CHAPTER ONE

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14TH

MIXED BOUQUETS, MIXED MESSAGES

 

Another Valentine’s Day and here I was again.

 

Lonely.

Loveless.

Lover-less.

 

Yep, I’m unlucky in love. Unlucky in just about everything else, too. Life tried, and time again, to kick my ass. But, you know what? Life could piss off. I, Erin Flaherty, would not go down without a fight.

 

***

 

For the third time in as many months, I sat at the counter of my shoe repair shop screwing a new tap on the heel of a men’s size thirteen tap shoe. Part of me wanted to scold my son for abusing his dance shoes, but another part knew the broken tap was a sign of his passion for dance. With his enormous feet, athletic style, and unbridled enthusiasm, Riley could stomp a stage into splinters. Heck, I’d broken a tap or two myself over the years. Might as well cut the kid some slack.

 

My shop wasn’t much to brag about, just a small foyer and stockroom with walls painted a soft sage green and dark wood floors that, judging from the multitude of scars, were likely original. Two wooden chairs flanked the front door. Not that I was ever so busy customers needed a place to sit while they waited their turn, but best to be prepared just in case, right? A brass coat tree nestled in one corner, an oval standing mirror in the other. The white Formica countertop supported an outdated but functional cash register and one of the world’s last remaining black-and-white portable TV’s. A full-color map of County Cork, Ireland and a poster of Saint Fin Barre’s Cathedral, a County Cork historical landmark, graced the walls, giving the shop a touch of Irish kitsch.

 

The bells hanging from the front door tinkled and a blast of brisk winter wind blew into my shop, carrying a sweet, flowery scent with it. I looked up to see an enormous bouquet of long-stem roses, six red and six yellow, making its way inside. My heart performed a pirouette in my chest and I emitted an involuntary squeal.

 

“Flowers? For me?”

 

Dumb question, really. I was the only one in the shop. But you can’t blame me for being surprised. The last time anyone had given me flowers was when Riley’s father had shown up in the delivery room with a tiny bouquet of carnations and an even tinier engagement ring. That was fourteen years—and what seemed like a lifetime—ago.

 

I’d kept the flowers but refused the ring. The right choice, obviously, given the look of relief on Matthew’s face when I’d handed the small velvet-covered box back to him. But who could blame him? Like me, he’d been only nineteen, much too young to deal with a new baby and a wife, though not too young to knock me up, the knucklehead.

 

He’d promised to pull out.

 

Never trust a guy with a hard on.

 

Of course it takes two to tango, and I’ve accepted my share of the blame. Or should I say credit? When I think of my son, of what a clever and caring kid he’s turned out to be, it’s impossible to consider him as a mistake. The roses made their way toward me, bringing their lovely smell along with them, coming to rest on the countertop next to the cash register. Their courier stepped aside to reveal himself. I knew the face in an instant. Strong-jawed, with the ruddy complexion of a man who’d spent a decade toiling at the dockyards of Dublin.

 

Dark hair worn closely cropped in a no-fuss style. Intelligent, soulful eyes under thick brows. The roguish smile that revealed an upper bicuspid chipped in a life-changing moment the tooth would never let him forget.

 

Brendan.

 

“Happy Saint Valentine’s Day, Erin.”

 

Would I ever tire of that deep Irish brogue?

 

A sense of warmth flowed through me and a smile spread across my face. “Back at ya’, Bren.”

 

Brendan was “Black Irish,” dark-haired and darker skinned than the majority of the fair and freckled Irish population. Legend had it they were the progeny of naïve Irish lasses taken into the arms of Spanish sailors shipwrecked long ago on the Emerald Isle. God help me, I’d often wondered what it might be like to be taken into Brendan’s strong arms.

 

Shame I’d never get a chance to find out.

 

 

 

EXCERPT FROM DEATH, TAXES, AND A FRENCH MANICURE

 

 

Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure