The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

she mused. He wouldn’t remember to clean off his boots, and neither did she more often than not, but he’d take the time and have the thought to put flowers out.
    Why didn’t she think of things like that? She liked a house with flowers, and with candles sitting about. And the scents they created together that made the air delicate. She would think of cleaning the chimney out, and laying by turf or wood, but she would never think of the little touches that turned house to home.
    Hanging curtains was one thing, she decided. Thinking of lace was another altogether.
    After the fire was going, she rose to wander to the piano. Had he worked here last night? she wondered.He’d been angry with her. Did he work off a mad here as well as dream?
    His heart’s in his song. She frowned as she sifted through the pages scribbled with notes and words. If that were true, why did he leave his music all tossed about this way? Why didn’t he do something with it?
    How could she care so much for a man who lacked basic drive? Surely it wasn’t enough for a man to have such a light inside him if he didn’t use it for something.
    “These pearls I now lay at your feet,” she murmured, reading his work, “are only moon-shed tears. For every time my heart does beat, it weeps for you across the years. Night by night the spell holds fast, until the day love breaks the past.”
    So he sings of legends, Brenna thought—and waits for what?
    She set the sheet aside again when she heard his car.

He’d seen the smoke and knew it would be Brenna. What he would do about it, he was less certain. He had to hope, as he did with his music, that the next passage would just come to him.
    He stepped into the house and turned as she walked to the parlor doorway.
    “There’s a chill in the mornings yet. I lit your fire.”
    He nodded. “Do you want some tea?”
    “No.” She couldn’t read his face, and it worried her. “You were angry with me last night. Are you still?”
    “Not as much.”
    “Well . . .” The sense of awkwardness was something new, and not at all welcome. “I thought I should tell you I had some words with Mary Kate this morning. Private words.”
    “Then it’s better between you.”
    “It is, yes.”
    “I’m glad of it. With a little time, I hope she’ll be comfortable with me again as well.”
    “She’ll be embarrassed for a while, but as for the rest . . . after I pointed out all of your flaws, she thinks perhaps she’s not in love with you after all.”
    He lifted his brows. “That was clever of you.”
    “Shawn.” She laid a hand on his arm when he started into the room, so they stood, framed in the doorway. “I’m sorry for how we left things last night.”
    “I’m sorry” were words that didn’t slide easily off her tongue, he knew. So they meant more. “Then so am I.”
    “And I don’t mind your flaws—or most of them— very much.”
    She smelled of Sunday, shampoo and soap, and her eyes were full of apologies. “Then it’s better between us as well?”
    “I want it to be.”
    He crossed over, sat in the single chair that wasn’t full of sheet music. “Why don’t you come sit with me awhile, Mary Brenna?”
    Her eyes twinkled as relief sparkled through her. She thought she knew what he was about. She couldn’t think of a finer way to make up. After walking to him, she sat on his lap, angling herself so their faces were close. “Friends again?”
    “We ever were.”
    “I hardly slept for worrying we’d never be easy with each other again, though I know we promised we’d stay friends.”
    “And we will. Is friends all you’re wanting to be just now?”
    For an answer she closed the distance between them and laid her lips on his. Her little sigh slid into him, warm, familiar now. He drew her closer, lingering over the kiss, drawing it out soft and sweet before trailing his lips up to her brow.
    Then he tucked her head on his shoulder, circled his arms comfortably around her. Puzzled, she sat still, waiting for his hands to move in the way, and to the places, she expected. But he only held her while the fire smoked and simmered, and the rain flowed in to splat and patter.
    Gradually she relaxed against him, sinking into the comfort and coziness, lulled by the intimacy of silence.
    She’d never had a lover like him, one who understood her, who was content to cuddle away a rainy morning. Was that why she’d fallen in love with him? Or had she always felt the same without