Kiss Me, I'm Irish. Jill Shalvis

sweet hips.

       He gave her his most dazzling smile. Maybe she’d forgiven him for not calling. Maybe she’d stay on and work for him after he took over the bar. Maybe she’d…

       But, first things first. “I’m looking for my dad.”

       She tucked a strand of sunny blond hair behind her ear. “Why don’t you try Diana Lynn’s house?”

       Diana Lynn’s house? What the hell was that? Had he gone to assisted living or something? “Is she taking care of Dad?”

       That earned him a caustic laugh. “I’ll say. Diana Lynn Turner is your father’s fiancée.”

       “His what?” Men who’d had pacemakers put in a year ago didn’t have fiancées. Widowed men with pacemakers, especially.

       “His fiancée. It’s French for bride-to-be, Deuce.” She put a hand on her hip like a little punctuation mark to underscore her sarcasm. “Your dad spends most of his days—and all of his nights—at her house. But they’re leaving tomorrow morning for a trip, so if you want to see him, you better hustle over there.”

       Deuce had been scarce for a lot of years, no doubt about it. But would his father really get engaged and not tell him?

       Of course he would. He’d think Deuce would hate the idea of Seamus Monroe remarrying. And he’d be right.

       “So, where does this Diana Lynn live?”

       She waved her hand to the left. “At the old Swain mansion.”

       He frowned. “That run-down dump on the beach?”

       “Not so run-down since Diana Lynn worked her magic.” She reached into the hostess stand and pulled out some plastic menus, tapping them on the wood to line them up. “She has a way of livening everything up.”

       Oh, so that’s what was going down; some kind of gold digger had got her teeth into the old man. Deuce hadn’t gotten home a moment too soon.

       “Don’t tell me,” he said with a quick glance toward the pit of computers to his right. “She’s the mastermind behind the extreme makeover of the bar.”

       “The bar?” Kendra slid the menus back into their slot and looked in the opposite direction—toward the bar that lined one whole wall. “Well, we haven’t been able to close long enough to rip the bar out yet.”

       He didn’t know what word to seize. We or rip or yet.

       “Why would you do that?”

       She shrugged and appeared to study the bank of cherry-wood that had been in Deuce’s life as long as he’d lived. He’d bet any amount of money that the notches that marked his height as a toddler were still carved into the wood under the keg station. “The bar’s not really a money-maker for us.”

       Us, was it? “That’s funny,” he said, purposely giving her the stare he saved for scared rookies at the plate. “Most times the bar is the most profitable part of a bar.”

       His intimidating glare didn’t seem to work. In fact, he could have sworn he saw that spark of true grit he’d come to recognize right before some jerk slammed his curve ball into another county.

       “I’m sure that’s true in other business models,” she said slowly, a bemused frown somehow just making her prettier. “But the fact is, the bar’s not the most profitable part of an Internet café.”

       He choked a laugh of disbelief. “Since when is Monroe’s an Internet café?”

       “Since I bought it.”

       He could practically hear the ball zing straight over the left-field fence, followed by a way-too familiar sinking sensation in his gut.

      “SINCE YOU what?”

       He didn’t know. Kendra realized by the genuine shock in those espresso-colored eyes that Deuce had no idea that she and his father shared a two-year-old business arrangement. She’d never had the nerve to ask Seamus if he’d told his son. In fact, she and Seamus Senior had politely danced around the subject of Seamus Junior for a long, long time.

       But it looked like the dance was about to end.

       “I bought Monroe’s a while ago. Well, half of it. And I run it, although your dad still owns fifty percent.” All right, fifty-one. Did Deuce need to know that little detail?

       “Really,” he said, thoughtfully rubbing a cheek that hadn’t seen a razor in, oh, maybe twenty-nine hours. Giving him the ideal amount of Hollywood stubble on his chiseled, handsome features. It even formed the most alluring little shadow in the cleft on his chin.

       She’d dipped her tongue into that shadow. Once.

       “Yes, really.” She pulled the menus out again just to keep her hands busy. Otherwise, they might betray her and reach out for a quick feel of that nice Hollywood stubble.

       “And you turned it into—” He sent a disdainful glare toward the main floor “—the Twilight Zone.”

       She couldn’t help laughing. He’d always made her laugh. Even when she was eleven and he’d teased her. He’d made her giggle, and then she’d run upstairs and throw herself on her bed and cry for the sheer love of him. “We call it the twenty-first century, Deuce, and you’re welcome to log on anytime.”

       “No, thanks.” He took a step backward, sweeping her with one of those appraising looks that made her feel as if she’d just licked her finger and stuck it in the nearest electrical outlet.

       When his gaze finally meandered back up to her face, she forced herself to look into his dark-brown eyes. They were still surrounded by long, black lashes and topped with those seriously brash eyebrows. The cynicism, the daring, the I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass-what-anyone-thinks look still burned in his eyes. It was that look, along with a well-known penchant for fun and games, and the occasional out-of-control pitch, that had earned him the most memorable yearbook caption in Rockingham High School history: Deuce Is Wild. And her brother was on the page to the left with his own epigram: Jacks Are Better.

       Their gaze stayed locked a little too long and she felt a wave of heat singe her cheeks. How much did he remember? That she’d admitted a lifelong crush on her big brother’s best friend and biggest rival?

       Did he remember that she’d never once used the word no during their passionate night together? That she’d whispered “I love you” when her body had melted into his and a childhood of fantasizing about one boy finally came true?

       Sophie hustled toward the hostess stand, holding out a manila envelope, and blessedly breaking the silence.

       “The kid from Kinko’s dropped this off,” she said, giving Deuce a quick glance as though to apologize for the interruption. Or to steal another look.

       Kendra took the envelope. “Are you sure they sent over everything, Soph?”

       The young woman nodded. “And the disk is in there, too. For backup.”

       Kendra gripped the package a little tighter. This was it. Seamus and Diana Lynn were on their way to Boston, New York and San Francisco to nail down the financing that would allow her to finish the transformation of Monroe’s into the premier Internet café and artists’ space in all of Cape Cod. Two years of research and planning—and what seemed like a lifetime of agonizingly slow higher education—all came down to this presentation.

       “Seamus just called,” Sophie added. “He’s anxious to see it today, so he has time to go over any fine points with you before they leave.”

       She glanced at Deuce, who managed to take up too much space and breathe too much air just by being there. He’d always be larger than life in her wretched, idolizing eyes, regardless of the fact that he was responsible for putting an end to all of her dreams.

       Then a sickening thought seized her. Everyone knew that Deuce’s baseball career