The Mighty Quinns: Ronan

“You just listen to Charlotte. She’ll teach you the ropes. If you get stuck working with my brother, Jake, do not let him goad you into talking about religion, politics or his three ex-wives. And if you’re staying for dinner, please tell my wife that whatever she’s been cooking all day—”

“Tandoori chicken,” Charlie said.

“I have no idea what that is, but I’m sure I’ll regret it in another four to six hours.” He opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a big bottle of antacid tablets. Peyton popped a few into his mouth and offered the bottle to Ronan. “Might want to get a jump on it.”

“No, that’s fine, sir. I have a pretty strong stomach.”

He slammed his hand on the surface of his desk. “Charlotte, I approve! Put this man on the payroll. Anyone who calls me ‘sir’ can’t be all bad. Even if he is named Quinn.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” Charlotte said. She grabbed Ronan’s arm and pulled him along, back out into the foyer. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

“For a Quinn,” Ronan muttered.

“Why don’t you go sit out on the porch and I’ll get us something to drink,” she said.

Ronan nodded and headed back outside. He walked to the end of the porch and sat down on a swing. As he pushed off with his toes, he felt the movement relax him. This entire day had been just a little strange. And the longer it lasted, the stranger it became. Except for one thing—that kiss he’d shared with Charlie.

He drew a deep breath. That had been the only thing that made perfect sense to him. And he didn’t want to wait to do it again.

“I hope beer is all right,” Charlie said as she walked out the front door. She glanced around, then saw him on the end of the porch and slowly approached. She handed him the bottle, then leaned up against the railing and watched him. “Are you all right?”

“Maybe you ought to tell me why everyone in Sibleyville has a problem with me. I think I need to know a little more about this curse.”

She sat down beside him, her shoulder brushing against his. It was an innocent contact, but it sent his senses spinning. He could feel her warmth, smell her hair, listen to the soft sound of her voice. She excited him and relaxed him all at once. How was that possible?

“It’s really kind of silly. And it’s not you. Just your last name.” She paused as if to gather her thoughts. “Her name was Bridget Quinn, but everyone called her Bridie. She lived in Sibleyville about a hundred and fifty years ago and worked as a maid in my great-great-great grandfather’s home. She came from Ireland with her daughter to escape the potato famine. Her daughter, Moira, fell in love with Edward Sibley, my great-great-grandfather and they wanted to get married, but his father refused permission. When Edward wouldn’t give up Moira, his father started a rumor that Bridie was a witch and the folks in Sibleyville ran her and her daughter out of town. But before she left, Bridie cursed the town.”

“Good for her,” Ronan said. “What was the curse?”

“That no one would ever find love within the village limits of Sibleyville. And no one ever has.”

Ronan frowned. “The curse worked?”

“In one hundred and fifty years, no man and woman from Sibleyville have ever married each other. To find love, we have to go out of town. We even have a matchmaker who helps out with that.”