Father Francis inquired innocently. Before Ryan could reply, he rushed on, “And with the holiday season coming on, you’ll be busier than ever in here as folks gather to warm up a bit after their shopping. And some of the local businesses like to use your back room for their Christmas parties, isn’t that right? Perhaps you could use another waiter, at least through New Year’s.”
Ryan cursed his loose tongue. He was going to have to remember that Father Francis was a sneaky, devious man, always looking to pair up his strays with people who casually remarked on some need or another. There had been one point when half his waitresses had been unwed mothers-to-be. For a brief time, he’d been certain his private dining room was going to wind up as a nursery, but even Father Francis had stopped short of making that request. The priest’s grudging acknowledgment that a pub was no place for infant day care suggested, however, that the thought had crossed his mind.
“Hiring an extra waiter is no problem. As for the woman, can she fix corned beef and cabbage, Irish stew, soda bread?” Ryan asked.
The priest looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Isn’t it time for a bit of a change?” He pulled the bright-green, laminated menu from its rack on the counter and pointed out the entrées that had been the same since the opening on St. Patrick’s Day eight years ago. Even the daily specials had remained constant. “It’s a bit boring, don’t you think?”
“This is an Irish pub,” Ryan reminded him dryly. “And my customers like knowing they can count on having fish and chips on Fridays and stew on Saturdays.”
“But people eventually tire of eating the same old things. Perhaps a little spice would liven things up.”
Spice? Ryan studied him warily. “What exactly can this woman cook?”
The priest’s expression brightened. “I understand her enchiladas are outstanding,” he reported enthusiastically.
Ryan frowned. “Let me get this straight. You’re asking me to hire someone to cook Mexican food in my Irish pub?”
He shuddered when he considered how his born-in-Dublin cook was likely to take to that news. Rory O’Malley was going to be slamming pots and pans around for a month, assuming he didn’t simply walk off the job. Rory, with his thick Irish brogue and a belly the size of Santa’s thanks to his fondness for ale, had a kind heart, but he could throw a tantrum better than any temperamental French chef. Because his kitchen had never run more smoothly, Ryan tried his best to stay out of Rory’s way and to do nothing to offend him.
The priest plastered an upbeat expression on his face. “Ryan’s Place will become the most talked-about restaurant in the city, a fine example of our melting pot culture.”
“Save it,” Ryan muttered, his already sour mood sinking even lower, because despite the absurdity and the threat of a rebellion in the kitchen, he was going to do as he’d been asked to do. “Send her in day after tomorrow, but she’d better be a quick learner. I am not serving tacos in this place, and that’s that. Does she at least speak English?”
“Enough,” Father Francis said.
He spoke with the kind of poker face that had Ryan groaning. “I should let you be the one to explain all this to Rory,” Ryan grumbled.
“Rory’s a fine Irish lad and a recent immigrant himself,” Father Francis declared optimistically. “I’m sure he’ll be agreeable enough when he knows all the facts. And surely he’ll see the benefit in the positive reviews likely to come his way.”
“On the off chance he doesn’t take the news as well as you’re predicting, I sincerely hope you can find your way around a kitchen, Father, because I have an apron back there with your name on it.”
“Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that,” the priest said with an uncharacteristic frown. “If it weren’t for Mrs. Malloy at the rectory and your own Rory, I’d starve.” He glanced toward the doorway, his expression suddenly brightening. “Now, my boy, just look at what the wind’s brought in. If this one isn’t a sight for sore eyes. Your good deed is already being rewarded.”
Ryan’s gaze shifted toward the doorway where, indeed, the sight that greeted him was a blessing. A woman that beautiful could improve a man’s mood in the blink of an eye. Huge eyes peered around the pub’s shadowy interior. Pale, fine skin had been stung pink by the wind. Waves of thick, auburn curls tumbled in disarray to her shoulders. Slender legs, encased in denim and high leather boots, were the inspiration for a man’s most erotic fantasies. Ryan sighed with pleasure.
“Boy, where are your manners?” Father Francis scolded. “She’s a paying customer who’s obviously new to Ryan’s Place. Go welcome her.”
Casting a sour look at the meddling old man, Ryan crossed to the other end of the crowded bar. “Can I help you, miss?”
“I doubt it,” she said grimly. “I doubt all the saints in heaven can solve this one.”
Ryan chuckled. “How about a bartender and a cranky old priest? Will we do? Or is there someone you’re supposed to be meeting here? I know most of the regulars.”
“No, I’m not meeting anyone, but I’d certainly like an introduction to someone who can fix a flat. I’ve called every garage in a ten-mile radius. Not a one of them has road service tonight. They all point out that tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, as if I didn’t know that. I have a car loaded with food, thank you very much, and given the way I hate to cook, I flatly refuse to let it all spoil while I’m stuck here. Of course, since the temperature is below freezing, I’m sure I’ll have blocks of ice by the time I finally get home.”
Ryan wisely bit back another chuckle. “Do you have a spare tire?”
The look she shot him was lethal. “Of course I have a spare. One of those cute little doughnut things. Don’t you think I tried that? I’m not totally helpless.”
“Well, then?”
“It’s flat, too. What good is the darn thing if it’s going to be flat when you need it most?”
Ryan decided not to remind her that it probably needed to be checked once in a while to avoid precisely this kind of situation. She didn’t seem to be in the mood for such obviously belated advice.
“How about this?” he suggested. “Have a seat down here by Father Francis. I’ll get you something to drink that will warm you up, and we’ll discuss the best way to go about solving your problem.”
“I don’t have time to sit around.” She regarded the priest apologetically. “No offense, Father, but I was supposed to be at my parents’ house hours ago. I’m sure they’re getting frantic.”
“Did you—”
She frowned at him and cut him off. “Before you say it, of course I’ve called. They know what’s going on, but you don’t know my parents. Until I actually walk in the door, they’ll be frantic anyway. It’s what they do. They worry. Big things, little things—it doesn’t matter. They claim their right to worry about their children came with the birth certificates.”
Ryan had a lot of trouble relating to frantic parents. His own hadn’t given two hoots about him or his brothers. When he was nine they’d dumped the three oldest boys on the state, then vanished, taking the two-year-old twins with them. If there had been an explanation for their cavalier treatment of their sons, they
