Page 6 of What Love Can Do

“White horse,” Mr. Delfino echoed, tapping Lilly on the shoulder. “Take you away.”

Three

After the flight from Dublin to New York City, a layover, then another six-hour flight to San Francisco, plus car rental and driving time, the last thing Quinn expected was for his balls to tighten upon seeing the blond American woman working in the dining room of the Russian River House. She was quite possibly the most gorgeous girl he’d ever seen. Holy shite.

But damn, he was bushed and desperately needed a bed.

The last ten days had taken a huge toll on him. From the moment his mother had died to the day he’d called Richard Phillips, his maternal grandfather, to inform him that his daughter, Maggie Phillips O’Neill had passed away suddenly, only to get a hostile, “I don’t have a daughter named Maggie, nor do I have a grandson. Only two daughters here in Forestville,” Quinn had been doing his best to keep his spirits up. Old man Phillips might have kept his mam away with his belligerent attitude, but it wasn’t going to work on him. He had the right to know where Mam had grown up, see the sidewalks she had walked, the river she had loved, and the valley she’d adored.

Con had been a bit less eager to make the trip, saying Mam had made her choice to leave Green Valley and had been all the better for it, but Quinn had pestered Con into coming with him for a few reasons. One, to try and snap him out of his funk. Two, to get him out of Brady’s hair—they’d been bickering like chickens the last ten days, more than usual. And finally, to help him find closure over Mam’s death. Of course, that was something all his brothers needed, but Brady, Sean and Riley had obligations that needed tending. After they’d all agreed to cremate Mam’s body (despite his initial belief that Mam should be buried, Con, after reading Mam’s journal, had changed his mind), Brady, Sean and Riley agreed that Quinn and Con should journey to America first. If they still felt at the end of one week that it was what Mam would have wanted, they’d call the others, who’d then join them to spread her ashes.

Quinn felt optimistic it would all work out as it should. And while he hadn’t shared this with his brothers, he’d decided that if he liked it here, he’d extend his trip. If he didn’t, he’d return to Ireland like a good Irish boy ought to do.

So far, he was liking what he saw right in the dining room.

Once again, Quinn glanced at the hot blond American, an amazing gazelle of a woman, even as the innkeeper droned on about things to do in the area, the bookstore down the street, the diner around the corner with the homemade cherry pie, and the winery next door. The blonde—she was tall and a bit curvy, just the way he liked—kept stealing glances at him while the older woman talked. Her hair was up in a messy bun like she’d just run circles. She had a smooth, angular face with high cheekbones that gave her the look of an old-fashioned pin up with a naughty side. Then again, maybe his imagination was running wild. After all, she wore a pink and black apron that read: Life is Short—Lick the Bowl.

“I’d be happy to. Just show me where it is,” Con said, deepening his voice, as he stared straight at her chest.

Quinn smacked his arm. “You going to start right away, are you?”

The innkeeper with the sunken cheekbones gave him dour looks. And they said Americans were friendly.

“I apologize for my brother. He’s shattered and in dire need of a nap. That was completely uncalled for,” he stage-whispered.

“No offense taken.” The young woman smiled cheekily then turned and walked into a small alcove through the dining room. From where Quinn stood, it appeared she was sorting a variety of breakfast quick breads into plastic storage bags. What he would give to try her muffins.

“Your room is Number 5,” the older woman said and fake-smiled. She placed a room key on the desk. “It’s the last one down the hall on the left. Breakfast begins at six-thirty and runs until ten-thirty every morning. Obviously, you’re late for today, but we have coffee out all day, unless you gentlemen prefer tea? We can get you some tea.”

“Ah, sure, tea would be grand, if it isn’t too much trouble,” Quinn said, thinking how he hadn’t had a nice cuppa black tea with milk in over a week. Such a thing would hit the spot right about now.

“Lillian?” the innkeeper called.

The blonde turned her head toward them again. “Yes, Mom?” Her arms were full of muffins, and her gaze flitted to him, to his brother, then back to Quinn again. The tiny gesture made him dance a little jig in his brain, even though he hadn’t just crossed the Atlantic and all the continental U.S. just to act like a complete bowser.

“Can you get Mr., uh…” The older woman checked the register for his name. “O’Neill and Mr. O’Neill some tea in their room, please? They’ve had a long trip from…Dublin, is it?” She read the register again, as though double, triple-checking her facts.

“Yes! Yes.” Quinn slid the room key toward him and folded his papers back into his bag. “All the way from Ireland. Please, don’t ask if I know any leprechauns or Bono. I actually prefer the leprechauns.” He chuckled.

“Who?” The woman squinted her eyes.

Quinn needed to learn when to keep his mouth shut. “Eh, nothing. Just, eh…a dumb joke.”

Still visible in her little alcove, the young woman with the breakfast muffins shook with quiet laughter. She covered her mouth with one hand and disappeared into what Quinn suspected was the kitchen. Quinn smiled to himself.

“Well, such a long way just to visit Forestville. You boys must be going to San Fran and L.A. as well, I would imagine,” the older woman said, tapping her pencil on her desk. The way she still squinted her eyes slightly, as though trying to thoroughly inspect them, worried him. Did she know who they were, or was she just having a bit of indigestion?

“Most likely,” Quinn said, just to let it go. He may have hailed from a large city, but he knew that people from small towns were all the same—they all got to talking if you gave them even the smallest amount of information. He didn’t want anyone to know that the sons of Maggie Phillips were here, but then again, after the call with his grandfather, word may have already spread. “Anyway, thanks so much. We’ll be off then.”

“Call us if you need anything.” The innkeeper took her seat again and shuffled papers around as they collected their bags.

What should I call you? Quinn wondered briefly then realized she meant he should ring if he needed anything. The new vernacular would take a bit of getting used to, and a nap would prove useful right now.

Their room was spacious and comfortable with a king-sized bed. He would have much preferred to have his own bed, but at this point, he didn’t care about sharing. He threw his bags into a chair and closed the door, as Con threw his stuff on the floor. Their heads hit the mattress at the exact same time, which made them snort with laughter.

“Shite. I’m going to sleep ‘til tomorrow, if that’s all right with you,” Con groaned, spreading his arms out wide, inhaling the spaciousness of the large bed.

“Brother, you need the rest. That’s why I brought you.” Quinn was bushed too, but he was also wired, like a child who’d seen too many exciting new things after a long day and couldn’t close his eyes. Well, here they were in Forestville, California, America—his mother’s hometown. Finally. Sometime today or tomorrow, he’d set out to see the town a bit closer and try to get a sense for who his mother might have been before she moved to Ireland.

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