Love and Mistletoe by Zara Keane Page B

the family pub. Her brother Ruairí’s pub to be precise, since he’d bought it from their parents a couple of years ago. He’d spent time and money restoring the place to its former glory. She appreciated his insistence that MacCarthy’s retain its old-fashioned look combined with modern comforts. Tonight the pub was festooned with fake cobwebs, pumpkins, and skeletons. Most of the patrons had embraced the spirit of the holiday and donned costumes—some scary, some risqué, some utterly absurd.
    “All right?” Ruairí reached underneath the counter for a fresh pint glass and sent his pirate hat askew in the process.
    “I’m grand. Yourself?”
    “Fine.” A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. “More than fine.”
    She gave him a bear hug. “You’ll make a great daddy, bro. Jayme’s lucky to have you.”
    “I’m lucky to have her.” He beamed and disentangled himself from her fake witchy talons. “This pregnancy seems to be dragging, though. Seems forever until March.”
    “I’ll remind you of this conversation when you’re haggard from lack of sleep. Will it be a St. Patrick’s Day baby?”
    “He or she is due on the nineteenth of March, so it’s a possibility.”
    “Fingers crossed. We have no little Paddy in our family.”
    Her brother grimaced. “If Jayme has her way, we won’t have one in March, either.”
    “What names does she like?” Sharon was fond of her American sister-in-law, but their disparate backgrounds caused the occasional difference of opinion or culture clash.
    Her brother wrinkled his slightly crooked nose. “If the baby is a girl, Jayme wants to call her Lucrezia.”
    “As in Borgia?” Sharon roared with laughter. “Ah, no. I can’t see that name flying in Ballybeg. You’ll have to talk her down.”
    “I’m doing my best.” Ruairí’s smile turned sly. “Speaking of romance, I hear you’re spending a lot of time with a certain policeman.”
    Sharon felt her cheeks turn pink. “Would you have a problem if I were?”
    “Not at all. Just surprised. Glenn’s not your usual type.”
    “No, he certainly isn’t.”
And thank goodness for that
. In the fortnight since they’d first slept together, Sharon had spent at least a couple of nights a week at Brian’s house. It served a number of purposes—apart from the obvious benefit of the amazing sex. First, it got her off the farm and away from Da. Second, Brian had no problem with her staying on at his place to study when he headed out to work in the morning. And last but definitely not least, Brian himself. She’d never been short of men to date, but she’d gravitated toward the reckless bad-boy type and had never expected—or wanted—the relationships to last.
    Until now.
    And that was the part that scared the bejaysus out of her. Brian was different. He listened when she talked.
Really
listened. He made her hot milky coffee when she had a crying jag about her mother. He let her rant about Da and never once said a word about the number of times he’d had to deal with the man in his role as cop. And he treated her with respect. None of her previous boyfriends had done that, and the difference in how it made her feel about him, about herself, and about their relationship was a revelation.
    “I like Brian,” she admitted. “I like him a lot.”
    The corners of Ruairí’s warm brown eyes creased in concern. “I know you do, kiddo. And that’s what worries me. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
    She placed her hands on her hips. “Well, aren’t you the hypocrite. You were always complaining about my boyfriends. Now I find a fella with a steady job, and you’re still bellyaching.”
    He held up his palms in surrender. “Calm down, sis. I had no time for those other eejits because they were likely to lead you into trouble. Brian Glenn is a decent bloke.”
    “So what’s the problem?”
    He patted her on the head just as he’d done when she was a little girl. “I don’t want to see you