Barefoot on a Starlit Night

by Jo McNally

  “Yeah, I’ve heard Greer is all about appearances.” The college president was in his midseventies and had been teaching at Brady College for almost fifty years. A bit of an eccentric, Dr. Howard Greer had very strong opinions on how his staff should behave. He’d agreed to bring Finn on board despite Finn’s recently checkered past, but Greer made it clear from the start that he’d be keeping him on a very short leash. If that leash snapped, Finn’s job—and his work visa—would be in dire jeopardy.

  “It’s not like I intended to be homeless, but here I am. I’ve been busy getting ready for classes to start next week, but I have to find something fast.” He slumped back in the bar stool and held his glass up to the light. “As soon as I finish this nasty-ass beer. What is wrong with this place?”

  Rick slapped him on the shoulder with a laugh. “Are you talking about the town or the bar? Rendezvous Falls is a good place, and nowhere near as provincial as it might look.” Finn reserved comment, because his first thought when he drove into town was that he’d been transported back to the 1800s, with all the wildly painted Victorian homes. Apparently, the town was famous for the houses with their colorful paint schemes and fanciful trim work.

  But he’d wanted a quiet little college where he could rebuild his life and reputation, and he couldn’t get much smaller than Rendezvous Falls. Rick continued. “If you’re talking about the bar...well, it’s in the midst of some changes. The previous owner passed away, and his daughter came home from California to run it.” Rick gestured to their green beers. “But you can’t blame her for this tradition. Like I said, it’s been going on for ages. Rumor has it she’s looking to give the place a makeover, though, and she might ditch the Irish feel.”

  Finn barked out a laugh. “My man, there is no Irish feel in here, other than a few shamrocks.” He finished his beer and firmly refused the bartender’s offer of another. He’d have to recuse his Irish citizenship if he had another feckin’ green beer. Rather than being insulted, the guy behind the bar grinned and nodded at Rick.

  “Shot of Jameson to wash down that swill?”

  “Make it two. My Irish friend here is appalled at our customs.” Rick nodded between the two men. “Finn, this is Luke Rutledge, winemaker extraordinaire and part-time bartender—although I thought he quit this gig. Luke, meet Finn O’Hearn, straight from the Emerald Isle, here to teach medieval European history to our fine young minds at the college.”

  Luke reached over to shake Finn’s hand. “Welcome to Rendezvous Falls. Sorry about all the green booze. Tradition—what can you do?” His eyes slid to Rick. “I did give up my regular hours here, but I’m on call for emergencies. Hal Gentry retired, and the boss has a reputation that makes it tough to hire someone new. With the party and all, tonight qualified as an emergency.”

  “Christ, that woman can’t hang on to employees, can she?” Rick asked. “Is she really that tough to work—”

  Rick was interrupted by a crash of dishes coming from behind what Finn assumed were the kitchen doors, followed by a loud string of very colorful curse words in a female voice.

  Luke poured two shots of whiskey, then tossed his bar towel over his shoulder and headed toward the kitchen. “Did I mention the cook quit, too? She’s on her own in there. I’d better make sure she’s okay.”

  Finn and Rick clinked their shot glasses together and drained them, both letting out long sighs of satisfaction as the heat of the whiskey burned its way down. Rick had introduced himself on Finn’s first official day on the campus of Brady College, when Finn unintentionally parked in Rick’s spot. The snow had been coming down so heavy that late November afternoon that Finn didn’t see the sign. Rick had been a good sport about it, teasing him about trying to get a reputation as a “troublemaker” right out of the gate. Rick had no idea that Finn had already been-there/done-that at a much larger and more prestigious university.

  Luke was back in just a few minutes, shaking his head as he refilled their shot glasses. Rick pushed his glass Finn’s way, reminding him that Rick was driving. Good thing it was a Friday night, or Finn would be worried about getting himself out of bed in the morning after three shots and a beer.

  “She’s on a roll tonight.” Luke glanced back at the kitchen. “All that swearing? She was yelling at herself for knocking over a tray of dirty dishes. That woman’s just gotta yell, even if there’s no other person there to yell at.”

  The two men started sharing stories of the apparently fearsome woman running the place. Finn excused himself and headed into the back where the restrooms were located. Didn’t take long for that green pisswater they called beer to run through him. On his way back, he noticed a bulletin board in the hallway. In the center was a bright orange sheet of paper that read,

  Apartment for Rent

  1st Floor—Furnished—No Pets

  $600 per month

  See Bridget

  No phone number. Just “See Bridget.” A flat wasn’t ideal, but the price was lower than what he’d been seeing for rental houses, and he was running out of options. Furnished was a bonus, since he hadn’t salvaged much furniture from his failed marriage. A young guy with dreadlocks and shoulders like a pro wrestler walked by. Finn stopped him, pointing to the sign.

  “Hey, mate. Where do I find this Bridget?”

  “Kitchen usually.”

  Finn frowned, but thanked him. The kitchen was where the cranky, sweary lady worked. He looked at the price again. Furnished. It was worth taking the chance. He went to the kitchen and peeked through the small, square window in the door, but he didn’t see anyone. He pushed his way in and looked around.

  A woman was working near the sink, loading a small commercial dishwasher on the countertop. The scary, screaming owner must have stepped out, leaving this one to deal with the mess left behind. She was average height, and on the slender side. She wore dark capris, sturdy black sneakers, and a grease-stained—or was it sweaty?—green cotton shirt. Her copper-red hair was twisted into a tight knot under a hairnet, although a few long tendrils had broken free. He cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me, are you Bridget?”

  She rounded on him in the blink of an eye, gripping a suds-covered chopping knife in her hand.

  “Holy... You scared the shit out of me!” She pointed at the door with the knife. Her eyes were deep mahogany brown. They were also red-rimmed. He wasn’t sure if it was from the steamy water or if she’d been crying. Maybe her cranky boss had gotten on her case over something. She had a rich, whiskey voice that was strong and confident, despite her puffy eyes. “You can’t be here. Go back to your beer buddies at the bar.” She waggled the knife back and forth. “Out!”

  “Please...put the knife down.” He held his hands up in front of him. “I’m just here about the apartment. Are you Bridget? Is it still available?”

  She gave him a sweeping look from his scalp to his feet and back again.

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe you’re Bridget, or maybe the apartment’s still open?”

  The corner of her mouth lifted, and he realized with a bit of a jolt that she was attractive. Not that he’d thought her ugly before, but his first impression was that she was pretty basic. Now that he had a chance to really see her, she was anything but basic. Her features were bold. Angular. High cheekbones and a chiseled, narrow jaw. Whiskey-colored eyes. That copper hair. And the hint of a soft smile, which had vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  “Both. I’m Bridget. And the apartment’s open. But I usually rent to wom...I mean...students. Or profs.”

  “Well, I’m not a woman.” He splayed his hands. “But I am a professor.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “That accent. Where are you from?”

  Ah—the accent. He gave her his standard response to the question he heard almost daily here in the States. “Originally? My mother.”

  Her mouth opened, then snapped closed,
but he saw the spark of laughter in her eyes. “Very funny. Irish, right? Came in for the green beer?”

  He grimaced. “No self-respecting Irishman would go anywhere for green beer.”

  Her eyebrow rose. “Well, excuse me, Mr. Fancy Pants.” She looked at the pile of dishes and cooking pans in the sink. “Look, I’m swamped. Stop by tomorrow if you want to see the apartment.”

  “But...”

  She pointed to the doors. “Tomorrow. The house is next door. Blue-and-white Victorian.” She turned her back to him. “And make it early—I have to be here for the lunch shift tomorrow, and I’ve got a delivery coming. If you knock on the door after nine, you’ll be outta luck.”

  With those encouraging words, he knew he’d been dismissed. She was probably afraid her boss would come back and catch her with a customer in the kitchen. He headed back to the bar, where Rick and Luke were still chatting, in between Luke serving people.

  “Hey, there you are!” Rick said as Finn sat down. “Thought maybe you got lucky or something.”

  Finn looked around at the youthful, drunken crowd. “Not that I’m lookin’, but if I were, I don’t think I’d find my type here.”

  Luke refilled Rick’s cola. “What’s your type, Finn?”

  Faithful.

  “No one’s my type right now. I’m lickin’ my wounds and stayin’ single.”

  Rick’s laughter faded. “Coming off a bad one, huh?”

  “The worst.” Just thinking of Dori made him tighten up in anger. Time to change the subject. “But on the bright side, I got a line on a flat.”

  Luke wiped down the surface of the bar. “In the time you were gone? How’d you manage that?”

  “Flyer on the board back there. I talked to Bridget...”

  Both men froze, staring at him with wide eyes.

  Rick spoke first. “You talked to Bridget? Bridget McKinnon?”

  “The redhead in the kitchen? Yeah.”

  Luke coughed out a sharp laugh. “You...you went into Bridget’s kitchen? And lived?”

  Finn sat back. “Wait, are you sayin’ this Bridget is the same woman you were talkin’ about earlier? Who can’t keep an employ...” Ah, no wonder she was alone in the kitchen. But she’d smiled at him. Sort of. And she’d been crying—he was sure of it.

  Luke handed some change to two young guys who’d just ordered—Finn checked—yup, green beer. “She’s showing you her place, huh?”

  “Why? Is it a house of horrors or something?”

  “Nope,” Luke said. “But it’s in her house.”

  “As opposed to her renting a place in someone else’s house?”

  Luke scratched the back of his neck. “It’s in her house. She lives upstairs in her dad’s old place, and there’s a small apartment below it. Almost a studio. You have to go in her house to get to it.”

  Finn considered that for a moment. Living under the same roof as angry, sweary, teary-eyed Bridget McKinnon? He came here to get away from drama, not live with more of it. But then again, she was an interesting woman, with all that...bristle...to her demeanor.

  Rick sighed and rose to his feet. “Here’s the thing, Luke. This guy—” he patted Finn’s shoulder “—needs an actual place to live, with an actual address instead of a room number. And he needs it now, or he might get his ass shipped back to Ireland. I never imagined Bridget would be the one to save the day, but if that apartment’s available, I’m guessing Finn’s taking it.”

  And that was the rub. He did need a place, and—thanks to Dori—his funds were on the limited side. If he could get through the semester and secure his spot on the tenure track, he could always look for a small house this summer. So, if Miss McKinnon deemed him acceptable, it would only be temporary. He could make that work.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BRIDGET WOKE THE next morning hoping the guy from the bar was just a figment of her imagination. She’d spent yesterday arguing with her grandmother over whether or not her hair was falling out (it was), so it made sense she’d dream up some Irish hunk looking to move in downstairs. It would be just her grandmother’s style to put some Celtic hex on Bridget’s life.

  Two mugs of scalding coffee and a bagel later, there still hadn’t been a knock on the door. Maybe she really had dreamed him up. She propped her hip against the gold-and-white laminated countertop and watched the snow come down outside. Did he ever say his name? Did she ever give him the chance? Probably not. She’d been on her feet for hours and was so tired. Even worse, she’d been on the verge of tears with all her worries spinning through her head.

  Would Nana be okay? Would the bar cover expenses this week? Was there ever going to be a day that didn’t end with her back aching and her brain begging for sleep? Add in her worry over getting a tenant so she could cover her mortgage, and yes, a few traitorous tears had managed to escape.

  She knew she had a reputation as a bit of an angry harpy since her return to Rendezvous Falls. People cut her slack at first because of her father’s sudden death, but lately she’d caught the looks and heard the whispers. She was a shrew. She swore too much. She was “impossible” to work for, whatever the hell that meant. She hadn’t done much to refute that reputation last night. Her cook, Jimmy, had a temper tantrum and quit. Again. At one of their largest events of the year.

  All because Bridget had changed the age-old menu for the annual party and added more appetizers instead of just corned beef sandwiches and shepherd’s pie. It’s not like she’d asked Jimmy to cook the appetizers—she took care of that herself. It was just the idea of change.

  She swore there was something in the water in this town that made people, especially those related to her or connected to the pub, absolutely allergic to new ideas. Not only had Jimmy walked out in a huff, but he’d taken his wife, Marta, with him. Marta did the dishwashing, so Bridget had called Timothy in to help with the cooking, and then she did the cleaning up on her own. Which, to be honest, was just how she liked it. Alone. Where she could control what happened.

  Jimmy and Marta had worked for her dad for years. They’d adored him. The problem was, Jimmy thought he was the kitchen boss. Even though Bridget had a culinary degree and, you know, owned the place. Neither of them had handled the power struggle well. One snarky comment too many from her had led to Jimmy and Marta walking. Leaving Bridget with plenty of alone time, doing all the work. With so much control. Winning.

  That’s when the tall, dark-haired stranger with the delicious Irish accent showed up, asking about the apartment. And somehow, as brief as their encounter had been, she could tell he...knew. He knew she’d been crying. There’d been just a glimmer of something when his eyes had met hers. Oh, God...what if it had been pity? She shuddered. No way would she let that man move in. She had enough on her plate without some softhearted Professor McDreamy living downstairs, thinking she was some fragile flower. If he didn’t hate the apartment, she’d come up with some reason why he couldn’t have it that wasn’t discriminatory.

  She glanced at the clock. Eight thirty. Looked like he wasn’t going to show anyway. Probably just some drunk guy who didn’t even remember their conversation. Just as well.

  A knock at the door made her jump, sending her coal-black coffee—her third—swishing in her mug. Fine. He was here. She’d show him the apartment, then show him the door. He’d probably hate the apartment anyway. It was tiny. It was also furnished and decorated for a female, with soft pastels and overstuffed chintz. She set her coffee down, then grabbed it again as she left the kitchen. She needed all the fortification she could get.

  She headed down the wide center staircase to the foyer. This would be such a pretty house if it wasn’t so boxed in with walls and doors that didn’t belong. The furnished apartment on one side. An unfinished library-slash-studio apartment was on the other.

  Her dad had the idea to chop up this poor old house into apartments for college kids
. Bridget never imagined herself as a landlord, but along with the house, she’d inherited the mortgage Dad had taken out on it. He’d taken that mortgage to add the new kitchen to the Purple Shamrock. If she ever got herself out of debt, she hoped to slowly convert this back to a single-family home. It was a big “if” and an even bigger “hope,” since she had no idea how to go about remodeling a house.

  She opened the door, and the Irishman stood there, bundled against the cold wind in a leather jacket that matched his black hair. That hair was short, but had a definite curl to it. Her first random thought was that he must have been an adorable child, with those black curls and intense green eyes. He was tall and lean, and had a way of standing—legs apart, hands in his pockets, head tipped to the side—that suggested he was confident. And, judging from the slanted smile, easily amused. A gust of wind blew a cloud of snowflakes through the door, and Bridget realized she’d been staring at him while he got covered in snow. She stepped aside.

  “Come on in, Mr....?”

  The slant of his smile increased, causing his cheek to crinkle and a dimple to appear. Yikes. This guy was seriously good-looking. Women probably fell all over him. Another reason to deny him the apartment. She didn’t want it to be some playboy bachelor’s pad, especially with the bedroom directly under hers. Ew.

  He straightened and extended his hand. “Finn O’Hearn. My apologies for not introducing myself last night. I think that blade you were swinging around scared my manners outta’ me.”

  She thought back...oh, yeah—she’d had her favorite chopping knife in her hand when he’d come in. And tears in her eyes. Great. She’d probably looked like a psycho.

  “Bridget McKinnon.” She shook his hand and nodded toward the mahogany staircase. “My apartment is upstairs. Yours...” Damn it. “I mean...the available apartment is here.” She gave him her scariest glare. “If you take it, there will never be a reason for you to set foot on those stairs.” She unlocked the door, still clutching her coffee mug, then stepped back to let him walk ahead. His brows rose in surprise at her.