“I’m hoping the dance studio will offer me a full-time dance position. I’d like to teach more preschool classes.”
“There’s not much demand for full-time dance teachers in a depressed town with no jobs.”
Perhaps she should try to find a dance teaching job elsewhere, Clara thought. Perhaps Dublin. Mentally, she added the travel time, knowing the public transportation expenses would far outweigh any extra income.
She blew out a sigh. She’d prefer to open her own dancing school. However, she was twenty-nine, with bills and responsibilities, and owning her own business was far beyond her reach. For now, she’d focus on what she did best—getting by on what she earned and taking care of her brother.
Anna flicked on the car’s right blinker. “Wanna try the new coffee shop that everyone’s talking about? We have a couple hours to spare before Seamus expects you.”
Anna didn’t wait for a reply. She zipped across the bridge and straight into The Ground Café’s busy parking lot. She circled the lot twice, finishing up a string of curses at the lack of spaces before parking on the grass.
Clara adjusted the standup collar of her grey coat as the women exited the car. “Seamus was still buzzed when he woke at five this morning before dozing off again.”
Anna considered that information. “Any thoughts on how he’ll survive without you the next few hours?”
Clara managed a smile, although she didn’t respond.
They headed for the coffee shop, and Clara felt the hum of excitement before she saw the revitalized marketplace. Three vans with Channel Four News emblazoned on the doors, satellite dishes perched on their roofs, were parked across the street from the coffee shop. While the women took their place at the end of a long queue, Clara admired the spectacular renovations. The old buildings in the shopping plaza had been restored, the round cobblestoned sidewalk fitting together like a giant puzzle. Fresh golden-yellow and orchid flowers adorned the window boxes along a row of upscale boutiques. An art gallery exhibited locally painted Irish landmarks. Nearby, a children’s playground painted in bright primary colors featured a wooden fort, pirate ship, and swings. Children played noisily while their parents sat on adjacent park benches and sipped coffee.
The Ground Café’s well-known logo of a pot of gold, along with the statement “This coffee house runs on love, life, and laughter,” was prominently displayed above the main entrance. The door was partially opened while the unseasonably pleasant weather cooperated. Aromas of freshly brewed coffee, thick cream brownies, and Irish salad wraps enticed customers. Every few seconds, a sharp burst of relaxed hilarity sounded from inside the shop.
As they waited in the queue, Clara opened her purse and withdrew Danny’s simple white business card, outlined in gold trim. Embossed in black letters:
Danny Brady
The Ground Café
Beneath was a 1-800 phone number.
Why so fancy? And why wouldn’t Danny’s personal cell phone number be printed on the card, unless the company moved him from shop to shop? Was he not ambitious enough to become successful on his own, and was dependent on a coffee chain to earn a living? Except that he drove a Mercedes, she considered.
“I met the guitarist who sings here. He said he’d be working this evening,” Clara said.
“The guy who helped you with Seamus?”
“Yeh. He suggested I come by tonight.” Clara checked her watch and grinned. “We’re early.”
Anna rooted in her purse for her lipstick and then applied it, a flaming-red shade. “What’s his name? Is he good-looking?”
“Danny Brady. He’s tall and his hair is dark brown.” With a reddish tinge, Clara added to herself as a faint smile touched her mouth. How could she begin to describe his boyish features, the light sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose? Or the way he’d spoken in a quiet, reassuring brogue, reacting promptly and decisively?
Anna fished out her compact and applied coral-colored blush. “Is he single?”
“How would I know?”
“You were with him for several hours. What did you two talk about?”
“We discussed Seamus, and the rain, and … coffee.” And we sang together. Clara smiled, remembering Danny’s off-key harmony. She shook her head. So much for his musicianship. No wonder he couldn’t book his own gig. “He said he’d only be in town a few days.”
Anna studied The Ground Café’s coffee logo. “Danny Brady. That name sounds familiar, like I’ve read it somewhere.”
Clara shrugged. “It’s a common Irish name.”
The name Danny was so masculine, like a strong-shouldered Irish chap who’d grace the cover of any glossy men’s fashion magazine. He’d been dressed in a casual black shirt, ripped at the forearms, and wore snug-fitting worn jeans. Laughter had pulled at the corners of his full lips as he’d teased her about the incessant Irish rain. She’d felt her face flush when he’d smiled at her approvingly.
Do you have a song request? His clear blue eyes had reflected both warmth and devilment as he’d asked that.
“Will he recognize you?” Anna was asking.
“He should.” Hopefully she wasn’t that forgettable. Clara feigned absorption in searching through her purse for lip gloss and didn’t meet Anna’s gaze.
Clara wouldn’t dispute that Danny was good-looking, although there was no room in her life for romance, certainly not with a musician who traveled from town to town. Her abusive ex had cured her of falling for shiftless men who couldn’t hold a stable job.
Anna, one hand perched on a curvaceous hip, had decided to flirt with a man ahead of them in the queue. He sported a topknot of wooly grey hair and looked twice Anna’s age.
“We’ll be inside by noon,” the wooly-haired man assured Anna. He went on to talk about the gossip he’d heard about the owner of the chain. “It says in the tabloids that the owner has a lavish estate in every city in Ireland.” The man pointed at a candy-blue and yellow motorcycle. “And that’s his bodyguard’s motorcycle. A real burly fellow, I’ve heard. And they say the owner’s got wealthy women dangling all around him, but he never keeps any one on for long. He gets tired of them fast.”
Clara hung back and concealed a yawn behind her hand. Any woman, wealthy or otherwise, who was foolish enough to dangle over a man who was obviously a cold-hearted seducer deserved her deepest sympathy.
As the women neared the entrance, Clara opened her own compact and cast a critical gaze on her reflection. The late-night trauma on the bridge combined with the early-morning tending to Seamus had left shadows beneath her eyes. She adjusted her turquoise headband, securing her hair, dark roots to blonde tips, away from her face, and pinched her cheeks.
“Where does the guitarist live?” Anna transferred her attention from the wooly-haired man to Clara.
“Dublin.”
“Does he have a home there?”
Clara bubbled a laugh. “How should I know?”
“You never ask the right questions when you’re with men. You could’ve offered to show him our local pubs while he’s here.”
“I don’t go out much anymore.”
“Where’s that fun-loving sister I used to know, the woman who fancied a good time? Don’t let your ex ruin your future relationships. Remember, he’s safely locked behind bars.”
Chapter Four
The tang of fine gourmet coffee permeated every inch of space as the two women stepped through the brick entrance of the coffee shop. Lighting had been softened to a rosy tint, and piped-in Irish folk music, featuring tin whistle and drum, enhanced the welcoming setting.
The Ground Café, crammed with customers, was cleverly named, since the coffee shop was situated on the second floor of an old factory building. The first floor was comfortably furnished with couches, books and magazines, and free Wi-Fi. The women passed reclaimed wooden tables, each featuring a single, fresh pink rose in a glass vase. They rode the escalator, passing large wall murals depicting Ireland’s famed castles, cragg
y coastlines and windswept cliffs.
Anna cocked her head. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”
“I would’ve liked to see more local artists’ paintings featured along these walls,” Clara said.
“You always had an eye for decorating.” Anna stepped off the escalator and arrowed straight for the coffee and dessert counter.
A stunning young woman, whose name tag, pinned to her starched cotton blouse, identified her as Kathleen greeted Clara and Anna once they stepped up to the counter. Kathleen’s strawberry blonde hair was brushed into a classic top knot, her smoky-black eyes accented by shimmering gold eyeshadow. She wore a pair of black cotton slacks that hugged her rounded hips and long legs.
Behind Kathleen, a long list of beverages, from different-bean coffees, to Americano and cappuccino and lattes, hot or iced, were listed on a cork board. The glass shelves in the display case offered rows of bread and butter puddings and Irish coffee cakes. The cashier at the register poured free samples of the coffee of the day, an Irish latte described as buttery smooth.
“I’d like a tall iced mocha latte and a slice of orange Guinness coffee cake, thanks,” Anna said.
Clara scanned the list of teas. “A tall green mint tea, please.”
“Hot or iced?” Kathleen asked.
“Iced. And a bowl of fresh fruit.”
“You’re the thinnest woman in Farthing,” Anna teased Clara. “Aren’t you ready to relinquish that title and order something fattening like I did?” Anna swept a hand to her hips.
Whereas Anna’s midsection remained flat, her hips, to her constant dismay, were full and rounded.
Clara chuckled. “If I ever stopped teaching ballet classes, I’d gain weight as quick as you can say—” She gaped at the tall, attractive man striding directly toward them. “Danny Brady,” she finished.
His slightly tanned skin contrasted with his crisp white shirt and slim-fitting denim jeans. His piercing blue gaze targeted hers.
“Clara Donovan, you’re looking brilliant today. If I’d known what time you were coming, I’d have reserved a table for you. Did you wait long?” He grabbed both her hands. His fingers were long, the tips callused.
Her nerves fluttered. Unsettled, she retreated a step. “The queue moved fast.”
Slowly, she became aware that customers in the coffee shop were staring, and conversations had been reduced to a whispered hum. Bewildered, she attempted to wrest her hands from his grasp.
He smiled and subtly tightened his hold. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
That slow and engaging smile. He’d used it the previous evening when he’d mentioned he had a “thing” for Irish damsels in distress.
Anna crossed her arms. “Well, aren’t you two the cat’s pajamas? Apparently you know each other?”
“Danny is the man on the bridge I was telling you about. He helped me with Seamus.”
Clara carefully ignored the gawking, the waitresses who had stopped bussing tables to gape.
“I merely offered my support.” His gaze lingered on Clara’s face before moving to Anna. “And this lovely woman who looks nothing like you is …?”
“Anna is my older sister who was adopted from Portugal,” Clara replied. “Our parents adopted two girls from entirely different countries when Seamus was seven.”
“They must’ve realized that one Seamus was enough for any family.” Anna laughed. “He was mad as a ditch even then.”
“Mr. Brady.” Kathleen focused her beaming smile on him. “Does the counter meet with your approval?”
“Aye, the shop looks grand.” Apparently to ensure that Clara’s hands were still tucked in his, Danny glanced down.
Somewhere, a spoon clattered to the floor.
In the momentary silence that followed, Kathleen announced that their order was ready. Her eyes narrowed, she bestowed a frosty glance on Clara and then set the beverages, fruit, and coffee cake near the cash register. Danny instructed a waitress to bring their order, along with an assortment of sandwiches and desserts, to the third level.
Clara grinned at him. “I hope you’re well-compensated, if you’re some sort of manager as well as the guitarist. I’ve heard the owner of this company is very rich. Tell him to give you a raise.”
“I’ll pass that along.” He seemed impervious to the commotion he was creating. “Let’s go to the third floor where it will be quieter.”
“We haven’t paid,” Clara reminded him.
“I’ll take care of the bill.”
Anna’s eyebrows rose. “This boy’s a dear. Who said there’s no such thing as a free lunch?”
Danny kept hold of Clara’s hand as they weaved through the customers. Anna pulled out her cell phone and followed, continually glancing down at her phone.
A woman approached, and Clara immediately recognized her as Maeve Flanagan, the reporter from Farthing Bridge. “Mr. Brady, may I request a few minutes for an interview?”
Another reporter held out a microphone, chiming, “I’m from the Dublin Times. Is it true you’ll be offering franchises globally?” The woman peered at Clara. “And who is this woman?”
“No comment,” he said.
A round of flashes went off, and Danny held up a hand, shielding Clara’s face. He peered around. “Where’s Ian?” he asked no one in particular.
Clara blinked and yanked her hand from his. “Who’s Ian? And what’s this all about?”
“Lunch hour.” He shepherded Clara and Anna to a private door. “Watch your footing. There’s a tangle of wires from the cameramen.”
Puzzled by the odd behavior, Danny’s and the reporters’, Clara asked him what time he was performing that night. “We can return then,” she added.
He seemed confused. “I play guitar when the place is ready to close.”
But that didn’t make sense. She opened her mouth to tell him that if he was any good as a musician, he shouldn’t allow himself to be slated to perform at the end of the night. He’d never be discovered if no one ever heard him.
Anna spoke first, though. A slow, incredulous smile had spread across her face as she studied her phone and then gawked at Danny. Her ebony hair swung from side to side as she shook her head and planted a fist on her hip. “The cheek of ya, Mr. Danny Brady. When were you planning to tell my sister that you owned this shop, as well as forty-nine others?”
Chapter Five
Clara snapped her chin up at Danny. “You lied to me! Do you think—”
“Not here.” He shook his head as another round of camera flashes went off. He placed his hand on her elbow as he pushed open the private door, ushered them through, and then latched it behind them. He directed the women down a long corridor until they came to the lift.
Clara jerked free. “I’m going home.”
“You and your sister are riding the lift to the third level with me. Get in.”
“No!”
Danny exhaled heavily. He’d certainly made a bag of this, totally botching what he’d originally planned. He’d wanted to play guitar and sing for Clara, later in the evening when the coffee shop was quiet.
In contrast to Clara’s scowl, Anna beamed good-naturedly. “I’m certain he’ll offer a good reason for his deception. Won’t you, Mr. Brady?”
“Please call me Danny.”
“Won’t you, Danny?”
He nodded, then focused on Clara. “I can explain when we get upstairs.”
She drew back. “You’ll likely spin more lies.”
“I haven’t lied. Your brother was our concern last night, not me.”
“You lied by omission.”
The lift door pinged open.
“Come with me.” He captured her elbow again and guided her and Anna onto the lift. “We’ll talk in my boardroom. I deserve a chance to explain.”
Except he didn’t know what he’d say.
Earlier, while unloading supplies in the storage room with several of his employees, he’d scanned the security monitors and noticed Clara wal
king into the coffee shop. Without a word, he’d rushed to the front of the shop to greet her. Aye, this was unlike him because he never acted impetuously. However, he had good reason because the woman was Clara, his captivating non-Irish Irish damsel.
Since his newfound prosperity, he’d learned, much to his dismay, that the prestige that went with dating wealthy men was immensely important to most women.
Not the man. Just the wealth.
Clara hadn’t seemed to be one of those women. Consequently, he’d wanted to see her again, hoping the trappings of his success wouldn’t color her interest. He’d wanted to tell her who exactly he was when he felt the time was right. And, he’d assumed she’d come by later in the evening, as he’d suggested.
He sighed. So much for that assumption.
Clara stood in the far corner of the lift. When the doors opened, he and Anna stepped out. Clara remained rooted inside.
“The lift doesn’t go any higher. Are you waiting for something?” he asked.
She crossed her arms. “I presumed you were a guitar player.”
“I am a guitar player. I told you last night how much I love music.” He extended his hand, which she refused, although she stepped from the lift.
As the doors closed behind them, Danny’s bodyguard, Ian, a brute of a man, barreled down the hallway toward them. His leather jacket was partially zipped, as if he’d been in the process of putting it on. Danny had met Ian in a soup kitchen in Carlow when Ian had been dirty, full of anger, and off the rails. They’d formed a friendship, and Danny had sponsored Ian’s six-month stint in a rehab center. As a result, Ian was fiercely loyal, as well as brutally honest.
Danny had hired Ian as his bodyguard when he’d found that one disadvantage of being in the public eye was that customers were contacting him through email and phone, most of the time with complaints. Usually, those complaints were easily pacified, and Danny was always more than generous. He knew the value of one pleased patron was worth hundreds of pounds in advertising.
Oh Danny Boy: A Sweet Contemporary Romance Page 3