Page 39 of Last Call at the Local

Still, nothing, so I rest my free hand on her shoulder and lean closer. “You’re stuck in your head, ciaróg.”

Raine looks up from the guitar. She turns her head and tilts her face up to mine. “Did you just call me a beetle?”

I did, and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t be giving her nicknames. Or touching her, for that matter. I pull my hand from her shoulder. “Have you eaten at all today? It’s after five.”

“Already?” She looks around the room in a daze, wincing when she catches sight of her piles on the floor. “Sorry for making a mess of your office.” She looks down at the guitar, then back up at me, and her cheeks flush pink. “I lost track of time. Sorry.” She bolts from the chair and sets the guitar gently back in its case.

“How long were you standing there?” she asks, not meeting my gaze when she plops back into the office chair and starts poking around at something on the computer.

“Long enough to like what I heard,” I say. “What song were you playing?”

Raine shrugs, her blush deepening in the soft glow of the computer monitor.

“Was that one of your songs?”

Raine doesn’t answer, though I’m sure she’s heard me. When she glances over at me, her gaze snags on the plate in my hands. “That smells amazing.”

“Róisín’s latest,” I say, and set the plate on the desk beside her.

“For me?” I nod, and Raine pulls the plate to her. “We haven’t known each other for very long, Jack Dunne, but I have to say, you are quickly becoming one of my favorite people.”

“You must only know terrible people, then.”

“Oh, please.” She takes a bite of the brown soda bread. “Don’t pretend to be humble now.” When I take the seat on the other side of the desk, she grabs the plate and starts to get to her feet. “Crap, I’m in your seat.”

“Don’t get up.”

“I don’t mind moving, really.”

I prop my feet up on the desk and lean back in the chair with my hands laced behind my head. “Ah, but I’ve already made myself comfortable here.”

Raine slowly sinks back into the office chair. “Don’t make me eat by myself, at least.”

She nudges the plate toward me, so I sit up and grab some of the bread. She shoots me a smile, then flicks her gaze back to the computer screen.

“What are you working on?” I ask.

“Oh, this and that. When I get sick of looking at the corkboard, I play a few minutes of guitar, then work on the flier for the pub quiz.”

“What do you have left to do?” I ask.

“I’m almost done. And speaking of the flier, I think you would really enjoy helping me pass them out.” She flutters her eyelashes at me.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, though I already know I will.

“Anyway, once I finish the flier, I’m going to go through those,” she says, nodding to the messy piles on the floor. “I’ve gotten photos of everyone who works here except foryou.” She points her bread at me. “Don’t think you can get away with not having your photo on here.”

“I’d never dream of it. I’m the number one attraction this place has to offer.”

She laughs. “There’s that ego of yours. I was starting to worry something was wrong with you. Anyway, if I really focus I think I can get it all done in half an hour or so.”

I look at the mess on the floor. “How do you figure?”

“I’m thinking it’ll take me ten minutes to finish the flier and print it, ten to go through those papers, no time at all to take your photo as long as you cooperate, and only a couple of minutes to pin everything in place.”

“Does that include arranging everything on the corkboard?”

“Oh,” she says. “No, it doesn’t.”

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