The Best Part of Me (2 page)

But the fact that she was related to Maura Hughes was a major hit against her. Beneath those tomboy clothes, she could have the body of a goddess and a golden pussy, and he still wouldn't touch her.

She took a step toward the end of the alley but stopped abruptly, her hands flying to her head again. Another breathy moan escaped her lips, and his cock came to life again in his pants.

Fuck him, why couldn't the woman whimper like an injured animal or something? Why did she have to sound like she was having a fucking orgasm?

The self-professed nice guy—who wasn't a very nice guy at all—led her down to the end of the alley, making sure not to walk too fast. She gripped the right side of her head and found a large bump. She noticed a little bit of blood on her fingertips when she pulled her hand away.

Quinn's escort was watching her.

“You'll survive,” he said in his irritatingly calm baritone. It took a few steps for her to register that he had a slight Irish accent. Not like top-of-the-morning-to-ya! Irish, but a subtle undertone that turned his deep, smooth voice into something more lyrical. It really shouldn't have surprised her. Half the population of Ballagh seemed to have come from the Emerald Isle.

Sexy Irish accent aside, she refused to seem like a helpless whimpering girl, so she ignored his insensitive comment. He'd been stealing glances at her since they'd started walking. But it did little to ease her frustration at the situation as the aching in her head increased with every step.

Of all the dark alleys to walk down, she had to pick that one.

She'd been in a hurry to get home with the rain coming in since she was carrying four large bags of plant and flower seeds from the local garden center, and getting them wet would've been disastrous. When she spotted a shortcut she'd decided to take it. She'd been walking along, minding her own business, and the next thing she knew, she'd been knocked hard into the side of a building and was falling hard to the ground.

She peeked over at the man walking beside her and scowled. He was lean but built like an athlete, his gray shirt damp with perspiration. Sinewy muscles showed plainly through his shirt as he carried the heavy bags of seed. He had a good five or six inches on her, her head only just clearing his shoulder. His face was striking but severe with his mouth pulled in a straight, thin line and his square jaw covered in stubble. It was too dark to tell what color his eyes were, but at the moment, they matched his jet-black hair.

If not for the absurdity of the situation, Quinn would have said he was extremely attractive in a scary, dangerous, rogue-ish sort of way.

“You don't need to walk me home,” she finally said, unsure of why she felt the need to break their uneasy silence.

“I'm gonna do it anyway.”

“How chivalrous of you,” she grumbled.

He made a noise that sounded like a chuckle, although his dark gaze held no humor whatsoever. “Trust me, I'm not chivalrous.”

“Obviously,” she muttered.

So the guy said he hadn't done it, which was swell and all, but what was with the prickly attitude? He acted like she'd ruined his night or something. Someone had run into her in the alleyway, and even if Mr. Nice Guy hadn't done it, she had no doubt that he had something to do with the battered state she was in.

They walked along the deserted road in silence; the only sounds came from the frogs croaking in a nearby pond and the rhythmic rustling of the plastic bags as they banged against his thighs.

Her head was aching, and she caught herself a couple times from tipping over into the hedges. She rotated her right shoulder, feeling the muscles strain from hitting the wall.

Quinn frowned. Shitty New England weather, nosy townspeople, and an aunt with a voice volume way louder than was natural. She could now add assault to her growing list of grievances against Ballagh. She hadn't even been here an entire week, and she was definitely ready to get out.

But what was the point? She had nowhere else to go.

The porch light of her aunt's farmhouse loomed up ahead. Quinn knew that she was late for dinner and would no doubt hear about it from her Aunt Maura. She could be a tough old broad when she wanted to, but Quinn could tell she was making an effort to be patient with her.

She doubted her aunt would show Mr. Nice Guy the same sort of patience though. She almost felt sorry for him for the tongue-lashing he was going to get.

She stole a sideways glance at the guy who was still walking quietly beside her. He could probably hold his own against anyone, including Maura Hughes. But to be honest, her pounding head couldn't take the yelling, so she slowed her pace and turned to him.

“You better let me take it from here.”

He just ignored her and kept walking, leaving her standing in the road. She tried to catch up to him without rupturing her brain with her hurried strides.

“Seriously, my aunt's gonna be pissed, so it's really best if you head back to wherever it is that you need to be.” He still didn't respond to her, just took the left turn into her gravel driveway.

Fine. It was his funeral.

They hadn't even taken two steps into the drive before the screen door flew open and her aunt stormed out of the house. She was hiking her nightgown away from her muddy shoes as she charged their way.

“Quinn Adler, you scared the living daylights out of me! I thought you'd been kidnapped or struck by a car! I've been pacing the house waiting for you to get home. Where the hell have you been?”

Her aunt grabbed her shoulders, pinning Quinn against her in a tight hug. Quinn winced when the jolt of the hug flew up her spine and resonated in her head like a cannon.

Maura Hughes noticed.

She held her niece's head between her hands and looked her over. Then she noticed her escort standing off to the side. Her aunt's eyes flashed back to her niece. “Quinn, what were you doing at the pub? Lord have mercy, I thought you had gone to the garden center!”

Maura stood with her hands on her hips. Mr. Nice Guy took that moment to walk the rest of the short distance to the porch to drop off the plastic bags with a loud thud.

“I wasn't at the pub. I was just walking by,” she replied, pulling her aunt's attention back to her.

“What happened to her?” Aunt Maura looked accusingly at the man. Quinn's eyes squeezed shut in response to her aunt's shrill voice. It felt like a power drill was twisting a long, thick screw into the side of her skull.

“Well, Mr. McKenna? Out with it!” Aunt Maura yelled, not giving him much time to respond. Her voice was so loud she was sure it echoed off the surrounding low-lying hills.

“She hit her head. I walked her home,” he replied evenly.

“I very much doubt that's the whole story.” Between her aunt's scornful shouts and the white glow of the porch light, Quinn was feeling a little sick.

“Believe what you'd like.” He shrugged as he turned away from them and started walking back out toward the road.

“Wait one second. I'm not done talking to you!” her aunt yelled at his retreating form. Although Quinn was sure he could hear her, he just kept walking out the way they'd come in, his gait steady and even.

Maura eyed him suspiciously as she grabbed Quinn's arm and pulled her toward the house. Quinn stumbled along behind her, trying not to fall as they quickly took the two porch steps. She looked back and saw Mr. Nice Guy was almost to the road. As he turned toward the pub, he threw them one last glance. He slowed momentarily as their eyes met. She felt like she should thank him for carrying her bags or say good night or something, but thought better of it since he really hadn't been all that nice to begin with. He narrowed his eyes before turning and walking into the darkness beyond the reach of the porch light.

Quinn was thrust into the house, the screen door slamming behind her as Aunt Maura pulled her into the kitchen. Her cousin, Rory, was sitting at the table eating. When he saw her, his eyes widened. He quickly stood up, sending his chair over with a loud thud.

“Jesus, Quinn! What happened to you?” He was at her side the next moment, looking at the lump on her head and the dried blood in her hair. Rory was a year younger than Quinn, who was twenty-seven. His messy copper hair hung down over his forehead, which was now creased with worry.

“Watch your language!” her aunt bellowed from the kitchen as she gathered some ice into a towel. “And Ewan McKenna is what happened to her.”

Rory's eyes flew to Quinn's face, his disbelief quickly turning to anger. “Ewan did this.” It really wasn't a question.

Quinn quickly shook her head and then ultimately wished she hadn't as she swayed on her feet. “No, Rory, he didn't. I was walking in the alley behind the pub. Next thing I knew, somebody slammed into me, and I hit my head on the wall. It was an accident.” She tried a smile to reassure him, but a sharp pain shot from behind her eyes.

“Now, now, my girl. Sit yourself down, and let's put some ice on that goose egg of yours.” Aunt Maura guided Quinn to a chair in the living room, placing a towel full of ice to the side of her head. Once she got her seated, Aunt Maura stood back and looked down at her, shaking her head. “You're gonna have quite the headache, my dear.” She crossed her arms. “That Ewan needs to stop talking with his fists. Always resorting to fighting, that boy.”

First of all, she already had a headache. Second, she'd never said anything about Mr. Nice Guy—or apparently Ewan—fighting. She wasn't sure what the hell he'd even been doing to be out behind the pub at the moment she'd been hit.

“I never said he was fighting anyone. He was just the nice guy who helped me out after whoever knocked into me ran off,” she explained, using his words.

Maura stiffened. “
Nice
is the last word I would use to describe that man.” She enunciated each word with disdain.

Rory was still standing where they'd left him by the door. He was watching Quinn, noticing every grimace on her face. He quickly turned and grabbed his jacket hanging on a nail by the door.

“I think I'll go have a word with McKenna.”

Quinn sighed loudly. Why was everyone making such a big deal about this? It was an accident.

“Rory, please don't worry about—” But Quinn stopped her plea as he was already gone, the screen door slamming shut behind him. At this point, she was too tired to do anything other than sink down into her chair and let the ice pack try to numb out the firing squad unloading round after round inside her head.

“Quinn, you stay away from that boy.” Her aunt stood above her, and from the look on her face, she wasn't joking.

She heard the patter of rain hitting the windows and was grateful the bags of seed were under cover on the porch. She hoped that Ewan had made it back to the pub before it'd started to pour.

“That boy is nothing but trouble.”

Quinn almost laughed aloud.
Boy
didn't even come close to describing Ewan McKenna, but she had a feeling the word
trouble
was much more accurate.

It was late morning and Ewan was still behind schedule. Thankfully his deliveries had come in on time, and he was properly stocked with enough stout to put the entire town of Ballagh into a drunken stupor.

As he pulled down the chairs from the tables and wiped them off, he noticed that the wooden surfaces were starting to look dull and would need a nice shine of varnish before too long. He had swept and mopped the floors earlier, trying to pick up the residue from the night before. Usually the townspeople didn't get too rowdy during the week, so the cleaning was minimal compared to what it would be tomorrow morning after a long Saturday night.

This was his favorite time of day. When the only sounds in the pub were his footsteps across the hardwood floor. When things were neat and tidy and in their places before the chaos started.

He was a walking, talking cliché—a true Irishman who ran a pub. Katie McMullen's, or Katie's as it was locally referred to, seemed to have been ripped from Irish soil and transplanted in this small town outside Boston. It was open every Monday through Saturday from 12:30 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. On Sundays he was open from 4:00 p.m. to midnight. The only exception was that Katie's closed on Christmas Day. And just like every small village pub in Ireland, Katie's was the meeting place for all residents. He could count on the same people filling the same seats at the bar every single day.

Ewan looked up at the clock and sighed. The doors were due to open in less than an hour, and he had a lot of shit that needed to be finished. The goddamn books had put him behind schedule. The accounting ledger had been off and he couldn't find the error. He'd pored over the invoices, utilities, and revenues but was still off by about thirty dollars. By the time he'd finally figured it out, two hours had gone by. He'd given Jenny a little too much in her last paycheck but decided to let it go. Hell, she definitely deserved it.

Jenny was his only employee. Ewan tended the bar, and Jenny ran drinks. She worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights and the occasional holiday. Every other day of the week, he was able to manage by himself.

Ewan was exhausted. After the visit from Remy last night, the little altercation in the alley, and a pub crowd he'd actually had to push out the door at 1:30 a.m., he hadn't gotten much sleep. Surprisingly, since last night, he'd thought very little about the fact that he'd been assaulted, but caught himself a few times thinking about Quinn Adler.

Upon returning to the pub, catching serious hateful looks from Jenny for his long absence, he'd gotten back to work. They'd been slammed, and he'd almost forgotten all about Quinn until her cousin, Rory, had blown through the door demanding an explanation. He'd given him the same details he'd given his forked-tongued mother.

And for Christ's sake, he knew he didn't have the greatest of reputations, but everyone should know him well enough to know he'd never lay hands on a woman. Especially one as fragile as Quinn Adler. For her sake, he hoped she'd put ice on her face last night before going to bed. She was probably going to have one hell of a shiner.