Chapter 8 #3
“Yes?” she glanced over her shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“Just shut up and let me go outside, would you please?”
As Sophie disappeared through the swinging door, Keefe leaned on the counter and considered the challenge: make Gwen’s salad extra special.
How the hell did you fancy up a pile of lettuce?
Still, his mind started spinning—candied pecans, maybe? Or warm goat cheese, the kind that melted just enough to coat everything in creamy goodness? He could toast the croutons in garlic butter, stack it all like a tower, drizzle the vinaigrette like it was art.
He grinned, already reaching for the ingredients.
If he was going to make her a salad, he’d make her the salad.
The kind a girl didn’t forget.
* * *
Keefe stepped through the kitchen door, balancing the extra special salad—a salad he nearly dropped when he saw the woman at the bar.
Jesus. Sophie hadn’t been exaggerating.
Something hit him square in the chest. Not a jolt—more like a slow, deep ache that came out of nowhere and refused to be ignored.
She sat with the kind of stillness that drew the eye, unaware or maybe just unbothered by how she lit up the space around her. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, lifted her glass, and took a sip—casual, graceful, completely unaware that she was knocking the breath out of him.
He crossed the room on autopilot, set the plate down—and then she looked up.
Their eyes met.
And the world just… vanished.
It wasn’t just attraction. It was something else entirely. Something rare. Like a current humming in the air between them. Like the moment before lightning strikes.
Her lips parted slightly, as if she’d forgotten what she was about to say—or maybe how to breathe. She blinked once, then stilled.
She felt it too.
He could see it in her eyes—the same shock, the same wonder. The way her gaze locked with his, not in challenge, but in recognition.
And despite the city polish she wore like armor, there was something softer just beneath the surface. Something real.
It reached into him, sudden and unexpected, like a note struck deep inside his chest.
Not lust. Not even longing.
Recognition.
Like he’d been waiting for her without even knowing it.
And somehow, she had too.
Gwen blinked but didn’t look away.
She definitely hadn’t expected him —tall, broad-shouldered, with pool-blue eyes that didn’t hide a thing and didn’t miss much either.
Her polite thank-you caught in her throat.
Heat rose under her skin, blooming outward as something electric sparked between them.
Electricity and water. That’s what it felt like.
Dangerous.
Inevitable.
And just like that, Gwen McKenna—liar, polished to perfection, always in control—forgot what she’d meant to say.
Words slipped from reach, her thoughts slowing like honey in a jar.
All she could do was look at him. Not because he was handsome—though he certainly was—but because there was something else.
Something in the way he looked back.
Like he saw her. Really saw her. And didn’t flinch.
And somehow, that was more intimate than anything had ever been.
“Hello,” he said.
Just one word, low and rough and full of heat.
Gwen blinked. “Hello.” She meant to sound cool. Controlled. But it came out more like a confession.
For one long beat, neither of them moved.
She should say something else. Anything. But she couldn’t look away. Then she glanced down.
A Caesar salad, heaped high and—was that a sheep?
The lettuce had been fluffed into wool, the croutons carefully arranged like legs, and the grated cheese blanketed over the top in thick curls.
It was ridiculous. And perfect.
Her lips parted in disbelief. “Is this...?”
He leaned slightly on the table, arms crossed, a slow smile spreading. “An artistic interpretation of the local wildlife.”
Gwen had come prepared—lied to herself that she was ready.
She’d rehearsed the story a hundred times on the drive.
But now, sitting under the weight of his ocean-blue gaze, every word of that carefully crafted script fled her mind like smoke in the wind.
She couldn’t tell it. Not to him. Not when the air between them buzzed with something that felt dangerously close to fate.
“I, uh… The truth is, I’m here dealing with my dead father’s estate.” Her voice came out softer than intended. Blunt. Bare. Buzzkill of the year.
Her accent was Irish but not quite Kerry, soft-edged and lilting with something he couldn’t place. Intriguing. His expression shifted, brows drawing together with quiet empathy. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you here alone? Is someone helping you?”
She swallowed. He sounded concerned. Genuine. It made her chest ache.
“No. No one. Just me. But it’s all right. I don’t mind. It’s easier by myself. You know?”
Keefe’s first instinct—an irrational, protective surge—was to pull her into his lap and promise she’d never be alone again. That she wouldn’t have to face anything, not now, not ever, without someone in her corner. Without him.
Instead, he leaned a little closer and let the tension crackle between them. “Well, I suppose then you’ll be wanting me to leave you in peace so you can eat your meal alone…”
He left the words hanging, an invitation tied up in low, velvety suggestion.
“I wouldn’t mind a little company,” she blurted. Then flushed. “Never mind, that was stupid. You must be very busy.”
“I’ve got a little time.” He leaned against the bar with a casual ease that didn’t match the fire rolling through his veins.
She smiled, shyly, and smoothed the napkin across her lap with nervous precision.
“I’m Keefe,” he said, holding out his hand.
“I’m—Ruby.” It was the first lie she told him and it killed her. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Guilt pinched her throat. If he looked at her too closely, he’d see it. All of it. She extended her hand. Their fingers met with a spark so sharp she nearly jerked back.
“That’s a pretty name,” he said, his voice dipping low.
She smiled silently praying he’d change the subject before her stomach twisted itself into a full-blown knot.
“This salad’s almost too cute to eat,” she said, grateful for the pivot.
He chuckled. His grin was boyish, teasing, devastating.
“You’re the chef here?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Just a cook. My sister Sophie and I run the place.” He leaned forward, voice dropping to something rougher, rawer. “But I’m the one who’ll be making your pie.”
His eyes locked with hers. Hungry. Barely restrained.
She felt it in her belly, in the heat crawling up her neck, in the ache low in her spine. He wanted her. The thought sent a dizzy pulse of desire straight through her.
This was mad. They’d only just met. And yet.
He was looking at her like he wanted to taste every inch of her. Like he already knew how she’d sound when he kissed her. Like the whole damn world had tilted to put them right here, across from each other, in this sliver of stolen time.
His voice came out hoarse. “Listen, this is presumptuous, and tell me to fuck off if you want to—but would you like to meet me tonight? After we close?”
“Yes.” The word leapt out of her mouth before her brain could catch it. “What time?”
Keefe’s smile could have melted granite. “We close at eleven.”
“I’ll be here.”
He stood straight. If he didn’t return to the kitchen now, he would never go. “See you then, Ruby.”
She watched him walk away, pulse racing, throat dry, body aching with an anticipation.
“Oh,” he said over his shoulder, “enjoy your game pie.”
She managed a shaky laugh. “I’ll be sure to send my compliments to the cook.”
The bell above the pub door jingled, but Gwen barely registered it. Everything around her blurred—conversations dipped into white noise, the clink of glasses and scrape of chairs dissolving under the roar in her ears.
She was in trouble.
The salad smiled up at her like some leafy, innocent accomplice. It shouldn’t have made her chest ache, but it did. Who the hell made a sheep out of romaine and parmesan? And why did it make her want to cry?
Because it was thoughtful. Charming. It was effort.
And that man—the one with the strong forearms and the soft grin—he’d served it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he made girls laugh with salads every day. Like he wasn’t quietly rearranging the axis of her whole damn existence.
She shoved her chair back, slow and careful, like any sudden movement might cause her to combust. Her boots hit the floor and her knees threatened betrayal, wobbly and untrustworthy as she pushed to stand.
She needed the bathroom. Or a walk. Or a one-way ticket back to anywhere that wasn’t here.
But her hand froze on the back of the chair.
Because she could still feel the heat of his gaze, even now. The way it had burned into her like he’d known her all along. Not Ruby. Not the lie. Her.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
Gwen turned toward the hallway leading to the bathroom, her spine ramrod straight. One foot in front of the other. That was all she had to do.
But her heart wasn’t walking.
Her heart was already curled up in the kitchen with a man who made sheep-shaped salads and said hello like it meant something.
God help her, she was going to meet him tonight.
And she was going to lie.
But if he looked at her like that again? She didn’t know if she could keep it up.
Not when her whole body was already whispering yes. Not when his name was still a burn on her lips.
Not when she’d never wanted to tell the truth so badly in her life.
Keefe slammed the oven door with more force than necessary. The clang echoed through the kitchen, but he didn’t care. He needed the noise. Needed the distraction.
It wasn’t working.
He grabbed a fresh loaf of brown bread from the rack and started slicing—too fast, too hard. The knife slipped, nearly catching his thumb. He swore under his breath and tossed the blade into the sink.
“Jesus,” he muttered, pressing his palms flat against the counter like it might steady him.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He’d spoken to hundreds of women in this pub. Tourists, locals, flirts, drunks, heartbreakers, sweethearts. But none of them—none—had made the ground shift beneath him the way she had.
Ruby. If that was indeed her name. She was hiding something. He didn’t know what and in truth he didn’t care.
He rubbed the back of his neck, his skin still hot where she’d touched him. That handshake had short-circuited something in him. Her fingers were small but strong, and the way she looked at him… Christ.
Her voice haunted him already. That soft Irish lilt, not quite Kerry. Her eyes—sea green and stormy, wide like she’d just been struck by lightning and was still trying to figure out if she’d survived it.
He sure as hell hadn’t.
The moment she looked up at him with that shy smile and the lie trembling behind her eyes, he was gone.
It wasn’t just attraction. It was gravity.
And now he couldn’t think. Couldn’t cook. Could barely breathe.
He opened the walk-in cooler and stuck his head inside just to feel something cold. It didn’t help.
Ruby was in the front room eating her salad. His salad. The one he’d arranged like a sheep—what the hell had possessed him to do that? Cute salad?
But it had made her smile. That was the thing.
He wanted to see her smile again, wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted her story. Her truth. Not whatever she’d half-mumbled about a dead father and handling things alone.
He’d seen the lie. Clear as a flare in the dark.
But instead of making him wary, it only made him curious .
Who was she?
And why was it like he’d known her in a thousand other lifetimes?
He pushed away from the cooler door and stalked back into the kitchen, hands on his hips, jaw tight. The fryer hissed beside him. The radio buzzed softly in the background. But all he could hear was her voice, and all he could feel was the weight of that yes—her yes—burning a hole in his chest.
They were closing at eleven.
And after that?
God help him.
He wasn’t sure if he was about to fall in love or fall apart. But he’d be there, waiting.
And as he stood there, heart pounding with the weight of her yes, his mind drifted beyond the moment—beyond Gwen—and to the stories that had come before.
Darcie and Connor, whose love had flared so quickly it burned through every doubt.
Simon and Sondra, who had vanished into each other’s eyes and never looked back.
Even Aunt Nan and Shamus—both carrying their own pasts, both widowed—who found each other later in life and proved that sometimes fate waits patiently for the right moment.
In the O’Brian family, love wasn’t something you waited for. It stormed in like a wildfire, impossible to ignore, and impossible to resist. Fate didn’t care about perfect timing or caution. It demanded your whole heart, and if you answered, well—that was just how they did things.
Keefe smiled, the memory of Gwen’s voice still echoing inside him. This was their story now—a new thread woven into a family tapestry made strong by love at first sight, by souls who just knew.
And he was ready.