Page 17 of Hot Irish Halloween

Penny was grateful for the server’s interruption, a bubbly twenty-something girl who was pleasant and quick.

As platters of sizzling meat and seafood were carried to the other patrons, Penny’s stomach rumbled at the tantalizing smells. If she were alone, she’d risk and probably lose an epic struggle with some shellfish. But sitting across from the silent giant who was staring at her, she thought she’d save the potential embarrassment of a flying crab leg for another day.

She asked the server for a steak sauteed with butter and garlic, roasted potatoes with truffle oil, and roasted asparagus with a light honey glaze. Jack was having the same. The server took their order and reappeared to bring them water and a good pinot noir.

“Tell me about your book,” Jack continued, picking up his glass and taking a swallow. “How long have you been working on it?”

He seemed genuinely interested. Penny picked up her glass of pinot and sipped. His eyes lingered on the place where her lips met the glass.

“For about ten years.”

“Ten years? Does it usually take that long to write a book?” His eyebrow lifted, and heat bloomed in her cheeks.

“Depending on the book,” she replied with a small shrug. “In this case, it’s not as simple as the articles I write freelance. It takes tons of research, organizing and compiling notes. Morethan that, in a lot of rural communities, people don’t just give up the goods to outsiders that easily. You have to stick around and build trust.”

“Is that how you support yourself while you travel? Freelance articles?”

She wasn’t used to someone asking her so many questions about herself. Again, Penny had to control the heat spreading through her cheeks all the way to her hairline. Thank goodness for dark dining rooms and brown skin.

“Um, no. That wouldn’t be enough. Brendan had a good insurance policy. He’d also inherited some money from his grandfather, and when he passed away, the remainder came to me.” She paused, taking a bigger sip of wine.

“How does a girl from a small town in upstate New York end up playing the banjo and writing a book about the roots of Appalachian music?”

“How’d you know I was from New York?”

She could detect Jack’s face warming, even in the restaurant’s low lighting. “Looked you up last night after we talked,” he answered gruffly.

Penny ignored the pulsing in her body at the admission that he’d found her interesting enough to research, the way she’d spent the night researching him.

“Well. I was training to be a classical violinist at Julliard. Brendan was attending Owenville College in their music program and studying guitar.”

“Julliard. Impressive.”

She could tell he was sincere. “Yes. Every summer since high school, we’d pick a place to go hiking.”

“I’ve never gone.”

“It’s fun. And I love the woods. It’s kinda in my blood, growing up in the Finger Lakes. Anyway, one summer in between semesters, we decided to spend two months hikingthe Appalachian Trail, starting in New York and heading down south. Along the way, we met a bunch of old-time country and roots musicians. A lot of them were descended from Scots Irish and English settlers. When I found out that the banjo was originally an African instrument, I became obsessed with learning all about it, which kinda snowballed into learning about all the instruments. A lot of people in Owenville love country, but that trip really opened my eyes.”

“So you thought you’d write a book.”

Penny shifted in her seat and toyed with her fork. “The book was actually Brendan’s idea. Ever since that trip, it was his dream to write it. He wanted it to be his contribution to music history. A legacy, I guess. I, um… I never gave him the baby he wanted, so, this is my way of giving him his legacy. I think it would make him happy.”

Jack’s expression was inscrutable, but his attention never wavered from her face as though she was the book, and he was trying to read its pages. Penny was grateful when the server returned with their salads and bread.

“What aboutyourmusic? You put out four albums, and then after that, nothing.” Jack spread a thin layer of butter on his bread and chewed it reflectively.

“Without Brendan, Thorny Rose fell apart. Squeeze and Dennis wanted to continue as a trio, but I just couldn’t.”

“But it’s something you loved. You don’t miss it?” The rumble of his voice was almost tender. It threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

“I play all the time,” she said with a self-deprecating grin. “Just at home, by myself. I don’t need to play in front of a crowd like some sort of diva. But I do miss jamming with people. I miss that flow you get into when you’re in tune with another person, creating something from nothing together. It’s…well, it’s magic. It’s like making magic.” There was a moment of silence while hecontemplated her with those piercing hazel eyes. She didn’t want to be read so easily, didn’t want him to see how much she truly did miss that old life. “What about you? How did a boy from a tough neighborhood in Dublin end up the mixed martial arts champion of the world?”

“My rags to riches story?” The corner of Jack’s mouth lifted in that fucking sexy smirk again. “It’s not special. You could talk to maybe twenty fellas in the sport from anywhere in the world and hear the exact same thing.”

“I don’t want to know about their story. I want yours,” Penny said.

Jack’s expression turned reflective. “Okay. I was given some choices early on. I could either be like almost everyone else in me family and spend me life rotating in and out of jail, which I managed to avoid, somehow. Or I could use me fists to make legit money and keep my arse out of lockup.”

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