The Devaney Brothers: Ryan And Sean. Sherryl Woods

expression on his face. “Ryan’s Place will become the most talked-about restaurant in the city, a fine example of our melting pot culture.”

      “Save it,” Ryan muttered, his already sour mood sinking even lower, because despite the absurdity and the threat of a rebellion in the kitchen, he was going to do as he’d been asked to do. “Send her in day after tomorrow, but she’d better be a quick learner. I am not serving tacos in this place, and that’s that. Does she at least speak English?”

      “Enough,” Father Francis said.

      He spoke with the kind of poker face that had Ryan groaning. “I should let you be the one to explain all this to Rory,” Ryan grumbled.

      “Rory’s a fine Irish lad and a recent immigrant himself,” Father Francis declared optimistically. “I’m sure he’ll be agreeable enough when he knows all the facts. And surely he’ll see the benefit in the positive reviews likely to come his way.”

      “On the off chance he doesn’t take the news as well as you’re predicting, I sincerely hope you can find your way around a kitchen, Father, because I have an apron back there with your name on it.”

      “Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that,” the priest said with an uncharacteristic frown. “If it weren’t for Mrs. Malloy at the rectory and your own Rory, I’d starve.” He glanced toward the doorway, his expression suddenly brightening. “Now, my boy, just look at what the wind’s brought in. If this one isn’t a sight for sore eyes. Your good deed is already being rewarded.”

      Ryan’s gaze shifted toward the doorway where, indeed, the sight that greeted him was a blessing. A woman that beautiful could improve a man’s mood in the blink of an eye. Huge eyes peered around the pub’s shadowy interior. Pale, fine skin had been stung pink by the wind. Waves of thick, auburn curls tumbled in disarray to her shoulders. Slender legs, encased in denim and high leather boots, were the inspiration for a man’s most erotic fantasies. Ryan sighed with pleasure.

      “Boy, where are your manners?” Father Francis scolded. “She’s a paying customer who’s obviously new to Ryan’s Place. Go welcome her.”

      Casting a sour look at the meddling old man, Ryan crossed to the other end of the crowded bar. “Can I help you, miss?”

      “I doubt it,” she said grimly. “I doubt all the saints in heaven can solve this one.”

      Ryan chuckled. “How about a bartender and a cranky old priest? Will we do? Or is there someone you’re supposed to be meeting here? I know most of the regulars.”

      “No, I’m not meeting anyone, but I’d certainly like an introduction to someone who can fix a flat. I’ve called every garage in a ten-mile radius. Not a one of them has road service tonight. They all point out that tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, as if I didn’t know that. I have a car loaded with food, thank you very much, and given the way I hate to cook, I flatly refuse to let it all spoil while I’m stuck here. Of course, since the temperature is below freezing, I’m sure I’ll have blocks of ice by the time I finally get home.”

      Ryan wisely bit back another chuckle. “Do you have a spare tire?”

      The look she shot him was lethal. “Of course I have a spare. One of those cute little doughnut things. Don’t you think I tried that? I’m not totally helpless.”

      “Well, then?”

      “It’s flat, too. What good is the darn thing if it’s going to be flat when you need it most?”

      Ryan decided not to remind her that it probably needed to be checked once in a while to avoid precisely this kind of situation. She didn’t seem to be in the mood for such obviously belated advice.

      “How about this?” he suggested. “Have a seat down here by Father Francis. I’ll get you something to drink that will warm you up, and we’ll discuss the best way to go about solving your problem.”

      “I don’t have time to sit around.” She regarded the priest apologetically. “No offense, Father, but I was supposed to be at my parents’ house hours ago. I’m sure they’re getting frantic.”

      “Did you—”

      She frowned at him and cut him off. “Before you say it, of course I’ve called. They know what’s going on, but you don’t know my parents. Until I actually walk in the door, they’ll be frantic anyway. It’s what they do. They worry. Big things, little things—it doesn’t matter. They claim their right to worry about their children came with the birth certificates.”

      Ryan had a lot of trouble relating to frantic parents. His own hadn’t given two hoots about him or his brothers. When he was nine they’d dumped the three oldest boys on the state, then vanished, taking the two-year-old twins with them. If there had been an explanation for their cavalier treatment of their sons, they hadn’t bothered to share it with Ryan or his brothers.

      He could still remember the last time he’d seen seven-year-old Sean, crying his eyes out as he was led away by a social worker. Michael, two years younger, had been braver by far...or perhaps at five he hadn’t really understood what was happening to them. They’d never seen each other or their parents again.

      Most of the time, Ryan kept those memories securely locked away, but every once in a while they crept out to haunt him...most often around holidays. It was yet another reason to despise the occasions when anyone without family felt even more alone than usual.

      “You’re closing in an hour or so, aren’t you, Ryan?” Father Francis asked, snapping him out of his dark thoughts. There was a gleam in the old man’s eyes when he added, “Perhaps you could give the young lady a lift home.”

      Before Ryan could list all the reasons why that was a lousy idea, a pair of sea-green eyes latched on to him. “Could you? I know it’s an imposition. I’m sure you have your own Thanksgiving plans, but I truly am desperate.”

      “What about a cab? I’d be happy to call one, and you’d be home in no time.”

      “I tried,” she said. “It’s a long trip, and a lot of the drivers have gone home because of the holiday. There aren’t a lot of people out and about. Most are home with their families. Both companies I called turned me down.”

      “Ryan, my boy, if ever there was a lady in distress, it would seem to be this young woman. Surely you won’t be saying no to such a simple thing,” Father Francis said.

      “I’m a stranger,” Ryan pointed out. He scowled at her. “Don’t you know you should never accept a ride with a stranger?”

      Father Francis chuckled. “I think she can take the word of the priest that you’re a positive gentleman. As for the rest, Ryan Devaney, this is...?” He glanced at the young woman and waited.

      “Maggie O’Brien,” she said.

      A beaming smile spread across the priest’s face. “Ah, a fine Irish lass, is it? Ryan, you can’t possibly think of turning down a fellow countryman.”

      Ryan suspected Maggie had spent even less time in the Emerald Isle than he had on his ventures to learn the art of running a successful Irish pub. She sounded very much like a Boston native.

      “I think we can probably agree that Ms. O’Brien and I are, indeed, fellow Americans,” he said wryly.

      “But you carry the blood of your Irish ancestors,” the priest insisted. “And a true and loyal Irishman never forgets his roots.”

      “Whatever,” Ryan replied, knowing that for the second time tonight he might as well give in to the inevitable. “Ms. O’Brien, I’ll be happy to give you a lift if you can wait till I close in an hour. In the meantime I’ll give you the keys to my car. You can transfer all that food you’re carrying to it.” He shot a pointed look at the priest. “Father Francis will be happy to help, won’t you, Father?”

      “It will be my pleasure,” the priest said, bouncing to his feet with more alacrity than he’d