Reunited With The Sheriff. Lynne Marshall

son, too. She couldn’t fail. She was a single mom with a baby boy to take care of.

      “Order up!”

      * * *

      The rest of the evening, Shelby managed to keep up with the incoming orders, though still totally thrown by seeing Conor. While she cooked, her mind went over how she’d wound up here, back home in Sandpiper Beach, living with her mother, working at The Drumcliffe Hotel’s restaurant.

      They’d made a promise their last weekend together, and she’d planned to honor it, too...until her life had imploded.

      By Conor’s reaction earlier, it was clear he hadn’t forgiven her for standing him up. Could she blame him?

      “Order up!”

      She’d had a chance to study in France three years ago. Hadn’t he always told her to go after her dreams? Stuck in another lateral-movement sous-chef job, she’d felt Paris was an opportunity to break out, to finally focus on becoming a renowned chef. While there, she’d met the most talented chef she’d ever worked for. He was très européen and sweet and sexy and... How many more adjectives could she use for him? He’d deserved them all.

      Of course, she was young and still dumb and she’d let herself get swept away by his amazing charm, his culinary greatness, his everything. Most important, he’d made her feel special, like she’d felt no other time in her life.

      Wait, check that, there was that July in Sandpiper Beach when she’d felt the same. Loved, cherished, adored. By Conor.

      But things soon changed with Laurent. The shine to their romance wore off. The veil slowly lifted from her eyes, and after several months of having her as his chef groupie, he’d gotten bored. She sensed it before he’d told her so. Though brokenhearted at first, she’d tried one last time to make things right between them. Laurent welcomed her back, too. That last night hadn’t changed a thing between them. Yet it had changed every-single-thing else.

      It had taken moving back to New York, and several weeks, to finally figure out she’d never loved him, that she’d only been infatuated. By the time she’d come to her senses, she remembered the one person she’d loved since high school, Conor Delaney, and how they’d made a promise to meet again. She’d checked the calendar and bought her ticket, deciding not to let anything keep her from the one true love she’d ever known. She’d go home tomorrow, stay with her mother and surprise him on the day. Just like they’d planned, she’d meet him on Sandpiper Beach at the second lifeguard tower. Their lifeguard tower. At sunset.

      She’d been packed and ready to go, but something troubled her: her period, or lack thereof, and she couldn’t ignore it another day. So she’d taken the test. Then fallen on her bed and cried until her eyes burned and face hurt.

      There was no way she could fly to California to face Conor as they’d planned. She was pregnant.

      * * *

      By the end of the first evening as head chef of The Drumcliffe, Shelby had cooked and plated nearly a hundred meals. Not bad for a newbie who’d started a stove fire only a couple hours earlier.

      There was something else she’d realized. Earlier, when she’d looked into Conor Delaney’s eyes, she’d known without a doubt she’d hurt him to the core. That drove home the point how unworthy she was for a good guy like him, when she’d so easily been seduced by a player’s charm.

      But she still owed Conor an apology, and the truth. Hell, she’d owed him that for over two years, when she should have used her ticket and flown home anyway. It would’ve been the right thing to do. But she’d been too messed up to face him then, had felt too guilty. Couldn’t bear the thought of owning up to one more mistake while feeling so raw and vulnerable. Now he’d find out soon enough anyway. Who knew? Maybe Mark had already told him.

      After cleanup and shutting down the kitchen and restaurant for the night, Maureen came in.

      “I just wanted to congratulate you,” Maureen said. “I’ve heard so many raves about your food. I’m positive word will get out.”

      “That’s great.” Normally, she’d be thrilled to hear it, but Shelby’s mind was elsewhere, and she couldn’t lay her head down on the pillow that night without confronting Conor.

      Shelby and Maureen walked together out of the kitchen. “Can you tell me where Conor lives? I need to talk to him,” Shelby asked, just before they turned out the lights.

      Maureen looked puzzled. Surely, she knew how Shelby had hurt her son.

      “He still lives here in one of the family suites at the back. I just saw him at the hotel pub. But now might not be a good time to talk to him. I’m a little embarrassed to say he’s been drinking.”

      * * *

      Conor finished his second beer and ordered a chaser. “Whiskey, please.” His second cousin, Brian Delaney, grandson of Grandda’s baby brother, Néall, and the new bartender straight from Ireland, raised a dark brow above intense blue eyes.

      A bony ancient hand, cold like ice cubes, came out of nowhere and patted his forearm resting on the bar. From the feel of it, Conor wondered if his eighty-five-year-old grandfather was still alive.

      “Are ya sure, lad?”

      “I’ve only had a couple of Guinnesses,” Conor answered defensively.

      “And you have a whiskey, you’ll be skuttered. What might be botherin’ you?”

      Conor resented his grandfather stepping in and telling him to slow it down. If he did that to all his customers, Padraig’s Pub would go broke. But he also knew the old man cared about him. Truth was, he had to work tomorrow, and having a hangover wasn’t something he needed. Or wanted. “Brian, make that a glass of water.” He remembered he’d also had a beer with dinner, so he’d already gone over his personal limit.

      Why did he have to remind himself about dinner—the best meal he’d ever had—and seeing her?

      “Have something on your mind?”

      “Nah, Grandda. Just had a surprise earlier, that’s all.” A surprise that nearly knocked him on his ass—seeing the girl he’d known since fourth grade and loved since the tenth.

      Padraig Delaney wedged himself between the guy sitting on the stool next to Conor and his grandson. Far too close for Conor’s comfort. “A little birdie told me about the new chef.”

      Conor had never told a single person how Shelby had stood him up the night he’d intended to ask her to marry him. The man lived in blissful ignorance where his grandsons were concerned, and seemed to like it that way. Grandda couldn’t possibly be heading in that direction. “What about it?”

      “That Mark hired Shelby Brookes to help our restaurant compete in town.”

      “Well, from the meal I had tonight, I’d say he made a good choice.” He’d do his best not to give himself away. Even though he intended to personally ring Mark’s neck for hiring the one person he never wanted to see again. If Grandda had a clue how messed up seeing Shelby had made him feel, he’d start spouting Irish jibber-jabber about the fates and fairies and how life always worked itself out, often in mysterious ways. The Irish version of fortune cookie sayings.

      “It’s your turn, you know.”

      Conor almost spilled the water Brian had just delivered. Grandda wasn’t really going there, was he? Tonight of all nights? He held up his free hand. “Don’t say it. Please.”

      “We can’t deny fate.”

      There it was. Give me strength. Was it too late to reorder the whiskey? But there was no arguing with the man from Ireland with a head full of fanciful thoughts, as his father called them.

      “You boys saved that seal. How much proof do you need that it was a selkie? Both your brothers have found their ladies.”

      Last year, worried