One Autumn Night

Chapter Five

Some things had changed, and some had stayed exactly the same.

He set the bags down on the stainless steel workstation as she had then followed her to the front of the pub where rain began to drizzle down the wide swath of paned windows. "It's cozy in here. Cozy but not cramped. Dark but not shadowy, light but not glaring. It's welcoming, like a good pub should be. I'm not surprised you opened this place. An Irish pub."

He took a seat on a barstool and watched her tuck behind the bar, squirt soda water from a gun into a pint glass then drink deeply. The way she occupied herself while she fought being annoyed with him almost pleased him. It meant he got to study her while she pretended he wasn't there.

She'd always been full of life and vigor, a sort of earthy vitality. He hadn't recognized it as unique back in high school, but after years in New York, he saw that she was matchlessly resilient, individual in her brand of strength. There was something about her he wanted to hold onto; even more so because she didn't need it, didn't need him. She was self-reliant and had raised her brothers even when she herself had not been much more than a kid. But she hadn't complained, he remembered. Hadn't asked for help. She'd done it all on her own, and he'd loved her for it. And now that he'd met hordes of people, women specifically, that weren't nearly as fascinating, he appreciated Abigail on a whole different level.

"What are you staring at?"

"You."

"Why?"

"You're nice to look at," he told her. "And I missed looking at you."

She shot another whooshing stream of soda water into her glass, topping it off. "Why'd you say you're not surprised I opened an Irish pub?"

"If I answer that, then you're telling me why you named it what you did. A real answer this time."

She set down her glass with a solid clang on the wooden bar. "All right."

He watched her lashes flicker with annoyance as she waited.

"You once said that your mother told you your father was Irish. And in high school, you had that Notre Dame Fighting Irish sweatshirt you'd wear. You liked all things Irish. Remember we went to the Saint Patrick's Day parade in Hoboken senior year? I bought you that silver shamrock necklace you wanted? I always figured it was your way of feeling close to the man you'd never met."

He had the pleasure of seeing her mouth drop—something he'd always considered a rarity as not much surprised her.

"You never told me that. That you thought that."

"Am I right?"

Nothing, no one, had ever hit the bull's-eye so directly before, she knew. Even Ben and Beckett hadn't seen it, the driving force behind her affinity for Irish flair, or maybe they had and just hadn't said anything.

Rain clanged against the windows leaving it smattered with a million diamonds that reflected the town green and surrounding sweeps of colorful shops. Like glittering jewels clustered around the rough and uncut. She'd always been rough and uncut, she thought, especially next to the polished dignity of Declan Fitzgerald. But she had a strong backbone and solid streak of willpower and that was what she'd built her life with.

"Yes, you're right." She crossed to the window, looked through the diamonds, watching as a couple of girls giggled under the roof of the gazebo perched in the center of the tidy expanse of lawn. Scents of mossy earth wound through various cracks in the old building and the chill permeated the vintage glass.

Even still, Abigail was on fire. "I can't believe you remember that."

Declan moved to stand beside her. "First and only time we snuck off to the city together. It was right before your mom disappeared. Of course I remember."

She turned, facing him, and looked deep into his strong, steady gaze of blue eyes that were smoky in the reflection of the late morning storm. "I haven't thought about that in a long time."

"I think about it often."

His words disappeared into the chasm of her mind and they were more poignant than she was prepared to dive for. So she scratched at the surface thoughts and let those be enough. "I named it Plumber's Pub because I bought this building from a plumbing supply shop and I couldn't afford to change out the sign entirely. I could only pay for a new sign that said 'Pub' in big letters so that it fit over the 'Supplies' part of the sign. And we became Plumber's Pub instead of Plumber's Supplies."

"Clever." His handsome face grinned. "Only you, Abigail Roberts. Only you."

Silently, as a war raged in her mind, her fingers surrendered and dipped behind the rim of her sweater to pull out the thin strand of silver with the shiny charm that dangled. The shamrock necklace that she rarely removed from around her neck caught the quiet beam of lucent light through the window, glistening.

He looked at her, searching, then reached for her hand like he used to out of habit, and wound her fingers between his. Her touch ignited sparks along his skin, and to his surprise, she didn't pull back, didn't pull away. Instead their warmth played together like two giddy kids that hadn't seen each other in lifetimes.