The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

a bite out of a man who looked so concerned over his wife. Instead she simply went back to the kitchen herself, ladled out stew, added a basket of bread and butter. She carried them, with water and a glass of ice, to Jude’s table.
    “Now, you’re to eat,” Darcy said as she set down the food. “Else Aidan’ll be worried, Shawn insulted, and I’ll just be mad.”
    “But I—”
    “I mean it, Jude Frances. You’ve my niece or nephew to take care of, and I won’t have him or her, as the case may be, going hungry.”
    “It’s just that . . .” She glanced around, motioned Darcy to lean down. “The last couple of days, about five or so, I’ve had this terrible craving. I can’t do anything about it, can’t seem to stop myself. Ice cream,” she whispered. “Chocolate ice cream. I swear I’ve eaten two gallons of it this week, bought the market out of it.”
    Darcy snorted out a laugh. “Well, what’s wrong with that? You’re entitled.”
    “It’s so cliche ´d. I’m not eating pickles with it or anything-ridiculous, but just the same. I feel so stupid about it, I haven’t been able to tell Aidan.”
    “Do the crime, pay the consequences.” Darcy nudged the bowl closer. “Besides, that’s no way to feed a baby. You have a bit of Shawn’s stew, and for being such a sport and saving this seat for that cad Magee, I’ll buy your ice cream tomorrow.”
    Struggling not to pout, Jude picked up her spoon. “Chocolate. And the cad just walked in.”
    “Did he?” Pride, and not a little slice of temper, made her refuse to turn around. “It’s about bloody time. What’s he doing?” Casually, she picked up Jude’s bottle of water and poured it.
    “He’s scoping, the way men do. Hunting for you, I’d say. Ah, bull’s-eye. God, the way he looks at you. It’s wonderful, hot and proprietary with a little edge of aloofness. He’s got a man with him, very polished and urban and attractive, who looks amused and out of place.”
    Without thinking, Jude ate a spoonful of stew. “They look like friends,” she went on. “The one laid a hand on Trev’s shoulder, buddy-like, gestured toward the bar. But Trev’s shaking his head, giving it a nod in this direction. His friend’s just got a load of you now, and his eyebrows went straight up, almost to hairline. I’m surprised his tongue didn’t fall out.”
    Impressed, Darcy angled her head. “You’re awfully good at this sort of business, aren’t you?”
    “Psychologist, writer. They both observe. I’m just much better, thank God, at writing about people than analyzing them. So, I’m looking forward to hearing the music tonight,” she went on, raising her voice enough to signal Darcy she could and wanted to be heard. “I’m glad I got a table before we were overrun.”
    “We’d just plant you in a chair behind the bar. Eat your stew now, before it goes cold.”
    “I really don’t—well, hello, Trevor.”
    Prepared now, Darcy did turn, offered a friendly smile. “Aren’t you the lucky one. Jude’s got a table here I’m sure she’d be glad to share with you. We’re jammed tonight.” Then she shifted that same smile to the man beside Trevor and had the pleasure of seeing pure male appreciation in his eyes. “And good evening to you.”
    “Darcy Gallagher, Jude Gallagher, Nigel Kelsey. A friend of mine.”
    “It’s nice to meet you.”
    “Trevor didn’t tell me I’d be bombarded by beauties.” He took Jude’s hand first, kissed it smoothly, then repeated the gesture with Darcy.
    “You’ve brought us a charmer, Trevor. Have a seat here, and tell me what’s your pleasure to drink. I’ve got to pick up an order at the bar that’s overdue.”
    “G and T for me,” Nigel ordered.
    “Ice and lemon?”
    “Yes, thanks.”
    “Pint of Harp,” Trevor told her.
    “Right away, then. And the stew’s good tonight, if you’re in the mood for it.”
    “Or if you’re not,” Jude muttered as Darcy moved off.
    “So, you’re the American writer who married the publican.” Nigel, in his urban black sweater, jacket, and slacks took a stool.
    And looked, Jude thought, like a bohemian at a barn dance.
    “I came over as an American, found out I was a writer. You’re from England?” she asked, tagging his accent.
    “London, born and bred. Trev was right about this place,” he added with a glance around. “It’s authentic, a movie set. Damn near perfect.”
    “We like to think so.”
    “Nigel doesn’t mean to be