It was funny what an empty space on a parking lot could do to a person’s insides.
The inside of Marshall’s Amp was like stepping into a blue police box and coming out in another era. Or a movie set in the ’60s. White tile gleamed, throwing moonlight reflections up of the squishy spaceship chairs and sweeps of tables. If there was music playing, Rafe couldn’t hear it, but he caught snatches of guitar threading through the murmuring crowd noise. The splashes of color around the coffee shop were nearly as loud as the cop chatter filling it, and the smell of brewing roasts and sweet pastries made Rafe’s mouth water.
“Shit, there’s a lot of cops.” And only a few of them were Morgans.
He’d been about to search for Connor or Sionn in the sea of Irish and badges when a frill of eye-bleeding red hair appeared at someone’s shoulder, and Rafe stopped dead in his tracks. The exit was cut off from him. He’d gone too far into the shop and was too tangled in its crowd to beat a hasty retreat. Another flash of crimson, and Rafe’s belly turned to ice, melting slightly when he spotted the face beneath the hair.
“Fuck, thank God. That’s Kiki.” He exhaled hard, turning back around to grab some coffee, and smacked right into the stuff of nightmares—Brigid Finnegan Morgan.
Brigid fucking Finnegan Morgan. Bane of his existence and his de facto second mother.
To the casual observer, Brigid Morgan would appear to be a gloriously adult version of a Disney princess, sans bow and an enormous horse named Angus. Tall heels the height of a cat brought Brigid up to Rafe’s collarbone, and her gamine face was brightened by a brilliant, broad smile. A classic porcelain-skinned Irish beauty, Brigid Morgan looked as if she’d pour sweetness, light, and sugar into the life of someone she loved.
Fortunately, Rafe knew better, and he certainly wasn’t fooled by the cupcake-offering hellion standing right under his nose.
“Well, then, it appears the rumors of yer demise were greatly exaggerated there, Rafey boy,” Brigid purred, holding out a tall cup of coffee and a devil’s food cupcake. She was playing up her Irish, probably intent on luring him into a false complacency. “Obviously yer weak from not eating or summat, because if ye’d been well, ye’d have been at the Sunday table like the rest of the miscreants I have there.”
“Hello, Bridge.” He took the coffee and cupcake, then bent over. Kissing her cheek was safe, or so he thought right before she grabbed a hold of his right ear. Pinching and pulling at his lobe, Brigid drew Rafe down until they were nose to nose. “Ouch… ouch. Okay, let go. Leggo! What? Shit, it’s just dinner. I’m not even one of your kids—”
“I’ve been worried about ye, ye fecking fool.”
If anything, it felt like Brigid grew lobster claws on her hands and was about to give Rafe another piercing to go with the daith he already had in that ear.
“Did ye cook that brain of yers so much ye forgot the house number?”
“Leave the boy alone, love.”
Donal eased Brigid’s fingers from Rafe’s ear. Rafe refused to rub at it, even though it tingled as the feeling rushed back into the side of his head, but his pride could only carry him so far, and he stumbled forward when Donal slapped him across the back.
“It’s good to see ye here, Rafe. But the bride’s right. Yer missed up at the house.”
“I figured you didn’t want to start counting the silverware again.” Teasing usually dulled the ache under his breastbone, but this time it did nothing to lessen the burn across his chest. “Honestly, didn’t know if I was…. It’s been rough. Lots of doors slamming in my face.”
“Don’t give me that shite, brat. I know where ye live,” Brigid shot back. “Don’t think I won’t be coming to dig you out of your rock like the stubborn barnacle that you are. I’ll be having shellfish for dinner this week, and ye’ll be served right up on that plate alongside of it.”
“Secured building, Brigid.” He smiled back, matching her tooth for tooth. “Doormen and everything. You won’t be able to get to me.”
She snorted and poked his chest. “I either see ye this Sunday, or I’ll be sending the cavalry out for ye. I’m going to find Kiki. Later with yer nonsense.”
Donal watched his wife trot off, then drew Rafe into a steely one-armed hug. Leaning over, the older Irish man whispered, “I’ve got a badge, ye silly git. There’s not anywhere ye can hide in this city that I can’t find ye. So ye get yer ass to the house this Sunday and make that woman happy, or ye’ll be seeing the kind of hell and holy fire I can bring down on ye with just a knock on yer door. Understand me, son?”
“Got it.” Rafe nodded curtly. “Sunday. Six.”