High Noon by Nora Roberts

was nice—could be nice—to have someone to hold hands with on a pretty spring evening.
    And it was better, given her personal situation, not to think about that sort of thing. Especially when she was about to have a drink with a very cute man.
    She had plenty of hands to hold. So many, in fact, that a solitary walk along the river was a rare indulgence. Take the moment, she advised herself and, because she had a few minutes, slowed her pace, turned toward the water, and enjoyed the indulgence.
    And see, she mused, she wasn’t the only one on her own. She saw a man, solitary as she, standing spread-legged in a pool of shadow and watching the water. The bill of his ball cap angled low over his face while a pair of cameras were strapped bandolier style over his dark windbreaker.
    Not everyone was a couple.
    Maybe she would bring Carly down for a long walk on Saturday, she thought as she tipped her head back, let the breeze take her hair. The kid got such a charge out of wandering around down here, looking at everything, at everyone.
    They’d have to set the rules first. Lunch, yes. Fabulous prizes, no. Not with her car currently hostage at the mechanic’s.
    Probably a smarter idea to make that a nice walk through one of the parks away from retail outlets.
    They’d work it out.
    Gauging the time, she turned away from the water and didn’t notice the solitary man lift and aim one of the cameras in her direction.
    At Swifty’s a shamrock dotted the i in the name on the sign. The stained glass panel in the door was a rather beautiful Celtic knot design. The doorknob was brass, and the outside walls were done in a dull stucco yellow, a shade she remembered seeing in postcards of Irish villages. Hanging pots dripped with airy flowers and green, green vines.
    Little details, she thought. The man paid attention to little details.
    When she stepped inside, it was as she remembered from her single previous visit. A big, burly bar set the tone. This was not the venue for airy ferns and apple martinis. But if you wanted a pint, or a glass of Irish, conversation and music, belly right up.
    Leather booths were deep and cushy, the tables dark, polished wood. Shadow and sparkle played from the colored glass shades of hanging lamps, while a red-eyed turf fire simmered in a quaint little stone hearth.
    The mood was warm welcome.
    At one of the booths, its table loaded with drinks, sat the musicians. A girl with a shock of red-tipped black hair sawed a bow over the fiddle strings with a speed and energy that made the movement as blurry as the music was clear. A man old enough to be her grandfather pumped out rhythm on a small accordion. A young man with hair so pale it reminded Phoebe of angels’ wings piped out the tune, while yet another set down his pint glass, picked up his fiddle, and slid seamlessly into the song.
    Happy, Phoebe thought. Happy music, happy chatter under it. Cheery lights and color, with clever little touches sprinkled through. Old tankards, a bowen drum, bits of pottery she imagined came from Ireland, an Irish harp, old Guinness signs.
    â€œThere you are, and right on time.”
    Even as she turned toward him, Duncan had her hand in his. That smile of his, she realized, it had a way of making her forget she didn’t really want to be there.
    â€œI like your place,” she told him. “I like the music.”
    â€œSessions nightly. I’ve got us a table.” He led her to the one in front of the quiet fire where she could sink down on the cozy little love seat.
    Take the moment, Phoebe thought again. “Best seat in the house.”
    â€œWhat can I get you?”
    â€œGlass of Harp, thanks.”
    â€œGive me a minute.” He moved over to the bar, spoke to the girl running the near end. A moment later he came back with a glass of golden beer.
    â€œNothing for you?”
    â€œI’ve got a Guinness in the works.” Those soft blue eyes zeroed straight