Page 15 of Ireland

The curve of his lips deepened, and his eyes mirrored that heated smile. “Do you?”

“You’ve got the sexiest hair I’ve ever seen. If it doesn’t drive you crazy, you could leave it just as it is.”

“Done.”

She melted a little. Genevieve noticed and gave a nod of approval before moving to another table.

Ireland changed the subject, hoping she didn’t have little hearts as pupils. “How do you know them?”

“Through Marcelle.” He sat back. “She lived down the road from my childhood home and caught me stealing tomatoes from her garden.”

“Ah, so thievery isn’t one of your talents.”

“I’d be much better at it now. I was thirteen then, tortured by a growth spurt and starving. My mother’s work in New Orleans allowed her one day a week at home, and Jules’ and Claudette’s father left the three of us to our own devices. So, I found what I could for us to eat and took it. Success outweighed stealth.”

Ireland paused with her wineglass half-lifted to her mouth. He told his story in the most casual of tones, just as he’d told her how he learned to play the trumpet so consummately, but her ear caught turbulent undercurrents in his silky-smooth cadence.

“Marcelle had learned to hunt in the bayou,” he went on. “She can be as silent as a shadow. I didn’t fight when she caught me by the ear.” His smile was wry, but affection softened his gaze. “Even then, she was smaller than me.”

The picture forming in her mind was unexpected. And Ronan’s revelations were startlingly intimate. She wasn’t prepared for that, either.

See who I am, he’d said. And he was showing her.

“I prefer when you look at me with desire,” he said gently, “not sympathy.”

“I’m sorry.” She set her glass down on the table.

“Don’t be. I’ve managed just fine. That’s just the story of how—and why—we found each other. I wasn’t ever hungry after that, and neither was Jules or Claudette. Marcelle was widowed in her early twenties and never remarried or had children. We became family, including Valentin and Genevieve.” He sipped his wine. “Our food’s here.”

Turning her head, she saw the chef in his white coat approaching with a plate in his hands. Genevieve was beside him with Ronan’s meal. They set the food on the table simultaneously.

Ronan pushed away from the table with effortless grace and embraced the shorter man in a back-slapping hug. Ireland stood, too, and returned Valentin’s brief kisses to each of her cheeks.

Valentin pulled back but kept both of his hands on her shoulders. He was short, shorter even than his diminutive wife. His thick white hair was contained in a net, and his face was tanned and deeply lined. Dark brown eyes studied her for a long minute, then he gave her a broad smile. “Finally, a woman to bring this boy to his knees. He could use the humility. Give him no quarter.”

Ireland laughed, not just at what he said but at using the term “boy” for Ronan, who was so utterly amanin every sense. “I’m doing my best.”

“Give me a chance to woo her first, Val,” Ronan said with that smooth, mellow whiskey drawl. “Before she decides to break my heart.”

The older couple joined them, with Valentin sitting by Ronan. Genevieve poured red wine for herself and her husband.

The chef waited while Ireland took the first bite and watched as she grew still with pleasured surprise, her eyes widening. She chewed slowly, relishing every burst of flavor.

Ronan watched her, too, with a hint of a smile and warm, gleaming eyes.

“I now know what heaven tastes like,” she said finally. “This is amazing, Valentin.”

He blushed. “It’s nothing special,ma belle. And please, call me Val.”

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Ronan pulled out his phone. He looked at Ireland as he slid his chair back. “Excuse me a moment. It’s Jules.”

“There’s an empty room for private parties down the hallway,” Genevieve directed. “Send him our love.”

Ireland followed him with her gaze. When she caught herself, she looked away and noted that she wasn’t the only woman in the restaurant who couldn’t take her eyes off Ronan.

She smiled sheepishly at her hosts. “Your restaurant is lovely. I can’t wait to tell my friends and family about it.”

“Merci, petite,” Genevieve said as she grabbed the white wine bottle and refilled their glasses. “We hope to make a success of it. Ronan put so much faith in us by buying this building so we could have this space and the condo above it. Without him, we wouldn’t have been able to move closer to our grandchildren.”

---