The Devaney Brothers: Ryan and Sean: Ryan's Place

“Don’t be so quick to shatter an old man’s dream, or to dismiss the notion of destiny,” the priest chided. “Something tells me that destiny has played a hand in tonight’s turn of events. You could have had that flat tire anywhere, but where did it happen? Right in front of the finest Irish pub in Boston. Now, let’s go back inside, and you can have that drink Ryan promised to warm you up before the drive home.”

Maggie followed Father Francis back to the bar. Ryan’s hands were full, filling orders for last call, but Irish coffees materialized in front of them without either of them saying a word. Maggie wrapped her icy hands around the cup, grateful for the warmth.

Next to her, Father Francis had fallen silent as he sipped his own coffee. Maggie hadn’t been able to guess his age earlier, but now, with his features less animated, the lines in his face were more evident. She guessed him to be well past seventy, and at this late hour he was showing every one of those years.

Apparently, Ryan spotted the same signs of exhaustion, because the apron came off from around his waist and he nabbed one of the waitresses and murmured something to her, then handed her a set of keys.

“We can be going now. Maureen will close up here,” he said, stepping out from behind the bar. “Father, I’ll give you a ride, as well. It’s far too cold a night for you to be walking home, especially at this hour.”

“Nonsense. It’s only a couple of blocks,” the priest protested. “Since when haven’t I walked it? Have you once heard me complain? Walking is how I keep myself fit.”

“And you do more than enough of it during the day, when the wind’s not so fierce. Besides, the rectory is right on our way,” Ryan countered, even though he couldn’t possibly know in which direction they were heading to get to Maggie’s.

She immediately seized on his comment, though, to second the offer. “Father, please. I’d love to catch a glimpse of your church. Maybe I’ll come to mass there one of these days.”

The priest’s expression promptly brightened. “Now, there’s a lovely thought. St. Mary’s is a wonderful parish. We’d welcome you anytime.”

Ryan shot her a grateful look, then led the way outside. If anything, the bite of the wind had grown colder in the last half hour. Maggie shivered, despite the warmth of her coat and scarf. To her surprise, Ryan noticed.

“We’ll have you warmed up in no time,” he promised. “Once it gets going, the car’s heater is like a blast furnace.”

The promise was accompanied by a look that could have stirred a teakettle to a boil. For a man who didn’t believe in love, he certainly knew how to get a woman’s attention. A couple of sizzling glances like that and she’d be begging for air-conditioning.

“I really appreciate this,” she told him again. “I know it’s an imposition.”

“Ryan’s happy to do it,” Father Francis insisted from the backseat as they pulled to a stop in front of a brownstone town house next to a church. Lights were blazing from the downstairs windows, and smoke curled from a chimney. “I’ll say good-night now. It was a pleasure meeting you, Maggie O’Brien. St. Mary’s is right next door, as you can see. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Thanks for all your help, Father.”

“What did I do? Nothing that any Irishman wouldn’t do for a lady in distress. Happy Thanksgiving, Maggie. Be sure to count your blessings tomorrow. Ryan, you do the same.”

“Don’t I always, Father?”

“Only when I remind you, which I’m doing now.” He paused before closing the door and cast a pointed look in Maggie’s direction. “And don’t forget to count this one.”

Maggie had to bite back a chuckle at Ryan’s groan.

“Good night, Father,” Ryan said firmly.

He waited as the priest trudged slowly up the steps and went inside, then turned to Maggie. “I’m sorry. My love life has become one of Father Francis’s pet projects. He’s determined to see me settled with babies underfoot. I apologize if he made you uncomfortable.”

“I think it’s wonderful that he cares so much,” Maggie said honestly. “You’re obviously very special to him.”

“And vice versa,” Ryan admitted.

“He told me you’ve known each other for a long time,” she continued, hoping to open the door to the story that the priest had declined to share.

“A very long time,” Ryan confirmed, then looked away to concentrate on roads already slippery from the now-steady snowfall.

Or was he simply avoiding sharing something painful from his past? Maggie suspected it was the latter, but she recalled the priest’s advice about not pushing for answers. Impatient and curious by nature, she found this difficult. It went against everything in her to keep silent, but she managed to bite her tongue.

She turned away and looked out the window just as the car slowed to a stop.

“Maggie?”

She turned and met Ryan’s gaze. “Yes?” she said, a little too eagerly. Was it possible that he was going to share the story, after all? Or perhaps suggest another drink before they made the trip to her family’s home in neighboring Cambridge?

“It’s going to be a long night unless you give me some idea where I’m headed,” he said, laughter threading through his voice.

“Oh, my gosh, I am so sorry,” she said, feeling foolish. She rattled off the directions to her parents’ home, not far from Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where her mother was a professor.

Ryan nodded. “I know the area. I’ll have you there in no time. And I can arrange to have your car towed out on Friday, if you like.”

Maggie balked at the generous offer. “Absolutely not. It’s not your problem. I’ll take care of it.”

Even as the protest left her mouth, she realized that her stranded car was her only sure link to seeing Ryan Devaney again. She stole a look at him and felt her heart do an unexpected little flip. Such a reaction was not to be ignored. Not that she believed in destiny—at least the way Father Francis interpreted it—but just in case there was such a thing, she didn’t want to be too quick to spit in its eye.

2

Ryan liked a woman who knew when to keep silent. He truly admired a woman who knew better than to pry. To her credit, Maggie O’Brien was earning a lot of respect on this drive, thanks to her apparent understanding of those two points.

He’d seen the flare of curiosity in her eyes earlier. No telling what Father Francis had seen fit to share with her, but there was little doubt in his mind that the priest had done his level best to whet her interest in Ryan. A lot of women would have seized the opportunity of a long drive on a dark night to pester him with an endless barrage of personal questions, yet Maggie seemed to enjoy the silence as much as he did.

Of course, there could be too much of a good thing, he concluded finally. Any second now he was going to start filling the conversational lull with a litany of questions that had been nagging at him ever since she’d walked into the pub.

Over the years, working at Ryan’s Place, he’d managed to put aside his natural reticence in order to make the expected small talk with his customers. Few understood how difficult a task it was for him. In fact, there were those who thought he had a natural gift of the gab and many more who were sure he’d kissed the Blarney Stone during his stay in Ireland.

Outside the pub, though, he tended toward brooding silence. That was probably one reason why the handful of women customers he’d asked out over the years were so surprised to find him less than forthcoming on a date. And since he’d generally asked all the personal questions in which he had an interest during those evenings in the pub, it made him less than scintillating company. Since he had little interest in a long-term relationship, it generally worked out for the best all the way around. Few women pestered him for more than a single date. Those who took his moods as a challenge eventually tired of the game, as well.

Since Maggie O’Brien had never set foot in Ryan’s Place before, he had all his usual questions, plus a surprising million and one more personal queries on the tip of his tongue. But because asking them might give her an opening to turn the tables on him, he concluded he’d better keep his curiosity under control.

“Mind if I turn on the radio?” he asked, already reaching for the dial.

She seemed startled that he’d bothered to ask. “Of course not. Whatever you like.”

“Any preferences?”

“Jazz,” she suggested hesitantly. “Not everyone likes it, I know, but I can’t get a single jazz station where I live, and I really miss it.”

Ryan was surprised by the choice. “Now, I would have pegged you as a woman who likes oldies.”

“I do, but there’s something about a mournful sax that tears my heart up. It’s such a melancholy sound.” She regarded him worriedly. “If you hate it, though, it’s okay. Oldies will be fine.”

Ryan flipped on the radio, and sweet jazz immediately filled the car. He grinned at her. “Preset to the jazz station,” he pointed out. “It seems we have something in common, Maggie O’Brien. Wouldn’t that make Father Francis ecstatic?”

“Something tells me we shouldn’t offer him any encouragement,” she said dryly. “The man does perform weddings, after all. He’s liable to have us marching down the aisle before we even know each other.”

“Not likely,” Ryan murmured, then winced at his own harsh response to what had clearly been nothing more than a teasing remark. “Sorry. Nothing personal.”