Page 45 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

How gorgeous? I’m on deadline. I need a jolt.

She laughed before replying.

Sandy blond hair. Leafy green eyes. Tanned. Nice body. Nice smile. Not that I’m looking. Rakish gold earring in his left ear, making him look like a pirate. Drives a Triumph motorcycle.

Taylor’s reply was immediate.

He’s not at the helm of Queen Anne’s Revenge? Disappointing but still hot. I’m smoking my fake cigarette now. Send a picture if you can. And tell him… Thanks for the message? Are you sure he wasn’t funning you?

She couldn’t believe she was texting about Blackbeard’s old pirate ship with her friend after delivering a psychic message. She replied:

I’ll try and send a pic. And no, he’s solid.

Taylor sent back a thumbs-up—a little eerie as Liam had just given her one before he left—and then typed a message.

Well, the Irish have a rep for being close to the veil. Whatever that means. I’m diving back into my article. Look for it in the Sunday edition. It’s going to rock.

She sent back a thumbs-up and stowed her phone. Well, her job was done. She’d already sent her friend her finished design so she could run it with the article.Now all she had to do was pick up Greta and get ready for her date.

As she entered Jamie’s house, she could have sworn she smelled oranges. Funny. The scent was so fresh, it was almost like the house was welcoming her back.

After what Liam had told her, she was almost inclined to believe it.

CHAPTERELEVEN

She was back at his home.

Malcolm Coveney had something to do with the utilities issue. Of that, there was no doubt. Linc and Donal were already burning up the phones about it, Jamie knew, since he’d called Bets to let her know he’d sent her the proposal for the children’s program to distribute to everyone for tomorrow’s board meeting.

It was a formality. Given the input he’d had from the other artists, they didn’t expect any changes. On Monday, Bets would put out a press release, along with the curriculum, and announce the upcoming fall term would start at the beginning of October. They’d be off to the races.

If only Malcolm Coveney would leave them alone. Hopefully their media blitz, as Linc called it, would counter the man’s nefarious plans. All Jamie wanted was to think about his date tonight.

When he arrived at Summercrest, he was happy to find himself alone. Everyone was at work, it seemed. He dragged his suitcase back upstairs to his room. He’d stripped off the bedding this morning, so he’d have to find fresh sheets. When he turned around to head to the linen closet, he let out a shriek.

Sorcha stood in the doorway, her white dress billowing from an invisible breeze. “You just can’t escape the haunted things, Jamie. Me or this house.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said it wasn’t haunted. Never mind. I have things to do before my date, so you’d best tell me why you’re here.”

Strolling forward, her bare feet hovering over the stone floor, she said, “I’m here to congratulate you on how nicely things are progressing with Sophie. She’s completely fallen for you. Now it’s time to take her hand and face what’s next. Have fun tonight, Jamie.”

She disappeared with a quicksilver smile.

He threw his hands up. “Face what’s next? Have fun? Why don’t you simply spell outDOOMon the wall?”

Her orange scent surrounded him. Ignoring her, or doing his best imitation of it, he stalked down to the kitchen. If he was going to stay here, he needed another booby trap for his room. Otherwise, he’d be overrun with people asking him what was up and whether he needed help getting ready for his date.

God help him, Ellie had even volunteered to do his hair this morning as he’d grabbed a quick bowl of porridge, which had made Kathleen chortle with laughter before offering to pick out his clothes. Declan had followed up with an offer to pick up bubble bath so he could make himself squeaky clean.

They were eejits. All of them. But the ongoing shenanigans were making his stay at Summercrest enjoyable. When he opened the pantry, he pulled out the bicarbonate soda and grabbed an empty bucket and some wire from the closet before heading back upstairs.

After placing yet anotherDo Not Disturbnote on his bedroom door, he rigged his trap and settled down to grade papers. He’d read enough comparative education studies in Europe to know that the seven-hour-a-week average most Irish children spent on homework was high. He’d done his best to incorporate in-school practicums for them to learn to reduce it to around five a week, but this being the first week, he’d been kind. He’d mapped their homework at around four.

When he came to Greta’s worksheet, where she’d had to color and label simple fractions in the corresponding shapes, he wasn’t surprised to give her a perfect score. She was quiet in class but extremely attentive.

He would need to challenge her, he knew. Mostly, though, he hoped she would enjoy coming to school. So far he couldn’t tell. She was all smiles when she saw him at the cottage, but she was more reserved in the classroom, still finding her way with the other kids. But it was early yet.

Scraping in the hallway had him turning his head quickly toward the door. Did he have an intruder, or was Sorcha playing tricks on him?

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