Page 67 of After Indigo Irish Nights
Last year, they suspected Mary—or her thug-like son, Owen—had let Donal’s sheep out of his pasture by tampering with his gate. Those fluffy white idiots had thundered up her drive and eaten her prize roses, hurting her chances for the rose competition.
What did that bitch have in mind this year?
Because this resume suggested Mary had her cauldron out again.
Bets had the urge to ask her for an interview just to call her on her shit.
“You digging for treasure, sugar?” she heard a familiar drawl call out.
She didn’t bother to turn around as she worked the thistle’s roots with her spade. “I wish. Donal told me the two of you had scored another win with your pub drinks.”
He’d texted her that actually. Texted! And begged off coming over to her place, saying he was wrecked from boxing practice and the meeting at the pub. Another sign things were not going well between them. She was trying to be positive. He was helping the arts center. Only those texts had made her tear up.
“We did at that,” Linc drawled.
“That’s two other council members who would like to be trustees, and all this before the first boxing match. Not bad, cowboy.”
He dropped to his knees and had his hands on the thistle before she could warn him. He howled. “What the—?Jesus! My hand is on fire. Take me to the hospital. My hand is going to fall off.”
Bruce and her three boys had always been terrible about pain. If men were the ones giving birth, they’d never shut up about it. But thistles did hurt like a bitch. “It won’t fall off. Come on. I have some salve inside. Jesus, Linc. Haven’t you come across a thistle before?”
“I didn’t look,” he accused, cradling his swelling hand. “You were weeding, dammit! I was trying to help.”
She tossed her spade aside and rose. “In Ireland, we don’t have to worry about snakes while gardening, but some of our weeds leave a nasty mark.”
“I’m never weeding again,” he muttered as they walked briskly to the house.
She needed to get his mind off his swelling appendage.Oh, don’t make that joke, O’Hanlon.
“You want to hear something funny? Mary Kincaid applied to be my assistant. I’m thinking about interviewing her and asking things likeHow do you handle failure?andWhat do you do when people don’t like you?Linc, that bitch is trying to mess with my head. It’s no accident it’s rose season again.”
Of course, that was small Irish potatoes compared with Mary’s aims. She still wanted to take the arts center down or get control of it for herself.
He blew on his hand like he was trying to put the fire out. “Your rose competition is legendary, I hear. I can’t wait to see this fight. I gander the boxing match won’t be anywhere near as intense as you tangling with Mary over tea roses. Jesus, this hurts like a—”
“Tea roses?” She let him inside the kitchen and walked to the drawer with the salve. “What do you know about roses?”
“Women like them,” he said, trying for a smile but failing.
“Give me your hand,” she said, dipping her hand into the salve. “It’s going to hurt for three days from my experience. Good thing you aren’t boxing. You couldn’t wear gloves.”
“Donal and the rest of those loons never stop training,” Linc said, wincing as she gently covered his rash in sweeping movements. “If politicking with the council members weren’t so important, I don’t think he’d ever leave the boxing club.”
Sore subject, that. “Don’t I know it?”
“I swear, I can’t imagine wanting anyone to hit me at this age. I got into some dustups when I was a teenager. Mostly over girls. But I like not having to exercise like I’m twenty. Because I’m not.”
“Donal was in sheep, which involves a lot of running and physical labor. He didn’t ride a desk like you. But you’re right. He’s not twenty anymore.”
She still hadn’t mustered the courage to ask Donal about the distance in their relationship. They weren’t having sex. He was usually at the club training or out now for politicking drinks with Linc. Things were weird between them, and she knew it.
Linc thanked her as she capped the jar, then tilted his head to study her. “Your face is as dark as those skies outside, portending rain. Something on your mind?”
“Tons.” She dropped the jar in the drawer and put the kettle on before remembering Linc hated tea. “Coffee?”
“Whiskey,” he said, cracking his neck. “You Irish would say it would help my hand, right?”
“Probably, but let’s stick to coffee for the moment.” She found the coffee grounds in the cupboard and dumped a good measure in the French press. “Biscuit?”
