and spilling into the street took away from the ambiance, giving it more of a carnival flavor.
“But it was autobiographical, as most first novels probably are,” she continued as he braked for a portly man laden down with a plethora of professional camera equipment. “And it would probably have a better chance of selling if I kept it that way. But my heart isn’t into writing or even thinking about my journalism days.”
“That’s understandable.” He was also starting to think that this might be another thing they had in common. “Ireland’s known for its writers and poets. Maybe there’s something in the air that will help you find a new direction.”
“That’s a thought,” she allowed. Then, as he glanced over at her again, without warning, humor sparkled in her eyes. “Maybe I’ll write about a leprechaun vampire.”
They shared a laugh as he pulled into a parking space across from the pub and cut the engine. He turned toward her, and as their eyes met, for this one suspended moment, the past dark months spun away, and instead of sitting in a rental car while the Irish rain fell and the fog blew in from the sea, they were standing on a sundrenched beach, so in love Duncan had wondered if a heart could actually burst from an excess of joy.
It was a feeling he’d never known until he’d met Cass.
Their eyes met. And held.
Duncan dipped his head.
Cass’s lips parted.
Heaven was a mere breath away when she drew back and reached for the door handle. “We’d better get going before someone claims our table.”
He could change her mind. Duncan knew that it would only take a touch here…a stroke of his fingertips there…a long, slow, wet kiss, and she’d be willing to go with him into the mists.
But he’d come to realize, during his conversations with her cousin, that from the moment they’d met, he’d been the one convincing her to go along with his plans. Now, rather than settle for immediate gratification, he was going to have to play the long game and wait for her to be the one to make the move.
Hopefully sooner rather than later. Before his balls turned as blue as a Smurf.
13
C assandra felt as if she’d stumbled into a scene from The Quiet Man . Or at the very least, the way the pub was filled to the high-beamed rafters with memorabilia, some of which looked as if it had been new in earlier centuries, an Irish folk museum. One vintage sign announced a Post Office and Radio Service , another recommended Guinness for Strength , and yet another—an obviously newer-era chalkboard hung up beside the coat rack on the wall—read in bold white script, No Wifi. Talk to each other!
“I like that one,” she said as Duncan helped her out of her coat and hung it up on one of the wooden pegs.
“The other times I’ve been here, it listed the daily specials,” he told her.
“That would be Elizabeth Murphy,” a dark-haired man said as he walked past with a tray of pints. He pointed toward a small, birdlike woman who looked as if Willard Scott should be sending her a centenarian birthday card. “She’s been Castlelough postmistress for more years than anyone can remember. She also has a powerful dislike of people reading and texting on their smartphones during a seisiún. ”
“Good for her,” Cass said, smiling at the woman whose raven bright eyes suddenly turned toward her as she tuned up a fiddle that appeared to be even older than she was.
Elizabeth Murphy did not smile back. But she did put down her bow to wave Cass and Duncan over.
“You’d best do as instructed,” the man with the pints suggested. “If you’d want to be receiving mail any time in this century.”
“Do people actually still send mail?” Cassandra asked.
His smile was quick and warm. “Not as much as they once did. Which may make her work easier, but the cutback on people visiting her office has affected her gossip, which, in turn, has proven a problem because she’s always considered serving as
“But it was autobiographical, as most first novels probably are,” she continued as he braked for a portly man laden down with a plethora of professional camera equipment. “And it would probably have a better chance of selling if I kept it that way. But my heart isn’t into writing or even thinking about my journalism days.”
“That’s understandable.” He was also starting to think that this might be another thing they had in common. “Ireland’s known for its writers and poets. Maybe there’s something in the air that will help you find a new direction.”
“That’s a thought,” she allowed. Then, as he glanced over at her again, without warning, humor sparkled in her eyes. “Maybe I’ll write about a leprechaun vampire.”
They shared a laugh as he pulled into a parking space across from the pub and cut the engine. He turned toward her, and as their eyes met, for this one suspended moment, the past dark months spun away, and instead of sitting in a rental car while the Irish rain fell and the fog blew in from the sea, they were standing on a sundrenched beach, so in love Duncan had wondered if a heart could actually burst from an excess of joy.
It was a feeling he’d never known until he’d met Cass.
Their eyes met. And held.
Duncan dipped his head.
Cass’s lips parted.
Heaven was a mere breath away when she drew back and reached for the door handle. “We’d better get going before someone claims our table.”
He could change her mind. Duncan knew that it would only take a touch here…a stroke of his fingertips there…a long, slow, wet kiss, and she’d be willing to go with him into the mists.
But he’d come to realize, during his conversations with her cousin, that from the moment they’d met, he’d been the one convincing her to go along with his plans. Now, rather than settle for immediate gratification, he was going to have to play the long game and wait for her to be the one to make the move.
Hopefully sooner rather than later. Before his balls turned as blue as a Smurf.
13
C assandra felt as if she’d stumbled into a scene from The Quiet Man . Or at the very least, the way the pub was filled to the high-beamed rafters with memorabilia, some of which looked as if it had been new in earlier centuries, an Irish folk museum. One vintage sign announced a Post Office and Radio Service , another recommended Guinness for Strength , and yet another—an obviously newer-era chalkboard hung up beside the coat rack on the wall—read in bold white script, No Wifi. Talk to each other!
“I like that one,” she said as Duncan helped her out of her coat and hung it up on one of the wooden pegs.
“The other times I’ve been here, it listed the daily specials,” he told her.
“That would be Elizabeth Murphy,” a dark-haired man said as he walked past with a tray of pints. He pointed toward a small, birdlike woman who looked as if Willard Scott should be sending her a centenarian birthday card. “She’s been Castlelough postmistress for more years than anyone can remember. She also has a powerful dislike of people reading and texting on their smartphones during a seisiún. ”
“Good for her,” Cass said, smiling at the woman whose raven bright eyes suddenly turned toward her as she tuned up a fiddle that appeared to be even older than she was.
Elizabeth Murphy did not smile back. But she did put down her bow to wave Cass and Duncan over.
“You’d best do as instructed,” the man with the pints suggested. “If you’d want to be receiving mail any time in this century.”
“Do people actually still send mail?” Cassandra asked.
His smile was quick and warm. “Not as much as they once did. Which may make her work easier, but the cutback on people visiting her office has affected her gossip, which, in turn, has proven a problem because she’s always considered serving as
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