The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

here.”
    “That’s lovely, too. There’s something about this place,” he said half to himself. “You feel it at odd moments. When you’re drifting off to sleep, or just waking. It’s a . . . a waiting.”
    With the new part in place, she eased out of the oven. His hand slid up her back lazily, then fell away. “Have you seen her? Lady Gwen?”
    “No. Sometimes there’s a kind of movement on the air, just at the edge of your vision, but then nothing.” He pulled himself back, smiled carelessly, and got to his feet. “Maybe she’s not for me.”
    “I’d think you the perfect candidate for a heartbroken ghost,” Brenna said and turned away from his surprised glance. “She should work fine now,” she added, giving the dial a turn. “We’ll just see if she heats up.”
    “You’ll see to that for me, won’t you, darling?” The oven timer buzzed, startling them both. “I’ve got to be going,” Shawn said, reaching over to shut it off.
    “Is that your warning system, then?”
    “One of them.” He lifted a finger, and on cue there came the cheerful bell from the clock by his bed. “That’s the second round, but it’ll go off on its own in a minute as it’s a windup. Otherwise, I found I’d be having to run in and slap it off every bloody time.”
    “Clever enough when it suits you, aren’t you?”
    “I have my moments. The cat’s out,” he continued as he took his own jacket from the hook. “Take no pity on him should he come scratching at the door. Bub knew what he was after when he insisted on moving out here with me.”
    “Did you remember to feed him?”
    “I’m not a complete moron.” Unoffended, he wrapped a scarf around his neck. “He has food enough, and if he didn’t, he’d go begging at your kitchen door. He’d do that anyway, just to shame me.” He found his cap, dragged it on. “See you at the pub, then?”
    “More than likely.” She didn’t sigh until she’d heard the front door close behind him.
    Yearnings in the direction of Shawn Gallagher were foolishness, she told herself. For he would never have the same aimed her way. He thought of her as a sister— or worse, she realized, as a kind of honorary brother.
    And that was her fault as well, she admitted, glancing down at her scruffy work pants and scarred boots. Shawn liked the girlie type, and she was anything but. She could flounce herself up, she supposed. Between Darcy and her own sisters, and Jude for that matter, she would have no limit of consultants on beautifying Brenna O’Toole.
    But beyond the fact that she hated all that fuss and bother, what would be the point in it? If she polished and painted and cinched and laced to attract a man, he wouldn’t be attracted to what she was in any case.
    Besides, if she put on lipstick and baubles and some slinky little dress, Shawn would likely laugh his lungs out, then say something stupid that would leave her no choice but to punch him.
    There was hardly a point in that.
    She’d leave the fancy work to Darcy, who was the champion of being female. And to her sisters, Brenna thought, who enjoyed such things. As for herself—she’d stick with her tools.
    She went back to the oven, running it at different temperatures and checking the broiler for good measure. When she was satisfied it was in good working order, she turned it off, then packed up her tools.
    She meant to go straight out. There was no reason to linger, after all. But the cottage was so cozy. She’d always felt at home there. When Old Maude Fitzgerald had lived in Faerie Hill Cottage, for more years than Brenna could count, Brenna had often stopped in for a visit.
    Then Maude had died, and Jude had come to stay for a while. They’d become friends, so it had been easy to fall back into the routine of stopping in now and then on her way home, or into the village.
    She ignored the urge to stop in more often than not now that Shawn was living there. But it was hard to resist. She liked the quiet of the place, and all the pretty little things Maude had collected and left sitting about. Jude had left them there, and Shawn seemed content to do the same, so the little parlor was cheery with bits of glass and charming statues of faeries and wizards, homey with books and a faded old rug.
    Of course, now that Shawn had stuffed the secondhand spinet piano into the dollhouse space, there was barely room to turn around. But Brenna thought it only added to the charm. And Old Maude had enjoyed