Love and Blarney by Zara Keane Page A

so, he was in no mood to rush to the door.
    “We’re not open.” His voice was gruff enough to deter whoever was pounding on the pub door before opening time.
    Another bang.
    For feck’s sake.
Surely no one in Ballybeg was
that
desperate for a pint. Grumbling, he placed the glass on the counter and tossed his polishing cloth beside it. He shoved up the counter flap and maneuvered his large frame through the gap.
    Bang, bang.
    “Keep your hair on,” he growled. “I’m coming.” Through the stained-glass slats in the oak door, he spied a small figure.
    Ah, hell.
    He loved his sisters, he truly did. But being their go-to person for every disastrous situation they got themselves into was exhausting. What would it be this time? Was Sinéad’s renegade boyfriend in jail and in need of bail money? Had Sharon’s boss finally come to her senses and fired her? He slid the bolts and braced himself, not to mention his bank account, for the latest episode in the MacCarthy family soap opera.
    His chest collided with his visitor’s petite form. She took a step back in alarm. He blinked through the heavy rain. She was a small woman and fine-boned, judging by the way her oversized raincoat enveloped her tiny figure.
    “Our opening time is the same as every other pub in Ireland,” he said, not unkindly. “Ten thirty.”
    “I’m not here for a drink.” One slim hand, wearing a large diamond ring, pushed back the hood to reveal a mane of honey-streaked brown hair and a very familiar heart-shaped face.
    His heart rate kicked up a notch when his brain registered who was standing on the doorstep. “Jayme?” His voice was a croak.
    “Ruairí.” She pronounced his name in the light singsong way of a foreigner who’d tried hard to master which of the many syllables went up in intonation and which went down but hadn’t quite gotten it right.
    Air exited his lungs in a whoosh. “What are you doing here?”
    She tilted her sweet little chin, revealing the cleft he’d once loved to trace with his tongue. “Ask me in and maybe you’ll find out.”
    His feet reacted before his head could process her words. He stood aside and let his estranged wife step over the threshold.

    Roo-Ree.
Jayme let his name roll off her tongue. It tasted like her mom’s chocolate-velvet cheesecake.
    He’d cut his hair. It now bordered on military short. Gone were his elegant three-piece suits and handmade Italian shoes. He’d replaced them with faded blue jeans and a casual checked shirt, open at the neck. In the two years they’d lived together, Jayme had never known him to wear jeans.
    Their eyes clashed in a war of unexpressed emotion and unspoken words. She hadn’t seen him in over a year, yet the sight of those broad shoulders and powerful legs still had the power to reduce her to a quivering mass of hormones. Judging by his face, the sight of her had taken his breath away, too—but not, she suspected, in the way she’d hoped.
    “What do you want?” His expression morphed from shocked to guarded.
    Her mouth was bone-dry. “To talk.”
    A muscle in his cheek flexed. “You traveled over three thousand miles to talk? Ever heard of the telephone?”
    “Your old cell phone number doesn’t connect anymore.”
Or you’ve blocked me…
The idea of him cutting her out of his life with such ruthless efficiency sliced into her flesh as sharply as a surgeon’s knife.
    His gaze hardened. “Why not call the pub? We’re in the phone directory.”
    “I thought it was better to come in person.” She clasped her hands to stop them trembling.
    He speared her with his hazel eyes, indecision flickering over his handsome features. Eventually he relented. “You’d better get your coat off. You’re dripping water all over my clean floor.”
    She struggled free of the enormous raincoat. When she handed it to him, their fingers brushed, sending a jolt of awareness coursing through her veins. If Ruairí were similarly affected, he hid his reaction well.