The Mighty Quinns: Ronan. Kate Hoffmann

this is going to be a problem, I can always pick up some dinner at the grocery store,” Ronan said.

      “No, no, my dad is going to want to meet you before you start work. He has to approve my choices.”

      “Your dad hurt his back?”

      “Last season. He was moving a crate of oysters off the boat and onto the dock. He just twisted the wrong way and herniated a disc.” She reached for the door. “Ready?”

      “I guess so.”

      How bad could it be, Ronan wondered. Charlie was nice enough. Actually, she was more than that. She was funny and sexy and smart. But there was something else about her he found attractive, a warmth that he rarely saw in the women he’d dated.

      She pulled the door open and he stepped inside. The old Victorian was decorated in a style that Ronan could describe as early twenty-first century chaos mixed with beautiful antiques. The furniture was tattered but comfortable. Every available space was filled with some bizarre knickknack or strange painting. On one shelf alone, Ronan saw a stuffed raccoon, an old microscope, a doll with one eye, and a paint-by-numbers portrait of FDR.

      “Look what the cat dragged in!” A young man walked through the room, giving Ronan the once over. He resembled Charlotte with her bronze eyes and wavy dark hair. “If I were you, I’d leave right now. It’s Indian food.”

      “Isaac, this is Ronan Quinn.”

      Isaac’s eyebrow shot up. “You brought a Quinn home? Maybe I will stay for dinner.” He turned around. “Hey, Abs, come and see what Charlie brought home.”

      In less than a minute, Ronan realized that he probably should have opted for dinner alone. He could feel the energy in the house, as if the walls were vibrating and the roof was about the blow off.

      An older woman appeared in the dining room, her graying hair twisted into a haphazard knot on top of her head. She held a fly swatter in her hand. “Hello, dear. You brought a friend. I’m cooking Indian tonight. Chicken tandoori. I was supposed to marinate the chicken in yogurt, but I had to use cottage cheese instead. And Delbert didn’t have anything called garam masala down at the grocery, so I had to leave that out. You don’t know what that is, do you?”

      “Mama, this is Ronan Quinn. He’s going to be helping us out for a few weeks.”

      She blinked in surprise. “Quinn? Really. Well, now, that’s very interesting. We’ll have something good to talk about over dinner. I suppose you haven’t had a very enthusiastic welcome in town. But our family really doesn’t set much store in that curse. Charlotte, offer the man a drink.”

      “Curse?” Ronan asked.

      “Is this the Quinn?” A young woman, about nineteen or twenty came running into the room. “I’m Abigail. Gosh, I almost expected you to have horns and a forked tail. You’re totally hot.” She turned to Charlie. “Good move, sissy.”

      “Charlie, if that’s you, I need you in here right away.”

      “That’s my dad,” she said. She grabbed Ronan’s hand and pulled him along through the spacious living room. “Come on. Let’s introduce you to the big guy. Then I’ll get you that drink.”

      When Charlie had called her father the “big guy”, she’d used an apt description. The man sitting behind the desk in the library was tall and broad-shouldered. He struggled to his feet and held out his hand. “Peyton Sibley,” he said.

      “Daddy, this is Ronan Quinn. He answered the ad I put up at the visitor’s center. He’s from Seattle and he knows a lot about boats.”

      “Well, Charlotte, that was a lovely introduction,” Peyton said as he sat down again, “but maybe we should let this young man speak for himself. You say your name is Quinn?”

      Ronan nodded.

      “I suppose you haven’t had a very enthusiastic reception here in Sibleyville.”

      “Nobody has really explained that to me, sir. Maybe you could.”

      “No, no, no. We don’t really believe in all that silliness. So, you think you can help us out here?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “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.”