish stepped back, retreating toward the safety of the counter, leaving the three of them together.

“It was so good seeing you again,” Natalie said, pulling Quinn into a long hug. “I hope tonight was the start of a great week here.”

“I was so tired this afternoon,” Quinn said, her voice rich with that easy, Californian lilt that carried across the quiet room. “I thought I wouldn’t come out, but I’m so glad I did. It was so much more fun than I thought it would be. Just being out, like a normal person. Seeing you again. Meeting you.” Quinn turned to Emma as she said the last words, catching her in a hug that looked entirely genuine.

Trish didn’t linger to watch. Instead, she pulled the tap toward her, tilting the pint glass until the dark stout ran smooth against the glass. She straightened it at three-quarters full, cutting the flow with a practiced flick of her wrist, and set it on the perforated brass drip tray to settle. The nitrogen surge swirled in a muddy tan fog, slowly separating into black glass and cream.

Emma and Natalie gave her a wave as they left through the side door. Wind howled in the narrow alley, rain lashing sideways against the stone. The door clicked shut behind them.

Quinn made her way over to the bar. She slid onto a stool and watched Trish top up the pint of Guinness, the creamy head rising slow and perfect.

Trish turned her attention to Jack instead of meeting those blue eyes. “Go home, Jack. You’ve done more than enough tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

Quinn turned to put her back to the bar. There were six people left. The bride and groom and a few of their friends. All around Quinn’s age.

“Yeah,” Trish said behind her. “They’ll probably only have one more round. I’ve got it.”

“Okay, goodnight.” Jack gave Quinn a bit of a wave as he ducked out the side entrance, putting his arms through his jacket sleeves.

Quinn swiveled back around as Trish rubbed the back of her neck with one hand, the other planted on her hip. The knot had been nagging at her all night.

“Same again?” Trish asked.

The question came out steady enough, but heat still crawled up her throat. She shouldn’t notice the way Quinn’s gaze dropped straight to the exposed line of her neck, but she did.

Quinn’s lips parted for half a second. Those blue eyes went dazed, unfocused, like the sight of Trish’s throat had short-circuited something in her head.

“Please.” Quinn cleared her throat and slid a hand into her jeans, pulling out a hundred-euro note and leaving it on the counter. It was bright emerald green, perfectly flat and completely uncreased.

Trish laughed before she could stop herself, a rough sound that felt unused. “Where did you get that?”

Quinn didn’t understand what was so funny. Her brows drew together in that confused little frown that probably melted people in Los Angeles.

“My assistant got me set up. With the house, with a rental car, and with some cash…”

“No one is going to accept that.” Trish bent to pull a bottle of Corona from the fridge. The cool air washed over her heated face. She popped the lid with a practiced flick. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

She slid the lime wedge into the neck and pushed the bottle across. Her fingers grazed Quinn’s as the glass changed hands, and the spark of it traveled straight to her elbow, her shoulder, the base of her throat.

Quinn tilted her head, that same puzzled expression deepening. “What do you mean no one will take it?”

“They just won’t. They’ll be afraid it’s fake.”

“What?”

“You should have got fifties. There’s a bank in the next town over. You could get them changed there.”

Another song started up before Quinn could say anything else about the money. The bride’s voice rose clear and strong, singing in Irish.

Trish lifted her pint and took a slow, heavy swallow, welcoming the chill down her throat to drown out whatever foolish heat had flared when their fingers touched over the bottle.

A few minutes later, the bride finished on a long, soaring note. Applause broke out from the small group. Someone called for another round, and Trish moved to pour it, grateful for the routine. Her body moved on autopilot, tilting glasses, pulling taps, the familiar motions soothing the restless energy that had been building all night.

Trish reached up and clicked off the lights above the bar one by one. The warm yellow glow over the taps died, leaving only the peat fire and a few lamps to light the pub. The shift plunged the main room into softer shadows, and the six remaining guests somehow sounded louder than the twenty had a few hours ago, their laughter bouncing off the stone walls.

She came out from behind the bar, catching Quinn’s gaze. Quinn winced slightly at a sudden burst of laughter from the fireplace.