The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy

now.”
    He was flirting right back with her, she realized, just as harmlessly. It didn’t make her nervous. It didn’t give her those odd and lovely liquid pulls that flirting with Aidan did. It just made her comfortable.
    “Then I’ll start by saying you have a lovely house.”
    “We’re happy with it.” He led her to a chair, and when she sat, made himself comfortable on the arm of it. “Darcy and I rattle about well enough.”
    “It’s made for more people. A big family, lots of children.”
    “It’s held that more often than it hasn’t. Our father was one of ten.”
    “Ten? Good God!”
    “We’ve uncles and aunts and cousins scattered all over and back again—Gallaghers and Fitzgeralds. You being one of them,” he added with a grin. “I remember as a boy having packs of them coming in and out of the house from time to time, so I was always sharing me bed with some lad who was my cousin from Wicklow or Boston or Devonshire.”
    “Do they still come back?”
    “Now and then. You did, cousin Jude.” He liked the way she smiled at that, sweet and a little shy. “But it’s Darcy and me in the house most times now. And will be until the first of the three of us decides to marry and start a family. The house’ll go to the one who does.”
    “Won’t the other two mind?”
    “No. That’s the Gallagher way.”
    “And you’ll know you’ll always be welcome here, that it’ll still be home.”
    “That’s right.” He said it quietly because he read tones and nuances well, and could see she was yearning for a home of her own. “Do you have a house in Chicago?”
    “No. It’s a condo like a glorified flat,” she added, then suddenly restless, rose. Flat, she thought again, was precisely how it seemed to her now. “This is a wonderful spot. You can watch the sea.”
    She started to walk to a window, then stopped by a battered old piano. The keys were yellowed, and several of them chipped, and over the scarred wood sheet music was scattered. “Who plays?”
    “All of us.” Shawn came up beside her, put his long fingers over the keys and played a quick series of chords.Battered the instrument might have been, but its notes rang sweet and true. “Do you play as well?”
    “A little. Not very well.” She blew out a breath, reminding herself not to be such a moron. “Yes.”
    “Which is it?”
    “Yes, I play.”
    “Well, then, let’s hear it.” He gave her a nudge, hip against hip, that surprised her into sitting down on the bench.
    “I haven’t played in months,” she began, but he was already riffling through the sheet music, setting a piece in front of her before joining her on the bench.
    “Try this one.”
    Because she only intended to play a few chords, she didn’t bother digging her reading glasses out of her purse. Without them, she had to lean closer and squint a little. She felt the skitter of nerves, wiped damp palms on her thighs, and told herself it wasn’t one of the childhood recitals that had scared her into desperate nausea.
    Still, she had to take two deep breaths, which made Shawn’s lips twitch before she began to play.
    “Oh!” She flowed from the first bar into the second. “Oh, this is lovely.” She forgot her nerves in sheer pleasure as the notes drifted out dreamily, as her throat began to ache from it. “It’s heartbreaking.”
    “It’s meant to be.” He cocked his head, listening to the music as he studied her. He could see easily why she’d caught his brother’s eye. The pretty face, the quiet manner, and those surprising expressive and misty eyes.
    Yes, Shawn mused, the combination would draw Aidan’s interest, then wind around his heart. As for her heart, it was a yearning one. That he understood well.
    “You play very well indeed, Jude Frances. Why did you say you didn’t?”
    “I’m used to saying I don’t do things well, because I usually don’t.” She answered absently, losing herself in the music. “Anyone could play this well. It’s wonderful. What’s it called?”
    “I haven’t named it yet.”
    “You wrote it?” She stopped playing to stare at him. Artists of all kinds, any kind, left her awestruck. “Really? Shawn, it’s gorgeous.”
    “Oh, don’t start flattering the man. He’s irritating enough.” Brenna strode into the room and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her baggy jeans.
    “The O’Toole here has no appreciation for music unless it’s a rebel song and she’s drinking a pint.”
    “When