SHOW ME THE REST OF THE HOUSE
PATRICK
“Chicken Marsala?” Declan said, appearing in the dining room archway.
“Yep.”
“You sharing?”
“With you? No.”
Declan looked over at the dining room table, taking in the tablecloth, the candles, the setting for two.
“Morgan?” he guessed.
“Uh-huh.”
“Hmm.”
Patrick let him work the rest out for himself. Morgan would be the first woman—except for moms, cousins, and siblings—to be invited to the house for a meal. As a Connelly man, Declan would understand the significance.
A knock sounded at the front door. Right on time.
“Good luck,” Declan said, disappearing as quietly as he’d arrived.
Patrick took a breath and ran his hand through his hair. He didn’t need luck. He just needed to relax and let fate or whatever controlled these things take its course.
He opened the door, calm washing over him when he saw Morgan standing there.
She’d done something with her hair. It was down, the dark waves brushed soft rather than pulled back in the field-ready ponytail she usually wore.
Instead of an oversized flannel, she wore a deep green sweater that accentuated her slim, curvy figure almost as spectacularly as it highlighted her eyes.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
She held out a handled bag with the name of the local liquor store on it. “I know you said not to bring anything, but…”
He accepted the bag, peeking inside and finding a bottle of red wine and a bottle of white.
“You didn’t have to, but thank you. Please, come in.”
She stepped inside and he took her jacket, hanging it up just inside the door. Inhaling deeply, he brought the scents of cool autumn air and a softer, feminine fragrance that was uniquely Morgan into his lungs.
“Something smells fantastic.”
He led her into the kitchen. “Everything’s just about done. Just need to dish it out.”
She looked around, seeing the remains of his prep on the counters. “You cooked?”
“What did you think? That I’d invite you to dinner and order takeout?”
“Yes, actually. I’ve never met a man who can cook.”
“Then clearly, you haven’t been meeting the right men.”
He grinned and extracted a small cooler from a large pantry, then grabbed half a dozen trays of ice and emptied them into it. “Sorry, I know it’s not a proper ice bucket, but it’ll do. You can put the wine in here.”
“Which one? The red or the white?”
“The red.”
She did as requested while he pulled a warming pan out of the oven.
“Shall I get plates?”
“No need. I’ve got everything set up in the dining room. Too much traffic in the kitchen.”
He felt her pause at the entry to the dining room, taking everything in, much like Declan had. She seemed surprised. Surprised, but not disappointed. That was a start.
He pulled out a chair and held it for her. She hesitated, as if no one had done that for her before, then sat down. He took the seat perpendicular. Close, but not crowding.
Her eyes traveled over the faded wallpaper they hadn’t yet scraped and replaced. At the hardwood trim and decorative crown molding. At the leaded glass windows that looked out over the side yard.
“Is the rest of the house like this?” she asked softly.
“Old and dated, you mean?”
“Beautiful,” she countered. “I know it needs some work, but the craftsmanship is incredible.”
He felt oddly pleased by her assessment. “That’s what we thought, too. My uncle—”
“Another uncle?” she interrupted with a mischievous smile.
“My uncle Johnny,” he continued with a quirk to his lips, “runs a construction and renovation business over in Birch Falls, and my cousin Garrett—who also lives here—is in charge of bringing the house up to par.”
“Just how many uncles do you have?”
Patrick did a quick mental tally. “Six, not including in-laws, though there are three more that I call uncles but are really first cousins once removed. And more that are close friends of the family.”
“Tell me about them,” she said.
So he did. He started with each of his father’s brothers, beginning with the oldest, and ending with the youngest. Then told her about the Connellys in Birch Falls, and the more recently discovered branches in their ever-expanding family tree.
“Must be nice, having such a big, supportive family.”
“It is,” he agreed, feeling warm and full and satisfied in a way that was as much a result of the food as it was Morgan’s rapt attention. “What about your family?”
He’d done the research. Knew that besides her grandfather, she had a mother and stepfather in Philadelphia. No siblings. There was as much information available on her birth father as there was on Frank—which was basically nothing.
Her smile faded and she looked at her wine. Deciding, he thought, how much of an answer to give. “Not as big. Not as supportive.”
He smiled encouragingly and waited for her to open up a little. To trust him enough to do so.
“My mother remarried when I was seven. My stepfather—” she paused.
“He’s… well, he’s a traditional Italian male.
He has very clear ideas about how things should be, and I didn’t really fit into his ideals.
” She shrugged. “It’s not like he was ever cruel or anything.
We tolerated each other. My mother chose her marriage over most things, which I understand now better than I did when I was younger. ”
“And your father?”
“I never knew him. I wouldn’t have known about Frank either, except I found a box shoved in the back of my mother’s closet with some pictures of my dad and Frank’s name and address.” She looked at the candle. “After I found it, I wrote him a letter. I didn’t expect him to respond.”
“But he did.”
“He did,” she confirmed. “He’s not what I expected,” she said, after a moment. “Frank, I mean. My mother described him differently.”
“What did she say about him?”
“That he was paranoid. Delusional.” The corner of her mouth moved, dry and affectionate at the same time. “She’s not entirely wrong. But it’s more complicated than that.”
Complicated was something he understood. “Try growing up in a clan of former Navy SEALs and Army Rangers.”
She laughed softly at that. “Probably not much different from my stepfather’s family.” She touched her index finger to the side of her nose in a meaningful gesture.
There it was. A quiet confirmation that her stepfather had mob ties.
“Well, you turned out well,” he said, “considering you had to do most of it yourself.”
She blinked. Then: “That might be one of the nicest things anyone ever said to me.”
“Then the bar has been set too low.”
She held his gaze for a beat, and something in her expression shifted—just slightly, just enough. She picked up her wine. “I met your grandfather, you know. That first night when I came to the pub. He reminds me a lot of Frank, but without the paranoid delusions.”
Patrick had wondered when she’d bring up Jack. “What did he say to you?”
“Not much. Told me he’d known Frank for a long time, and that he was a good man. Also said that Pine Ridge was a good place to put down roots.”
“Did he now?” Patrick mused quietly.
“He did. It was almost like he was trying to tell me something I didn’t already know.”
“Does that mean you’re not moving back to Philly?” he asked carefully.
“It means I have options. Don’t get me wrong. I love my job, and I’m good at it. But after everything that has happened, I might be better off doing it somewhere else.”
His heart leapt with hope, but his instincts kept him from pushing. Morgan would get where she needed to be on her own, and based on everything she’d said so far, she was one hundred percent on the right path.
“How about you?” She waved her hand gracefully to encompass the room. “I’m guessing you plan on staying in Pine Ridge.”
“I am,” he agreed. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
She looked at him for a long moment, pinning him with that clear, dark green gaze that didn’t flinch and didn’t deflect, just took things in and processed them.
It was past ten when she stood to help him clear the table.
He didn’t argue, knowing she needed time and space to process what he’d told her.
She washed, he dried, standing close in the narrow space between the sink and the counter, passing dishes back and forth with the easy rhythm of people who’d been doing it for years.
It felt, like everything else involving Morgan, right.
Dishes complete, she turned to dry her hands, and he was right there. Shorter than him by at least six inches, the top of her head reached his jawline. She was close enough that he could feel her breath at the base of his throat.
She didn’t step back.
He lifted his hand and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, slowly enough that she could have moved away from it if she wanted to. She didn’t.
“Patrick,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Morgan,” he said.
A pause. Then: “I’m not sure I should drive back to Frank’s tonight.”
His heart began to pound. “Probably not.”
“The wine.”
“Sure,” he said. “The wine.”
She held his gaze, and the almost-smile appeared, and this time she didn’t pull it back. “Show me the rest of the house?”
He held out his hand.
She took it.
He walked her through the first floor. The turret room, the living room, the library that currently functioned as an office.
Then he led her upstairs, to the only other room he’d be showing her tonight.