childhood home, was, in many ways, just as strangled by tradition and conservative thinking as West Cork.
He could only pray that, unlike those who had raised him, the fine folks of Hamilton—his blood family, as it were—would embrace his ideas, rather than turn a deaf ear before hearing him out. In order for them to fully realize the depth and breadth of his plans, he would need their cooperation.
But change was coming, regardless. Fearing his death was imminent, aged and frail Lionel Hamilton had signed off on Griff’s every idea, knowing it would ensure the future for the empire that Lionel, along with his ancestors, had built.
Griff’s train of thought was abruptly broken by a loud yelp coming from somewhere in the rear of the small shop, followed by a ringing crash of what sounded like metal on metal.
He gritted his teeth against the renewed ringing inside his own head, even as he called out in the ensuing silence. “Hullo? Are you in need of some assistance?”
What followed was a stream of very…colorful language that surprised a quick smile from him. He’d found Americans, at least the ones of his immediate acquaintance, to be a bit obsessed with political correctness, always worrying what others might think. So it was somewhat refreshing, to hear such an…uncensored reaction. He assumed the string of epithets wasn’t a response to his query, but then he’d never met the proprietor.
He debated heading around the counter to see if she might need help, then checked the action. “No need to engage an angry female unless absolutely necessary,” he murmured, tipping up onto his toes and looking behind the counter, on the off chance he might spy the pot of coffee. “Ah,” he said, on seeing a double burner positioned beside an empty, tiered glass case.
He fished out his wallet and put a ten note on the counter, more than enough to cover the cost of a single cup, then ducked under the counter and scanned the surface for a stack of insulated cups. Oversized, sky blue mugs with the shop’s white and pink cupcake logo printed on one side and the name on the other were lined up next to the machine. He didn’t think she’d take too kindly to his leaving with one of those.
“Making an angry female even angrier…never a good thing.” His mouth lifted again as a few more, rather unique invectives floated from the back of the shop. “Points for creativity, however.”
He glanced at his watch, saw he still had some time, and took a moment to roll his neck, shake out his shoulders, and relax his jaw. He could feel the tension tightening him up, which was a fairly common state of late. But he’d never been so close to realizing his every dream. He fished out the small airline-sized tube of pain relievers he’d bought when he’d landed. Upon popping it open, he discovered there was only one tablet left. He shrugged and dry swallowed it.
He crouched down to look under the counter and had just opened a pair of cupboard doors when he felt a presence behind him.
“May I help you with something?”
Hmm. Angry female, immediately south of his wide-open back. He was fairly certain there were sharp knives within reach. Not the best strategy he’d ever employed.
Already damned, he reached inside the cupboard and slid a large insulated cup from the stack, snagging a plastic lid as well, before gently closing the doors and straightening up. “Just looking for a cup,” he said as he turned, a careful smile on his face.
The smile froze as he got his first look at the cupcake baker.
He wasn’t normally given to poetic thought, but there he stood, thinking her clear, almost luminescent skin made her wide, dark blue eyes look like twin pools of endlessly deep, midnight waters. It was surprisingly difficult to keep from looking away, every self-protective instinct he had being triggered by her steady hold on his gaze, which was rather odd. She was the village baker. Despite the tirade he’d just overheard, he doubted anyone who made baking cheerful little cakes her life’s work would be a threat or obstacle to his mission. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, lifting the cup so she could see what he’d been about. “You sounded a bit…occupied, back there.”
“Yes, a little problem with a collapsed rolling rack.”
His gaze, held captive as it was, used the time to quickly take in the rest of her. Thick, curling hair almost the same rich brown as the steaming hot brew he’d yet to sip had been pulled up in an untidy knot on the back of her head, exposing a slender length of neck and accentuating her delicate chin. All of which combined to showcase a pair of un-painted, full, dark pink lips that, even when not smiling, curved oh-so-naturally into the kind of perfect bow that all but begged a man to part them, taste them, bite them, and…
He looked away. Damn. He couldn’t recall his body ever leaping to attention like that, after a single look. No matter how direct. Especially when his attentions were clearly not being encouraged in any way, if the firm set of her delicate chin was any indication.
“Nothing too serious, I hope,” he said, boldly turning his back to her and helping himself to a cup of coffee. After all, he’d paid for it. Not that she was aware of it as yet. But he thought it better to risk her mild displeasure until he could point that out…rather than engage more of the fury he’d heard coming from the back of the shop minutes ago—which he was fairly certain would be the case if her sharp gaze took in the current state of the front of his trousers.
“Nothing another five hours of baking time won’t resolve,” she said, a bit of weariness creeping into her tone. From the corner of his eye, he caught her wiping her hands on the flour covered front of her starched white baker’s jacket. “Please, allow me.”
He quickly topped off the cup and snapped on the lid. “Not to worry. I believe I’ve got it. I left a ten note on your counter.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, sounding sincere. “It’s been…a morning. I’m generally not so—”
“It’s fine,” he said, intending to skirt past her and duck back to the relative safety of the other side of the counter. The tall, trousers-concealing counter. He just needed a moment, preferably with her not in touching distance, so he could button his coat and allow himself a bit of recovery time. It seemed all he had to do was look at her for his current state to remain…elevated.
Unfortunately for him, and the comfort level of his trousers, she moved closer and reached past him. “The sugar is here and I have fresh cream in the—”
“I take it black,” he said abruptly, then they both turned the same way, trapping her between the counter…and him.
Her gaze homed in on his once again, but he was the one holding hers captive.
“Okay,” she said, her voice no longer strident. In fact, the single word had been a wee bit…breathy.
“Indeed,” he murmured, once again caught up in that mouth of hers. Those parted lips simply demanded a man pay them far more focused attention. Step away, Gallagher, he counseled himself. Sip your coffee, gather your wits, and move on.
“You’re Irish,” she blurted, somewhat abruptly.
He smiled. “All of my days.”
The corners of her lovely lips tilted, but not quite into a responding smile. More the beginnings of a smirk. “You must be Thomas Gallagher.”
“No’ too many Irishmen in Hamilton?” he replied, not particularly surprised she’d heard of him. His
