Shadow Spell (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 2)

Opting for the beer to begin—it wouldn’t be the first time she’d taken a cold beer into a hot shower to wash away the day—she started toward the kitchen, and someone pounded on the door.

“Go away,” she muttered, “whoever you are, and never come back.”

Whoever it was knocked again, and she’d have ignored it again, but he followed up with:

“Open up, Meara. I know very well you’re in there.”

Connor. She cast her eyes to the ceiling, but went to the door.

She opened it. “I’m settling in for some quiet, so go somewhere else.”

“What’s this about a fire at your mother’s?”

“It was nothing. Go on now.”

He squinted at her. “You look terrible.”

“And that’s all I needed to finish off my fecking day. Thanks for that.”

She started to shut the door in his face, but he put a shoulder to it. For a foolish minute, each pushed against the other. She tended to forget the man was stronger than he looked.

“Fine, fine, come in then. The day’s been nothing but a loss in any case.”

“Your head hurts, and you’re tired and bitchy with it.”

Before she could evade, he laid his hands on her temples, ran them over her head, down to the base of her skull.

And the throbbing ache vanished.

“I’d taken something for it already.”

“That works faster.” He added a light rub on her shoulders that dissolved all the knots. “Sit down, take your boots off. I’ll get you a beer.”

“I didn’t invite you for a beer and a chat.” The bad temper in her tone after he’d vanished all those aches and throbs shamed her. And the shame only added more bad temper.

He cocked his head, face full of patience and sympathy. She wanted to punch him for it.

She wanted to lay her head on his shoulder and just breathe.

“Haven’t eaten, have you?”

“I’ve only just gotten home.”

“Sit down.”

He walked over to the kitchen—such as it was. The two-burner stove, the squat fridge, miserly sink, and counter tucked tidily enough in the corner of her living space, and suited her needs.

She grumbled rude words under her breath, but she sat and took off her boots while she watched him—eyes narrowed—poke around.

“What are you after in there?”

“The frozen pizza you never fail to stock will be quickest, and I could do with some myself for I haven’t eaten either.”

He peeled it out of the wrap, stuck it in the oven. And unlike her mother, remembered to set the timer. He took out a couple bottles of Harp, popped them open, then strolled back.

He handed her a beer, sat down beside her, propped his feet on her coffee table, a man at home.

“We’ll start at the end of it. Your mother. A kitchen fire, was it?”