Ryan's Place - By Sherryl Woods Page 0,2
shifted toward the doorway where, indeed, the sight that greeted him was a blessing. A woman that beautiful could improve a man’s mood in the blink of an eye. Huge eyes peered around the pub’s shadowy interior. Pale, fine skin had been stung pink by the wind. Waves of thick, auburn curls tumbled in disarray to her shoulders. Slender legs, encased in denim and high leather boots, were the inspiration for a man’s most erotic fantasies. Ryan sighed with pleasure.
“Boy, where are your manners?” Father Francis scolded. “She’s a paying customer who’s obviously new to Ryan’s Place. Go welcome her.”
Casting a sour look at the meddling old man, Ryan crossed to the other end of the crowded bar. “Can I help you, miss?”
“I doubt it,” she said grimly. “I doubt all the saints in heaven can solve this one.”
Ryan chuckled. “How about a bartender and a cranky old priest? Will we do? Or is there someone you’re supposed to be meeting here? I know most of the regulars.”
“No, I’m not meeting anyone, but I’d certainly like an introduction to someone who can fix a flat. I’ve called every garage in a ten-mile radius. Not a one of them has road service tonight. They all point out that tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, as if I didn’t know that. I have a car loaded with food, thank you very much, and given the way I hate to cook, I flatly refuse to let it all spoil while I’m stuck here. Of course, since the temperature is below freezing, I’m sure I’ll have blocks of ice by the time I finally get home.”
Ryan wisely bit back another chuckle. “Do you have a spare tire?”
The look she shot him was lethal. “Of course I have a spare. One of those cute little doughnut things. Don’t you think I tried that? I’m not totally helpless.”
“Well, then?”
“It’s flat, too. What good is the darn thing if it’s going to be flat when you need it most?”
Ryan decided not to remind her that it probably needed to be checked once in a while to avoid precisely this kind of situation. She didn’t seem to be in the mood for such obviously belated advice.
“How about this?” he suggested. “Have a seat down here by Father Francis. I’ll get you something to drink that will warm you up, and we’ll discuss the best way to go about solving your problem.”
“I don’t have time to sit around.” She regarded the priest apologetically. “No offense, Father, but I was supposed to be at my parents’ house hours ago. I’m sure they’re getting frantic.”
“Did you—”
She frowned at him and cut him off. “Before you say it, of course I’ve called. They know what’s going on, but you don’t know my parents. Until I actually walk in the door, they’ll be frantic anyway. It’s what they do. They worry. Big things, little things—it doesn’t matter. They claim their right to worry about their children came with the birth certificates.”
Ryan had a lot of trouble relating to frantic parents. His own hadn’t given two hoots about him or his brothers. When he was nine they’d dumped the three oldest boys on the state, then vanished, taking the two-year-old twins with them. If there had been an explanation for their cavalier treatment of their sons, they hadn’t bothered to share it with Ryan or his brothers.
He could still remember the last time he’d seen seven-year-old Sean, crying his eyes out as he was led away by a social worker. Michael, two years younger, had been braver by far…or perhaps at five he hadn’t really understood what was happening to them. They’d never seen each other or their parents again.
Most of the time, Ryan kept those memories securely locked away, but every once in a while they crept out to haunt him…most often around holidays. It was yet another reason to despise the occasions when anyone without family felt even more alone than usual.
“You’re closing in an hour or so, aren’t you, Ryan?” Father Francis asked, snapping him out of his dark thoughts. There was a gleam in the old man’s eyes when he added, “Perhaps you could give the young lady a lift home.”
Before Ryan could list all the reasons why that was a lousy idea, a pair of sea-green eyes latched on to him. “Could you? I know it’s an imposition. I’m sure you have your own Thanksgiving plans, but I truly am desperate.”
“What about a cab? I’d be happy to call one, and you’d be