Page 8 of Irish Legacy

Trish crossed to the group by the door, her voice carrying back low and easy. “This way, lads. Mind the step.”

She led them toward a narrow, previously unnoticed door. An alley exit, probably.

Quinn leaned across the table. She pitched her voice low enough that no one else in the room would hear her.

“What’s her story?”

Natalie’s eyebrow quirked. “Trish?” She didn’t answer right away. She looked at Emma instead.

Emma pressed her lips together. The smile won anyway. “Wow. Good gaydar.”

Heat crawled up the back of Quinn’s neck. The Coronas made her brave and also made her stupid. She hadn’t been subtle. The leg thing hadn’t been subtle at all. Of course it was obvious. Emma and Natalie traded one of those coupled looks that lasted half a second and contained a whole conversation.

Emma held the look for a second longer, like she was deciding how much to give away.

Natalie spoke first, turning her glass by the stem. “I’m not sure that’s...”

“She’s single,” Emma said, cutting right through whatever warning Natalie was about to give. “She’s out. But I don’t think she’d be interested.”

A sudden, ridiculous heat flared behind Quinn’s ribs. It was stupid and petty, an absolute reflex she couldn’t completely kill.

Natalie leaned across the table, catching the stiff set of Quinn’s jaw. That quiet, knowing look was pure industry—the expression of a woman who had spent fifteen years on set managing fragile talent and recognizing when someone’s ego had just taken a hit. Her voice dropped, quiet enough to stay between the three of them. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

“No,” Emma said, already waving a hand to brush the sting away. “Definitely not. Don’t take it that way. She’s just... She’s stuck in her ways.”

Quinn nodded. She wanted to ask what that meant. Stuck how. Since when. But then Trish was back, pulling out her stool, and taking a seat.

5

The low wooden stool put Trish’s knees at an awkward angle, but she barely felt the ache in her joints. All her focus had narrowed to the outside of her right thigh, where Quinn’s leg had drifted right back against hers the second Trish sat down again, like she’d been waiting for Trish to settle back onto the stool before reclaiming the contact.

She’d gone to the bathroom to put space between them, stood with her hands braced on the cool porcelain, and told herself she’d imagined the whole thing. The leg, the lingering looks, all of it. A product of a long night and too much attention from a woman who was used to getting whatever held her interest. But the minute she sat back down, the contact returned. Quinn’s knee, the lean of her shoulder, the way her blond hair swung as she turned to clap for whichever singer had just finished bleeding his heart out by the fire.

Trish picked up her Guinness and drained the last of it, the room tilting just a degree. She’d lost track of how many she’d had. Her throat worked, swallowing down the stout and the sudden, stupid jump of her pulse.

She broke the circuit, pushing up onto her feet so fast the stool scraped the floor.

“I’m going to get another round.” She looked everywhere except the blue eyes staring up at her. “Same?”

Natalie leaned back, letting out a long, quiet sigh. “I think I’m good.”

“Yeah.” Emma turned sideways on her stool. “I’m ready to call it a night if you are?”

“Yeah? Okay.” Natalie offered a tired smile.

Trish stepped in before the silence could settle. “Right then.”

Emma stood, and Trish had an arm around her shoulders before she’d finished straightening up.

“Get some sleep,” Trish murmured against her hair.

“Hope you’re not stuck here too late.”

Emma gave Trish’s ribs a firm squeeze before she let go.

Natalie stood next. She pulled Trish into a brief embrace and let go. “Goodnight, Trish.”

“Goodnight, Nat.”