She’d fussed with her hair, of course, and wore a red scarf over a jacket of strong, deep blue. The flat boots meant she’d walked from her cottage.
She ran a hand over Meara’s shoulder, then dropped into the chair beside her. “What’s the occasion?”
“Meara and I split a fine tip from an American today.”
“Good. So you’ll buy your sister a pint, won’t you? I could do with a Harp.”
“It’s my round.” Meara rose.
“She’s been brooding about her mother,” Connor said when she was out of earshot. “She could use a festive sort of evening. We’ll have a meal, all right, and keep her mood up. I could do with some fish and chips.”
“Whose stomach are you thinking of?” Branna asked.
“My stomach, her mood.” He raised his glass. “And good company.”
* * *
IT WAS GOOD COMPANY. SHE’D INTENDED TO HAVE ONE PINT, linger a bit, then go home, start the wash, throw together whatever was left in the larder for a quick dinner. Now she’d started on a second pint, and a chicken pie.
She’d leave her truck where it was at Branna’s, walk home from the pub. Toss some wash in, make a market list—for herself and for her mother. Early to bed, and if she made the rise early enough, she could toss more wash in and be done with it.
Marketing on her lunch break. Go by her mother’s after work—God help her—do her duty. Plant a few more seeds about going off to Maureen’s.
Connor poked her in the ribs. “You’re thinking too much. Try being in the moment. It’ll amaze you.”
“A chicken pie in the pub is amazing?”
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
She took another bite. “It’s good. And what are you going to do about Alice?”
“Hmm?”
“Alice Keenan, who’s signaling her churning lust across the pub like one of those flag people.” She waved her arms to demonstrate.
“A pretty face, for certain. But not for me.”
Meara put on a look of amazement, sent it around the table. “Are you hearing that? Connor O’Dwyer saying a pretty face isn’t for him.”
“Wants a ring on her finger, does she then?” Fin asked, amused.
“That she does, and as that’s more than I can give, she’s not for me to play with. But it is a pretty face.”
He leaned toward Meara. “Now, if you were to snuggle up here, give me a kiss, she’d think, ah, well, he’s taken, and stop pining for me.”
“She’ll have to pine, as other foolish women do.” She scooped up more chicken. “My mouth’s occupied at the moment.”
“You put it on mine once.”
“Really?” Iona pushed her plate aside, leaned in. “Tell all.”
“I was but twelve.”
“Just shy of thirteen.”
“Just shy of thirteen is twelve.” She feigned stabbing him with her fork. “And I was curious.”
“It was nice.”