Page 4 of Beer & Broomsticks

She threw her towel on the dark bar. “Pfft. Get to work. I don’t pay you to gawk about, now do I?”

“You don’t pay me at all,” he replied dryly. A few heartbeats later, he asked, “And what about you, Bridg?”

“What about me?”

His jaw tightened, and a muscle ticked. “I heard you flew right into the arms of Dermot.”

Dermot Neary had been Ruairí’s best friend when they were kids. Directly after Bridget broke off her relationship with Ruairí, he and Dermot had a falling out. She’d never learned why, but the sight of him, looking as if he wanted to crush the beer bottles with his bare hands, made her wonder if Ruairí was jealous of his ex-best friend.

“Not the way you think. We were friends and had a few drinks to talk about our woes. Nothing more.”

He frowned down at the cooler and gave a single nod.

“Would it matter if I had?”

“Of course,mo ghrá.What kind of fool question is that?”

The hard clink of glass against glass made her wince. “I—”

The side door of the pub opened. The darkened entry combined with the sunlight behind the newcomer made it difficult to discern their identity. “May I help you?” she called out.

“It’s me who’d like to help you, beautiful Bridget.”

She knew that voice!

“Quentin Buchanan,” she breathed.

Ruairí’s head came up, and he glared in her direction before turning his ire on the virtual giant at the far side of the room. “Who’s—”

She didn’t wait for his question or bother to answer. Fleet-footing it across the pub, she met Quentin midway and dove into his embrace. He laughed and swung her up and around.

“You’re tinier every time I see you,” he teased. “You’re almost small enough to put in my pocket.”

“Pfft, go on with you, you scut.”

Flashing an über-white grin, he set her back on her feet and absently tucked a strand of his coffee-colored hair behind his ear. His chocolatey bedroom eyes glowed with a playful light. Leaning in, as he was now, it had to appear as if his six-foot-six frame was hovering over her in a semi-protective, loving manner. As if he were mere seconds away from sweeping her into a full-body dip and claiming her lips for his own.

Bridget was human enough—and sex-starved enough—to wish he would, but she also knew he was a happily married man with eyes only for the woman he’d wed. But oh, a witch could dream.

Quentin asked in a low voice, “Who’s the guy behind the bar ready to rip out my throat?”

“Just someone who owed my brother a favor. He works here when I’m short staffed.” She didn’t bother to lower her own voice.

Quentin’s chuckle was rumbly and sent shivers the length of her spine.

Goddess, what a delicious sound!

“Hmm.” His dark eyes assessed a scene somewhere behind her. “And how long has he been in love with you?”

“He’s not,” Bridget responded, her tone sharp. She inhaled deeply and infused calm into her voice. “He’s not.”

Quentin’s mocking half smile made her want to spit nails. “Right. Should I kiss you to prove it to you both?”

“No, thank you. Your wife is Alastair Thorne’s daughter, and I’m not a feckin’ eejit.”

“They share a temperament,” he agreed with a light laugh. “My prickly pear is an acquired taste for many.”

“Sure, and not for you, though. We all know you’ve always adored her.”

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