They clung to one another, maybe because it was familiar and easy? There was a comfort forged over many years, situations, and revelations. He was her best friend. The one being she turned to when she was at her lowest and felt no one else could understand her. How long am I going to wait under the umbrella for him?
The man was dense. If she wanted him to know how deep her feelings ran, she would have to be frank. The paintings. Excitement fueled her brush strokes as she put the finishing touches. This would be their story. What was and what could be—out there for all to see. She lost herself to her work as she poured all she had onto the canvas.
SHE PAUSED OUTSIDE the small studio and admired the result of her mother’s hard work. Clover Gallery had been up and running for five years now. The tiny space was nestled between the boutiques and artsy shops. Painted black with a gold clover, and the name in gold Celtic style lettering on the front shop window, it had the feel of a pub from the outside. Leahys weren’t wallflowers. They went after the things they wanted.
Her mother always told her, ‘it isn’t about how many times you failed, but that you continued to try until you succeeded or moved on to another dream’. She stepped inside and pause
d.
A light brown haired man with a riot of curls and the beginnings of a beard stood at her mother’s desk in a white cable knit sweater and black slacks. “Hello, welcome to Clover.” His thick Irish accent took her by surprise.
“Um ... hello.”
“Ah, a fellow country man?” he asked, his brown orbs lighting up.
She smiled, instantly charmed by his enthusiasm. “Aye, though I’m not sure if I can claim it, seeing as how it’s been so long since I lived there.”
“Oh, once an Irish always an Irish. Whether you want to be or not.”
She laughed.
“What can I help you with today, Miss ...” He paused.
“No miss, just Aibhlinn, and I was looking for my mum, Colleen.”
“I should’ve known you were related, it seems looks run in the family,” he said slyly.
She shook her head. “You’re a cheeky one.”
“So I’ve been told. Your mum went out to grab lunch, but you’re more than welcome to wait here if you’d like.”
“When did you join the staff? I haven’t seen you before.”
“Oh, just a few weeks ago.”
“And you know art?”
“It’s me trade, so I’d hope so.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Painter?”
“Sculptor. Traditional means with clay, and new age with more unconventional materials. Which is really just a clever way of saying any bit of scraps I can get me hands on.”
She giggled. “Do you have a name, mystery man?”
“Oh, right rude, I’ve been.” He stuck out his hand. “Keir Gallagher.”
His hand felt soft and his handshake was firm. “Pleased to meet you, Keir Gallagher.”
“Likewise, Aibhlinn Leahy,” he said with a blinding white smile that made warmth spread through her belly. Thick, dark eyelashes framed the mirth-filled eyes rounded out by bushy but well-groomed eyebrows. The man was downright delicious.
“How did you come to work here?” Aibhlinn asked.
The door behind them jingled and they both turned.
“Hi, darling. I didn’t know you were coming by today.”
“Me either,” Aibhlinn replied.