Kiss Me, I'm Irish: The Sins of His Past / Tangling With Ty / Whatever Reilly Wants...

She expected the front door to be locked when she tugged at the brass handle. But the door whipped open from the other side, propelled by a laughing couple who almost mowed her down in their enthusiasm to get to their car. Kendra stood in the doorway, stunned as they brushed by her and mumbled excuses.

One step into Monroe’s and she froze again. From speakers she didn’t know she still had, Bruce Springsteen wailed. A stock-car race flashed on one TV monitor, a baseball game on another. Glasses and mugs clanged and loud voices of fifty or sixty people echoed with toasts and laughter, and somewhere, in the distance, she smelled…barbecued chicken.

Kendra ventured a few steps through the door. Had she fallen asleep in the bathtub and got stuck in a really vivid dream?

A total stranger tended the bar. A woman she’d never seen waltzed through a cluster of tables and chairs carrying an old brown drink tray laden with glasses. And, as though her eyes weren’t playing enough tricks on her, Jerry and Larry Gibbons were over in the corner, flirting with some girls, sipping ice-cold brews from the brand-new tap.

Kendra tried to breathe, tried to think. How had he done this? How had he—

“Well look what the…” Deuce’s chocolate gaze traveled over her, pausing at the floor. “…dog dragged in.”

Newman skittered across the hardwood toward him, but Kendra tugged his leash. She opened her mouth, but before she could utter a sound, Deuce was next to her, sliding one solid, strong arm around her waist. His face dipped close enough for his lips to touch her hair.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, the musky scent of him mixed with beer and barbecue filling her head. “You were worried I couldn’t handle the nine o’clock rush?”

The only rush she felt was a bolt of electricity charging from her head, down her body and leaving a thousand goose bumps in its wake. “I was worried you had no clue how to close up.”

“We’re not closing for hours, Ken-doll. And I hope you’ll stay for the duration.”

She looked up at him, her razor-sharp brain taking an unexpected vacation. Words, praise, criticism—anything intelligent—eluded her. Everything except the heart-stopping desire to kiss him. And that was not intelligent.

“How did you do this?” she managed to ask.

“Word spreads. It seems Rockingham is still a very small town,” he said, his eyes glinting in a tease.

She glanced at the patrons, two deep at the bar. “And, apparently, a thirsty one.”

She was enough of a professional to appreciate the revenue flow. And enough of a competitor to be more than a little bit jealous.

She sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

“Profits,” he whispered, that mighty arm squeezing her waist even tighter. “You smell revenue on the rise.”

“I smell barbecue chicken.”

“Oh that,” he laughed, guiding her closer to the bar. “You know JC Myers owns The Wingman now?”

She assumed the ownership of Rockingham’s favorite barbecue joint was a rhetorical question and didn’t answer.

“He agreed to provide some emergency assistance.”

“What emergency?”

“A munchie emergency. You can’t serve gallons of alcohol and no food.” He waved a hand toward the crowd. “We’ve got to keep these people happy.”

“There’s food in the back,” she said defensively.

He rolled his eyes. “Granola bars and cupcakes.”

“Muffins,” she corrected.

“Not exactly sports-bar food.”

Newman pattered around her and she scooped him up protectively, before she wandered farther into the fray. She saw some familiar faces from around town, and plenty of new ones. Who were all these people and why had they suddenly shown up?

“Who’s tending bar?” she asked.

“You don’t remember Dec Clifford? My old first baseman?”

As if she’d ever noticed anyone on any team he played on besides…the pitcher. “Vaguely. I didn’t realize he was still in Rockingham.”

“He’s a lawyer in Boston now,” Deuce told her, his hand firmly planted on the small of her back, making sure those goose bumps had no chance of disappearing. “And over there is Eric Fleming, outfielder. But now he’s in commercial real estate in New Hampshire. That’s Ginger Alouette serving drinks. She was a track star in high school, if you don’t remember. She lives in Provincetown. Most of these people still live on Cape Cod—I just had to dig them up.”

A lawyer from Boston, a developer from New Hampshire and Ginger from P-town. They’d all come to see him—to work for him.

“I’ll get real staff soon,” he promised. “I just wanted to get open as soon as possible and so I had a little help from my friends.”

He was still the draw, not Monroe’s Bar & Grill & Wannabe Cyber Café. Deuce was the main attraction and, suddenly, with sickening clarity, she faced the truth. He could make this work. He could make a raging success out of the bar…and she’d be doing Seamus a disservice by trying to fight it.

“I can’t believe you brought a dog in here,” he said, reaching for a quick pet of Newman, who nuzzled into Kendra.

She’d never dreamed the place would be packed, or Newman would have stayed home. As she would have. “I thought you’d…” Be all alone. “Need some—”

“Company?” he asked with a grin.

“No, just help.” But that had been ridiculous. He had all the assistance he needed. She looked pointedly at the black screens of her computers. “How did you figure out how to get all the systems down?”

“I just installed a glycolic cooling unit, a CD player and a satellite dish, Kendra. It didn’t take a Harvard degree to turn off a bunch of computers.”

The comment jabbed her right in the stomach. She swallowed a hundred retorts and looked away. He had no idea what he’d said, and she could hardly zing him anymore for incompetence. He had it all going on, and more.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, as they reached one empty barstool. “Dec, remember Jack’s little sister? Get the lady whatever she likes. It’s on the house.”

Jack’s little sister. That’s what she’d always be to him. Not the owner of this establishment. Not the woman he’d deflowered a decade ago. Not…anything. Just Jack’s little sister.

“On the house?” She allowed him to ease her onto a barstool. “I am the house.”

He just laughed, leaning so close to her ear she thought he was about to plant a kiss on her neck.

“I believe you’ve already had a sample of our new draft selection, right, Ken-doll?”

She just looked at the bartender, vaguely remembering a younger version of his face that had no doubt spent hours with the baseball boys in the basement. She’d been so blinded to anyone but Deuce. “I’ll just have a soda, please,” she told him.

And then Deuce was gone. A whisper of “Excuse me,” and the warmth of his body disappeared from behind her. She fought the urge to turn and watch him work the crowd. Instead, she cuddled Newman in her lap and gratefully accepted the cold drink for her dry throat.

“He’s absolutely adorable.”

Kendra turned to see the familiar, friendly face of Sophie Swenson, her hostess and right hand at the café. Sophie held a glass of white wine—in a stem glass—and her deep-blue eyes glinted with excitement.