The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

romantic side taking over, Jude Frances.”
    “Is it?” She shrugged. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

She wasn’t waiting for anything. Alice Mae was already on her way in, and Betsy had been delighted at the offer of two days’ work. Pleased with herself, Darcy breezed through the kitchen and straight out the back door.
    It was a bit of a shock to step out and into the solid gray block walls and lumber bones of the breezeway that would connect the two structures. Already, she thought, there was some form to it, recognizable even to her untutored eye. Men stood on scaffolding, hammering or drilling or riveting. How could she tell through all the noise?
    Someone, a very optimistic someone, to her mind, was playing a radio. All she could hear from it was a tinkle and squawk that might have been music.
    She saw the way the roof would curve in a kind of arch, the rafters thick to echo the feel of those that had held the pub for generations.
    Unexpectedly, she felt a twinge, and recognized it as pride. Gallagher’s was the root, and the theater a branch on the tree.
    She walked through, mindful of the cables and cords that snaked over the subflooring. She’d already spotted Trevor, up on the scaffolding platform at the far end where the breezeway widened. His tool belt was slung at his waist, and there was some clever power tool buzzing in his hand. He wore tinted glasses, as much for protection from flying wood and concrete dust, she supposed, as a shield against the mild sunlight.
    He looked rough and ready and exactly right for her mood.
    She stopped beneath him, waiting, aware that many of the men were looking at her rather than going safely about their business. Mick O’Toole sauntered by, a bundle of rebar balanced over his shoulder.
    “You’re distracting our crew, pretty Darcy.”
    “I won’t be but a minute. How’s it all going, then, Mr. O’Toole?”
    “Himself knows what he wants and how he wants it. As I’m in agreement with him, it couldn’t be going better.”
    “Will it be wonderful?”
    “It will. A credit to Ardmore. Watch your step here now, darling. Lots to trip over hereabouts.”
    “I’ve thought of that,” she murmured. There was a great deal to trip over when it came to Trevor Magee.
    When Mick headed off, she looked back up and saw it was Trevor who waited now. That was more like it.
    “A word with you, Mr. Magee?” she shouted up.
    “What can I do for you, Miss Gallagher?”
    So, he wouldn’t trouble to come down. That was fine.She skimmed her hair back from her shoulder. “I need today and tomorrow to train a new part-time waitress. But I’m at your disposal come Thursday if that suits you.”
    Anticipation curled in his gut, but he merely nodded. “We’ll leave Thursday morning, then. I’ll pick you up at six.”
    “That’s a very early start.”
    “Why waste time?”
    For a beat, they only watched each other. “Why, indeed?”
    She turned, strolled back into the kitchen. And when the door was closed did a quick victory dance.

 
     
     
     
TEN
     
     
    A FTER CONSIDERABLE DEBATE and weighing of the pros and cons, Darcy decided to be on time. Her reasons for breaking precedent were purely selfish, and she didn’t mind admitting it. She wanted to enjoy every minute of her two days off.
    She’d packed light, which hadn’t been an easy feat for her, and because of it the chore had taken her hours. Planning, debating, discarding. She’d raided her wish jar, something she did only for the most important of events. But she needed to buy something wonderful to commemorate the trip, didn’t she?
    For two days she’d worked like a mule to be certain her responsibilities at the pub were well covered. In lieu of sleep she’d given herself a manicure, a pedicure, and a facial to make certain she presented as polished an image as she could manage.
    She’d selected her lingerie with the canniness and foresight of a general preparing for battle.
    Trevor Magee wouldn’t know what hit him—once she allowed him to seduce her.
    The idea had odd little nerves fluttering in her stomach. And she wanted to be, had to be, calm, cool, cosmopolitan. She had no intention of playing the culchie — country bumpkin—in London or in bed. Part of the problem was Trevor was exactly as Aidan had described him.
    Slick.
    It didn’t matter if he dressed in work clothes and sweated along with his crew or waded through the mud hauling supplies. Still, beneath the sweat