The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

bookings?”
    “Sure and we do well there,” Aidan agreed.
    “If this man Magee has a mind to expand the entertainment, the music in Ardmore, and bring in more tourists, more customers, it’ll add to our reputation.”
    Shawn folded the pastry into three, then sealed the ends before putting it back in the refrigerator to chill. “But it has to be done the Gallagher way, doesn’t it?”
    Aidan leaned back in his chair as Shawn took potatoes from bin to sink and began to scrub them. “You’re a constant surprise to me, Shawn. Aye, the Gallagher way or no way at all. Which means traditional, understated, and Irish. We’ll have nothing flashy and foolish attached to our pub.”
    “Which means you have to convince him we need to work together,” Shawn added. “As we know Ardmore and Old Parish and he doesn’t.”
    “And for our input,” Aidan decided. “We’ll have a percentage of the theater. That was my thinking—and what I wanted to pass to Dad and have him work the Magee toward.”
    Darcy drummed her fingers on the table. “So, we’ll sell him the land at our price or lease it long term, on the condition that we have a part in the building, the planning, and the profits of the theater.”
    “Simply said.” Aidan gave her a wink. She had a cool and sharp brain for business, did Darcy. “It’s the Gallagher way.” Aidan rose from the table. “We’re agreed, then?”
    “Agreed.” Darcy chose another biscuit. “Let’s see if this Magee can make us rich.”
    Shawn slipped potatoes into boiling water. “Agreed. Now the pair of you get out of my kitchen.”
    “Happy to.” Darcy blew Shawn a saucy kiss and sailed out, already dreaming how she’d spend the Yank’s money.
     
     
    Because he considered that Aidan had it under control, Shawn didn’t give another thought to land deals and building and profits from either. He prepared the dishes he’d planned and had the kitchen warm and full of scent by the time the pub doors opened.
    He kept up with the orders, fell into the easy routine, but the music that usually filled his head kept stalling on him. He’d start to play with a tune while he worked, let the notes and the rhythm go their own way. Then he’d be back in the soft rain, with Brenna wrapped around him, and the only music he heard was the hum in his own blood. And that he didn’t care for.
    She was his friend, and a man had no business thinking about a friend in that manner. Even if she’d started it herself. He’d grown up teasing her as he had his own sister. Whenever he’d kissed her, and of course he had, it had always been a brotherly peck.
    How the hell was he supposed to go back to that when he knew what she tasted like now? When he knew just how her mouth fit to his, and how much . . . heat there was inside that small package? And just how was he supposed to get rid of this hard, hot ball of awareness in his gut, an awareness he’d never asked for?
    She wasn’t his type—no, not a bit. He liked soft women with female ways who liked to flirt and cuddle. And by God, women who let him make the moves. He was a man, wasn’t he? A man was supposed to romance a woman toward bed, not be told to jump into one because she had a—what had she called it? A yen. An itch.
    He’d be damned if he’d be anyone’s itch.
    He told himself he was going to steer well clear of Brenna O’Toole for the next bit of time. And that he wasn’t going to be looking around to see that ugly cap of hers or to hear her voice every time he walked from the kitchen into the pub.
    Still, his eyes scanned the crowd, and his ears were pricked. But she didn’t come to Gallagher’s that Sunday evening.
    He did his work, and those who sampled it walked home at closing with full bellies and satisfaction. When he’d put his kitchen to rights and headed home himself, his own belly felt empty despite the meal he’d had, and satisfaction seemed a long way off.
    He tried to lose himself in his music again, and spent nearly two hours at the piano. But the notes seemed sour somehow, and the tunes jarring.
    Once, as he ran his fingers over the keys, shaking his head when the chords gave him no pleasure, he felt the change in the air. The faintest shimmer of movement and sound. But when he looked up, there was nothing but his little parlor and the empty doorway leading to the hall.
    “I know you’re here.” He said it softly, waited. But nothing spoke to him. “What is it you want me to know?”
    As