Page 16 of Surrender
She leaned into him, heart full. “You’ve given them so much, Connor.”
“And so have you.”
They stood there quietly for a moment, just the four of them, wrapped in warmth and drowsy peace. Until Darcie spoke again.
“There’s something we haven’t talked about.”
Connor’s gaze flicked to hers. “Your sister.”
Darcie nodded. “I try not to think about her, but she’s always there. A shadow I can’t quite make out. And I can’t shake the feeling that we’re meant to find her. That she needs us.”
“We’ll find her, love. We will,” Connor said softly.
“But what if she doesn’t want to be found?”
“Then we’ll handle it, one step at a time. Together.”
Chapter 7
Keefe stood in the open doorway at the back of his kitchen, a fresh cup of coffee cradled between his hands. Inside, Bess purred like a contented cat, gleaming, and already earning her keep while the fryers hummed low. The first signals of the day’s rhythm winding up. Everything was working like it should and running smoothly.
The pub was closed for now, Ginny was still tucked upstairs, and Sophie—fresh off her honeymoon—would be in soon. He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. She would be arriving any minute now. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t missed his sister. Things always felt a bit flat without her around—which would be the case more often now that she was married.
There was a time when this was his favorite time of day. He used to crave the stillness, the promise tucked inside the quiet before the chaos kicked in, before the orders rolled in fast and hot, before the place was filled with voices.
Now it just reminded him how quiet his own damn life had become. God, he’d never been so restless.
He should be content. Proud, even. O’Brian’s Taproom was thriving. He finally had his own place, made his own rules. The kitchen was exactly the kind of operation he'd dreamed about running back when he was scrubbing pots and shadowing chefs half his age.
Most people would say he had it all. But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.
He wanted someone to share it with.
Working in the kitchen, he could forget his loneliness. It was coming home after a day’s work that got to him—no wife, no children. Hell, not even a cat.
Ugh. And to make it worse, today was Sunday. After tonight, they’d be closed for three days.
Swell. He would have three whole days all to himself.
Alone. Again.
Instinctively, he brought his fingers to his lips. Damn. No cigarette. Brooding didn’t feel like proper brooding without one. He’d quit ages ago, but if he’d known he’d be going this long without the company of a woman, he might have held on to the habit a little longer.
Understandably, he’d taken a break while he poured everything he had into getting this place up and running. The search for Miss Right had been put on hold—not forever. He just hadn’t expected the pause to last this long… or to feel this lonely.
He shifted his grip on the mug, jaw clenched.
And now? He kept waking up every morning on the wrong side of the bed—the empty side. It had been too long since he’d felt the heat of a woman’s skin under his hand, tangled in his sheets.
But it wasn’t just sex he missed. He missed having a female presence around. Someone he could talk to, spend time with doing anything or nothing at all. He didn’t need a big, dramatic love story. Just someone to share the quiet with. Someone who would steal his shirts and fall asleep on the sofa while he cleaned up. Someone who gave a damn if he came home or didn’t. Someone he could cook for just for the sheer pleasure of seeing her smile.
Was that really so much to ask?
At least it was shaping up to be a sunny summer morning. As he continued sipping his coffee, he mulled over the day’s special. Since it was Sunday, something rich and comforting felt right—his flaky-crust game pie. The kind of dish that wrapped around you like a warm embrace. After all, Ginny had said it was the sort of thing that could win a woman’s heart. Might as well give it a try.
And for dessert? Lemon raspberry sorbet. Light, fresh, with just the right kiss of tartness. The perfect note to end on—sweet, but with a little spark.
Out in front of him, beneath the leafy trees, three magpies were chattering away in their usual obnoxious fashion. The same trio had joined him for coffee all week, like they thought they were part of the staff. He muttered the old rhyme under his breath: “One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy…”
