Page 30 of Irish Legacy

Trish stepped between them exactly the way Quinn had done to her that first stormy night, mirroring it so perfectly that Quinn’s throat tightened. The position was deliberate. Like Trish was claiming the memory and rewriting it. Quinn wrapped her arms around Trish’s shoulders, fingers threading into thick dark hair, and pulled her closer.

The kiss deepened. Trish’s tongue stroked hers again, while her hands slid up Quinn’s back under the wool coat. The phantom weight of Trish’s mouth from this morning still lingered on her skin, the memory of those same hands pinning her wrists to the sheets. Now the roles flipped and Quinn loved it, loved the solid weight of Trish between her knees, loved how the older woman’s body fit against hers like they had done this a hundred times instead of one long night.

The stool dug into the backs of her thighs. Quinn rocked forward once, seeking more contact, and Trish made a low sound into her mouth that sent a tremor down Quinn’s arms. This was what she had been missing in LA, the raw honesty of someone who wanted her, not the actress on the poster.

Trish’s fingers dug into her waist, bunching the fabric of her striped trousers. The rental confirmation still glowed on the phone left on the bar behind them. Six months. Long enough to learn the rhythms of this village, to help behind this bar on busy nights, to wake up next to Trish without a plane ticket looming. The thought loosened something tight in her chest.

“Stay with me tonight,” Trish whispered between kisses. Her lips brushed Quinn’s jaw, then the sensitive spot beneath her ear. The words carried heat and a question, like Trish still couldn’t quite believe Quinn had chosen to stay.

Quinn tilted her head to give her better access. Her hands slid down to grip Trish’s hips, pulling her closer until their bodies pressed tight. The scent of Trish’s skin, soap and faint peat smoke, filled her lungs.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured against Trish’s temple. The promise sat solid in her mouth. She had spent years saying yes to every flight, every contract, every polite exit that kept her empty. Refusing to leave was the first real choice she had made in a decade.

Her fingers found the hem of Trish’s navy sweater and slipped underneath, tracing warm skin over the strong line of her back. Trish shivered under the touch. Quinn smiled against her hair. The age difference, the miles, the fear in Trish’s eyes earlier, none of it vanished. But right now, with Trish’s mouth on her neck and the pub empty around them, none of it seemed bigger than this.

Trish pulled back just enough to rest their foreheads together. Her breath came quick and warm against Quinn’s lips. Those piercing eyes searched Quinn’s face like she was looking for the catch. Quinn let her look. She had nothing to hide anymore.

The exhaustion of the past year faded entirely, replaced by the steady thud of her heart against Trish’s chest.

She wanted this woman, wanted the quiet mornings and the late nights closing the bar and the way Trish sang old songs when she thought no one listened.

She kissed Trish again, slower this time, pouring everything she couldn’t yet say into the press of their mouths. Trish’s hands tightened on her waist. The wooden stool creaked faintly under her shifting weight. Outside, the Volan River kept its constant rush, but in here the world had narrowed to the space between them.

Quinn’s thighs tightened against Trish’s hips, the friction dragging a quiet shiver right through her belly. She could spend the rest of the night like this, learning every way Trish wanted to be touched, every low catch in her throat when the careful control slipped.

Six months stretched ahead like open ground. Longer, if Quinn had her way. The thought should have terrified her. Instead it settled deep into her bones.

Trish broke the kiss to breathe, lips brushing Quinn’s with each word. “You really booked it till April.”

The wonder in her voice made Quinn’s chest ache. She nodded, thumb tracing Trish’s lower lip. “I did.” The words came out steady. No performance. Just truth. “I want to see what we can build here. With you.”

Trish’s eyes softened. The sadness from earlier had bled away, leaving her expression open and unguarded. She leaned in again, mouth claiming Quinn’s with renewed hunger. Quinn gave herself over to it completely. Whatever came next, the logistics and the doubts and the eighteen years between them, they would face it together.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, Quinn wasn’t performing. She was simply here. With Trish. And that felt like enough.

EPILOGUE

Trish sat on the worn couch in Natalie’s living room, the one that used to be Bridget’s, and let the Christmas fire warm her shins. December twenty-fifth. The house smelled of roasted turkey and glazed ham, the dishes she and Emma had spent the morning preparing while Natalie and Quinn set the table and stayed out of the way.

Laughter drifted from the kitchen now, Quinn’s low voice mixing with Natalie’s as water ran and plates clinked.

Three months since that October night when Quinn had shown her the six-month rental agreement. Twelve weeks of waking up to Quinn’s blond hair on the pillow beside her, of shared mornings in the flat above the pub, of learning that the famous actress really did want the quiet life in Kilvolan.

In November she still woke every morning half expecting the other side of the bed to be empty. Even though Quinn had rented the place through April, Trish kept waiting for the call that would pull her back to Los Angeles or the boredom that would send her looking for brighter lights. It never came.

Instead Quinn showed up at the pub after closing most nights, stacking stools without being asked, drying glasses while they talked about nothing and everything. With every week they grew closer. Trish no longer caught herself bracing for the end. The fear had faded into something softer, something that felt like trust.

She stretched her legs toward the fire. The flames popped and sent sparks dancing up the chimney. Across from her Emma curled into the armchair, a glass of red wine loose in her fingers.

In the corner by the window, the tall Christmas tree Emma had wrestled through the front door leaned slightly under the weight of old glass baubles and paper chains. The strings of tiny white lights woven through the pine needles reflected in the dark windowpanes, blurring into soft gold halos against the wet Irish night. Bridget’s old furniture mixed with Natalie’s newer pieces.

Photos from the statue unveiling sat on the mantel. Everything here spoke of roots and choices. Trish glanced toward the kitchen doorway. Quinn’s bright, easy laugh carried again.

Emma watched her with that quiet nurse’s gaze that missed nothing, and Trish cleared her throat.

“How would you feel about managing the pub for a stretch?” Trish asked. “Not necessarily working there.” She pressed her lips together. “Just in case.”

Emma’s mouth curved into a slow smile. She set her wine on the side table. “Just in case what?”