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He had no choice, Dean told himself, as he followed Grace into O’Tooles. She’d spent her entire afternoon helping paint the ceiling when she was supposed to be on a sabbatical. Inviting her to dinner was a good way to pay her back, and she’d seemed happy to accept. They slipped inside and found an available table in the corner beneath beams strung with small, white lights that sparkled in the room. Moira was not in, but Desiree greeted them with a towel tied around her waist. Tráthnóna maith,” she said with a curious glint in her eye.
“Good evening to you.” Dean wondered why he felt sheepish. “How’s our favorite lass, and what’s for dinner?”
“Lamb stew tonight. Toasted bread and cheese.”
“Ooh,” sighed Grace dramatically. “I’m glad you insisted, Dean.”
He laughed. “Grace has discovered real cheeses,” he told Desiree.
“Has she now?” laughed the young woman.
They ordered the meal just as soft music began to drift from the speakers overhead. Two couples got up to dance, and Grace smiled.
“Young love,” Dean mused.
“And old,” giggled Grace.
The stocky and serious Mr. Walsh and his wife swayed on the dance floor to an eighties song beside a young couple. “I suppose music is the great equalizer.” Dean leaned back in his chair trying not to stare at Grace. It was hard because she was tucked into the chair across from him with eyes shining and her hair swept back from her shoulders.
She reached for her bottled water and took a sip. “We are from the same decade,” she reminded him after she set it down. “But only I knew all the words to Desperado today.”
Dean chuckled in the back of his throat at the teasing in her gaze. Her complexion was flawless; her eyes as woody as the bogs with small hazel flecks that accentuated the green around her irises. The corners of her lips crept up, and she looked away. “You say that like I’m too young for you,” Dean responded, surprising himself.
“I never said that.” Her eyes sparkled. “But I can tell you this: my ex was nine years my senior, and I don’t think I’ll ever do that again. Not unless there’s thunder and lightning or an earthquake after a lot of praying about it.”
“I think it’s how you treat each other that matters most,” said Dean gently. “I doubt his age had any impact on his choices.”
“Yes.” Grace lowered her eyes, and Dean wished it wouldn’t be too intimate to reach for her hand. “I was young, and it was too fast,” she continued. “Plus I definitely went into prayer with some schoolgirl bias.”
“And here I am not being a gentleman.” Dean motioned toward the dance floor. “Let’s dance.” Again, it was the least he could do, he told himself. She was on vacation, and a nice dance in a charming and historic pub might be a memory she might cherish. She didn’t have to know he had the urge to wrap her in his arms and comfort her.
“I’d love to dance.” Grace jumped up, and Dean followed. When he reached for her hand, his stomach dropped at the sensation that shot to his nerve endings when her fingers laced through his. He smiled nervously, avoided eye contact with Mr. Walsh, and pretended he wasn’t enjoying holding a beautiful, soft woman to his chest. He hadn’t felt so content, so satisfied, so...at peace, in a long time.
“So what is this Bank Day fundraiser anyway?” Grace asked as they circled the room.
Dean shook away the feelings that were threatening to melt him into a goofy puddle. “Bank Day is an Irish holiday. Every year we have a fair with an auction in Ballyven to replenish the church humanitarian funds.
“What do they auction off?”
He shrugged. “The best sausages. Softest wool. Prettiest pigs.”
Grace giggled. “That sounds fun. What are you providing?”
“They wanted me to auction off a handyman service so I guess I’ll be donating my time if I can squeeze something in between keeping up with work emails and repairing the cottage.”
“Now that’s worth something,” said Grace agreeably, and Dean wondered if she enjoyed spending time with him as much as he did her, despite the interruption to her vacation.
“What about you?” Dean prodded.
“I don’t have anything to donate unless someone wants a science lesson.”
He laughed. “There’s always tutoring, but how about your paper flowers?”
“The quilling? Oh, I don’t know if it’d sell in an auction. I just do it to relax.”
“But it’s fascinating. I think the butterfly you made is astounding. Why not donate that or make something else to auction off?”
“Do you really think anyone around here would be interested in it since I’m not local?”
“You mean would they buy something from an American brave enough to stay in a leaky cottage this time of year?”
Grace smiled. “Yes.”
“I think so. Braving the cold and rain just makes you all the more interesting.”
“I wish I was here earlier to see all the flowers in bloom,” murmured Grace.
“You’ll have to come back in the summer then,” Dean said, before remembering that the cottage would be sold by then.
Grace eyed him momentarily then looked away. “I don’t think it would be the same,” she said after a pause. “And I’d be very jealous of the new owners.”
He gave her a sheepish smile. “O’Tooles is always open.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she murmured in a polite tone.
Dean nearly bit his tongue. If he didn’t quit giving off the wrong vibes, she might get the wrong idea. He’d be in Maine holed up with his work anyway and not thinking about the past. Grace squeezed his hand, anchoring him to the present. He forced himself to concentrate on the soft music and hummed under his breath. They moved in perfect synchronicity, but Dean could not make himself meet Grace’s eyes because he didn’t want her to see the turmoil he felt from her touch. It hinted at forgotten love and friendship, family and...something more. It was a connection he hadn’t felt in a long time. He inhaled softly in measured breaths, hoping Grace couldn’t feel the deep thudding of his heart. It felt heavier and curious—an enthralled cadence—he hadn’t felt since... She moved her head askance, and he pressed his cheek to hers. As they melded into one, he thought he could dance for hours. It felt right. It was like falling but into a safe place.
A violent flapping in his line of sight snapped Dean out the spell. Desiree was waving, and when she saw she had his attention, she pointed at the table with its steaming bowls of stew. On cue, the song faded out, and Grace stepped back. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes wide as if he’d asked her a question. “Our dinner’s ready.” Dean couldn’t stare back too long. It’d give it all away. Being attracted to his cousins’ friend was strange and perplexing. He led Grace back to the table while clinging to her hand to memorize the way it felt before letting go at the last minute. As soon as they sat down, they dug into their steaming bowls.
Blowing the surface of a spoonful of stew, Grace motioned across the room. “Eric Bradford is in.”
Dean cast a glance over his shoulder then reached for his bottle of sparkling water. “I guess they haven’t run him out of the county yet.”
Grace made a noise of amusement. “I kind of understand Moira’s point. It’d be a shame to see the national park infiltrated.”
“That won’t happen,” Dean vowed, “but there is a lot of land outside the park like around Ballyven.”
“And that’s what Moira is worried about with you selling?”
“Yes, because the cottage sits on several acres.”
“It’s a good thing you’re going to sell it to a private homeowner then,” said Grace. “Even if it takes some time.”
Dean nodded in agreement. She was right. After the past couple of weeks working on Clover Cottage, he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing it bulldozed as if it’d never been. And it had everything to do with unexpected new memories and the woman sitting across from him.