He crosses the room and stops in front of me. His hand rises to my jaw—a feather touch, his thumb tracing the line Nicholas defined with blush.
“Ready?” he asks.
“I’m nervous,” I tell him, because I am learning that honesty with this man does not result in punishment.
“Don’t be. You’re an O’Rourke now.”
The possessiveness in those four words sends a flush of heat rushing through my veins.
He offers his arm. I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, and his free hand covers mine.
We walk to the elevator together. The doors slide open. We step inside, and our reflections appear in the mirrored walls—arm in arm, Ronan’s hand over mine.
And I am shocked to realize we look as though we belong together.
Chapter 12
Ronan
As we push through the front door of O’Rourke’s Pub, the noise hits us in a wave—music, laughter, a hundred conversations overlapping, glasses clinking.
The renovation turned the old place into something sharp and modern without gutting the bones my great-grandparents built. Exposed brick, dark wood, brass fixtures. Every seat is taken. Bodies pack the bar three deep.
Prudence’s fingers dig into the sleeve of my jacket. Her jaw is clenched, her spine rigid, and her eyes sweep the room in a rapid, overwhelmed scan—trying to absorb a place that contains more people and noise than she’s experienced in her entire life.
“Stay with me,” I say. “I got you.”
“What if I say the wrong thing?”
“There is no wrong thing.”
I steer us through the crowd with my arm protectively wrapped around her.
Lorcan spots us first.
He’s behind the bar pulling a pint, and his gaze travels from me to the woman on my arm. His hand freezes on the tap. Beer overflows the glass, cascading over his knuckles.
He sets down the pint, ignores the mess, and vaults over the bar, landing two feet from us, grinning.
“There he is.” He clasps my shoulder, then his gaze shifts to Prudence. The grin doesn’t falter—it widens. “And who’s your lovely date?”
“Lorcan.” I pull Prudence closer against my side. “This is my wife, Prudence.”
His grin freezes. Thaws. Freezes again.
“Your…excuse me?”
“My wife.”
He looks at Prudence. Looks at me. Looks at Prudence again.
Then the grin returns—wider, brighter, full of genuine delight. “Well, damn. You dark horse you.” He turns to Prudence and performs a theatrical bow. “Welcome to the family. I’m Lorcan. Ronan’s youngest and best-looking brother.”
Prudence blinks at him, then at me, then back at him. She’s clearly out of her element, but before I can punch my brother in the face for making her uncomfortable, she says, “I’m Prudence. It’s lovely to meet you. Yes, you are very handsome.”
Lorcan’s face splits wide with delight.
“Oh, I love her,” he announces to no one in particular. “Ronan, she’s got more class in one sentence than you’ve managed in thirty-two years.” He leans toward her conspiratorially. “Fair warning—I’m the fun brother. The other three are miserable bastards.”
