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His lips pulled into a wide grin. “A woman after me own heart.”

Maisie nearly forgot how to walk.

“Excuse me, Mr. O’Meara, is it?”

Maisie looked up in surprise. She’d been so carried away with her conversation with Finn, she hadn’t noticed that they’d caught up with the three women ahead of them.

Their umbrellas had finally been popped down, though each of them still wore their spotted Rain-mates—transparent headscarves used to protect their hair from the nonexistent rain.

“’Bout ye, ladies,” Finn greeted, stopping before them. “Please, call me Finn.”

Maisie stopped alongside them with Finn, though she hesitated. Should she allow the women some time alone with him, as well? After all, it was a group tour he led, not a solo one.

Before she could leave, however, Finn shifted his standing, his body narrowing the gap between the footpath and the mud at the side of it, preventing any chance for Maisie to leave.

Oh, darn.

“Finn,” the tallest of the ladies began, her English accent crisp and proper. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Joyce Punchard, and these lovely ladies are my dear friends. Pearl Birkenhead”—she motioned to the one nearest her who wore red lipstick and held a shining black handbag—“and Renee Talbot.”

Renee held a shock of fur in her arms that Maisie assumed was a fluffy, white muff, only to discover a foxlike face and two blinking black eyes staring back at her. The dog had to be a service animal or companion of some sort to have been allowed on the tour, right?

“And this here is Trifle,” Renee said with a soft voice, giving the dog a little scratch on its head.

Her accent was just as proper as Joyce’s, though her voice was much quieter.

“Yes, of course,” Joyce said, “we mustn’t forget Trifle.”

How Maisie hadn’t noticed there had been a dog onboard was beyond her. And yet, when Finn spoke again, she knew the reason—she’d been a tad preoccupied with the bus driver.

“Pleasure,” Finn said. Then he turned to Maisie. “This is Maisie King.”

Maisie thought this very considerate until he added on in a quieter voice, “You know, the straggler who wouldn’t share her bacon butty.”

She scoffed at his playful words. “I’d finished it before I had the chance,” she lied.

He gave her a knowing look, but Maisie turned away to exchange pleasantries with the women.

“So what can I do for you, ladies?” Finn asked.

“We were hoping you could answer something for us,” Joyce began. “Have you ever seen a four-leaf clover, or are they merely tales you tell gullible travelers?”

Maisie turned to Finn, his eyes already taking on a teasing tint.

“Ach, aye, they exist,” he said. “And I’ve seen plenty of ’em.”

Maisie loved watching him talk—the attractive way his jaw shifted forward, the manner in which his lips pursed depending on the word he spoke. It was mesmerizing.

“You see, Joyce?” Pearl said, smiling triumphantly. “I did tell you.”

Joyce’s lips thinned. “Pearl, that proves nothing.” She turned to Maisie and Finn. “My friend here believes she saw one, but I’m still not convinced it wasn’t simply a shamrock and nothing more.”

“It wasn’t a shamrock,” Pearl insisted. “Do you think I cannot count to four?”

”I’m certain you can, darling,” Joyce returned, “but I have read that four-leaf clovers only occur every one in ten thousand. It would be nearly impossible for you to have seen one.”

“Pardoning the fact that I did,” Pearl said.

Renee simply stroked her dog with a pleasant smile as her friends argued.