this cousin of yours, then.”
The idea seemed to astound him. “Cousin?”
His shock was kind of cute. “Almost. If he’s Maggie’s
nephew.”
He groaned. “I should be back home celebrating the off-season
and instead I’m meeting lost cousins and bitter aunts.”
I hopped off the bench. “Come on. Let’s go find this pub.”
Blue Street looked a lot like Red Street, with just a handful
of shops and houses and the cobblestone road interrupted by a small fountain. A
signpost pointed toward shops and the church, written in two languages.
The pub clearly took precedence, busy even at two in the
afternoon. A green pennant hung outside the brown brick building, while inside
it looked like the Irish pubs at home, except the music didn’t hurt my ears and
the TVs didn’t blast. People ate as much as they drank, and off in the back a
group of teenagers played pool.
We headed for the bar, and the college-aged kid watching the
soccer game from behind it. “Hey,” Mike said. “We’re looking for Paul Connelly.
Is he here?”
The teenager dragged his gaze from the screen and raked it over
us, with the amount of judgment I usually associated with NYU student bartenders
in the East Village. It morphed slowly to recognition. “You’re Michael
O’Connor.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Is Paul here?”
The kid slouched back and crossed his arms. “Connelly! Your
American cousin’s arrived.”
Every head in the pub swiveled in our direction.
From the back, a man detached himself from a clump of Guinness
guzzlers. He was about my height and age, but he had thick black hair and dark
eyes. Black Irish, they called it, Iberian blood. He shoved his hands in his
pockets and sauntered over.
“Well.” Paul Connelly had a low, lilting voice, and I
immediately thought of Cam’s Operation: Irish Boyfriend. “That didn’t take very long.”
Beside me, Mike relaxed very slowly. The great control that
went into his apparent laziness was more alarming than if he’d tensed up all
over. “’Scuse me?”
Paul propped his elbow on the bar and shrugged. “Seems to me
you swooped right in as soon as you inherited some land.”
Mike curved his lips up. “Actually, my uncle just died. I’m
here for his month’s mind.”
“After twenty-six years of never even talking to the man?”
Mike relaxed his body even more, like he was lounging in
midair. “You’re pretty well-informed for a guy I never even knew existed.”
Paul scoffed and shook his head. “Just like a Yank.”
Mike didn’t even twitch. Like a snake before the death-strike.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Great. Could no one in this family communicate without weird
accusations? If Paul Connelly’s body language was any indication, Mike was about
to get punched in the face.
I squeezed between the two guys and stuck my hand out. “I’m
Natalie Sullivan. Sorry for your loss. I never met your uncle, but we spoke
several times. I’m an archaeologist from Columbia University.”
Paul waited a moment, his square jaw working, before he
transferred his attention to me. When he did, surprise crossed his face. “You’re
a lot prettier than I expected.”
“Hey,” Mike said sharply. He moved up beside me.
I stepped on Mike’s foot and kept my gaze trained on Paul.
“Your aunt said you might be able to take us by Kilkarten today.”
Paul looked back and forth between Mike and me. “You two a
thing?”
I refused to look at Mike. “No.”
Mike spoke at the same time. “What’s it to you?”
Paul smiled slowly and Mike scowled. Then, focusing all his
attention on me, Paul said, “Right this way.”
Mike caught my arm as we headed out the door, leaning close
enough that his breath brushed my neck. “Watch that guy.”
I shivered, focus stolen by the thrills of attraction running
down my arms. “Why?”
“Because I have two younger sisters, and can spot an asshole a
mile away.”
I shook my head at him and followed Paul out onto the
The idea seemed to astound him. “Cousin?”
His shock was kind of cute. “Almost. If he’s Maggie’s
nephew.”
He groaned. “I should be back home celebrating the off-season
and instead I’m meeting lost cousins and bitter aunts.”
I hopped off the bench. “Come on. Let’s go find this pub.”
Blue Street looked a lot like Red Street, with just a handful
of shops and houses and the cobblestone road interrupted by a small fountain. A
signpost pointed toward shops and the church, written in two languages.
The pub clearly took precedence, busy even at two in the
afternoon. A green pennant hung outside the brown brick building, while inside
it looked like the Irish pubs at home, except the music didn’t hurt my ears and
the TVs didn’t blast. People ate as much as they drank, and off in the back a
group of teenagers played pool.
We headed for the bar, and the college-aged kid watching the
soccer game from behind it. “Hey,” Mike said. “We’re looking for Paul Connelly.
Is he here?”
The teenager dragged his gaze from the screen and raked it over
us, with the amount of judgment I usually associated with NYU student bartenders
in the East Village. It morphed slowly to recognition. “You’re Michael
O’Connor.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Is Paul here?”
The kid slouched back and crossed his arms. “Connelly! Your
American cousin’s arrived.”
Every head in the pub swiveled in our direction.
From the back, a man detached himself from a clump of Guinness
guzzlers. He was about my height and age, but he had thick black hair and dark
eyes. Black Irish, they called it, Iberian blood. He shoved his hands in his
pockets and sauntered over.
“Well.” Paul Connelly had a low, lilting voice, and I
immediately thought of Cam’s Operation: Irish Boyfriend. “That didn’t take very long.”
Beside me, Mike relaxed very slowly. The great control that
went into his apparent laziness was more alarming than if he’d tensed up all
over. “’Scuse me?”
Paul propped his elbow on the bar and shrugged. “Seems to me
you swooped right in as soon as you inherited some land.”
Mike curved his lips up. “Actually, my uncle just died. I’m
here for his month’s mind.”
“After twenty-six years of never even talking to the man?”
Mike relaxed his body even more, like he was lounging in
midair. “You’re pretty well-informed for a guy I never even knew existed.”
Paul scoffed and shook his head. “Just like a Yank.”
Mike didn’t even twitch. Like a snake before the death-strike.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Great. Could no one in this family communicate without weird
accusations? If Paul Connelly’s body language was any indication, Mike was about
to get punched in the face.
I squeezed between the two guys and stuck my hand out. “I’m
Natalie Sullivan. Sorry for your loss. I never met your uncle, but we spoke
several times. I’m an archaeologist from Columbia University.”
Paul waited a moment, his square jaw working, before he
transferred his attention to me. When he did, surprise crossed his face. “You’re
a lot prettier than I expected.”
“Hey,” Mike said sharply. He moved up beside me.
I stepped on Mike’s foot and kept my gaze trained on Paul.
“Your aunt said you might be able to take us by Kilkarten today.”
Paul looked back and forth between Mike and me. “You two a
thing?”
I refused to look at Mike. “No.”
Mike spoke at the same time. “What’s it to you?”
Paul smiled slowly and Mike scowled. Then, focusing all his
attention on me, Paul said, “Right this way.”
Mike caught my arm as we headed out the door, leaning close
enough that his breath brushed my neck. “Watch that guy.”
I shivered, focus stolen by the thrills of attraction running
down my arms. “Why?”
“Because I have two younger sisters, and can spot an asshole a
mile away.”
I shook my head at him and followed Paul out onto the
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