“I’m sure it’s about.” With a wink for Rogan, Maggie took Shannon’s arm and led her away. “But it happens I have the number right in my head.”

“You’re so clever, Maggie. I noticed that about you right away—even when I wanted to punch you.”

“That’s nice. You can sit right here in Rogan’s big chair and talk to Murphy all you like.”

“He’s got an incredible body. Murphy, I mean.” Giggling, Shannon dropped into the chair behind Rogan’s library desk. “Though I’m sure Rogan’s is lovely, too.”

“I can promise you it is. Here, you talk into this end and listen in this one.”

“I know how to use a phone. I’m a professional. Murphy?”

“I haven’t finished calling yet. I’m an amateur.”

“That’s all right. It’s ringing now. There’s Murphy. Hi, Murphy.” She cradled the phone like a lover and didn’t notice when Maggie slipped out.

“Shannon? I’m glad you called. I was thinking of you.”

“I’m always thinking of you. It’s the damnedest thing.”

“You sound a bit strange? Are you all right?”

“I’m wonderful. I love you, Murphy.”

“What?” His voice rose half an octave. “What?”

“I’m so buzzed.”

“You’re what? Shannon, go back two steps and start again.”

“The last time I was a freshman in college and it was Homecoming and there was all this wine. Oceans of it. I got so awful sick, too. But I don’t feel sick at all this time. I just feel . . .” She sent the chair spinning and nearly strangled herself with the phone cord. “Alive.”

“Christ, what has Maggie done to you?” he muttered. “Are you drunk?”

“I think so.” To test she held up two fingers in front of her face. “Pretty sure. I wish you were here, Murphy, right here so I could crawl in your lap and nibble you all over.”

There was a moment of pained silence. “That would be memorable,” he said in a voice tight with strain. “Shannon, you said you loved me.”

“You know I do. It’s all mixed up with white horses and copper broaches and thunderstorms and making love in the dance and cursing at the moon.” She let her head fall back in the chair as the visions flowed and circled in her head. “Casting spells,” she murmured. “Winning battles. I don’t know what to do. I can’t think about it.”

“We’ll talk it through when you get back. Shannon, have you called me from across the entire country, drunk on—what are you drunk on?”

“Champagne. Rogan’s finest French champagne.”

“Figures. Drunk on champagne,” he repeated, “to tell me for the first time that you love me?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. You have a wonderful voice.” She kept her heavy eyes closed. “I could listen to it forever. I bought you a present.”

“That’s nice. Tell me again.”

“I bought you a present.” At his frustrated snarl, she opened her eyes and laughed. “Oh, I get it. I’m not stupid. Suma cum laude, you know. I love you, Murphy, and it really messes things up all around, but I love you. Good night.”

“Shannon—”

But she was aiming for the phone, with one eye closed. Through more luck than skill, she managed to jiggle the receiver in place. Then she leaned back, yawned once, and went to sleep.

Chapter Twenty

“And the next morning, not a stagger, not a wince.” While she sipped tea in Brianna’s kitchen, Maggie shot Shannon an admiring glance. “I couldn’t have been more proud.”

“You have an odd sense of pride.” But Shannon felt an odd flare of it herself. Through luck or God’s pity, she’d escaped the punishment of a hangover after her romance with Dom Pérignon.

Twenty-four hours after the affair had ended, she was safely back in Clare and enjoying the questionable distinction of having a hard head.

“You shouldn’t have let her overdo.” Brianna began to swirl a rich and smooth marshmallow frosting over chocolate cake.

“She’s a woman grown,” Maggie objected.

“And the youngest.”

“Oh, really.” Shannon rolled her eyes at Brianna’s back. “I hardly think that’s an issue. You and I were born in the same year, so . . .” She trailed off as the full impact of what she’d said struck. Her brows knit, and she stared down at a spot on the table. Well, she thought. This is awkward.

“Busy year for Da,” Maggie said after a long silence.

Shocked, Shannon looked up quickly and met Maggie’s bland eyes. The sound of her own muffled snort of laughter surprised her nearly as much as Maggie’s lightning grin. Brianna continued to frost her cake.

“An entire bottle, Maggie,” Brianna went on in a quiet, lecturing tone. “You should have had more care.”

“Well, I looked after her, didn’t I? After she’d passed out in the library—”

“I didn’t pass out,” Shannon corrected primly. “I was resting.”

“Unconscious.” Maggie reached over to pick up her niece when Kayla began to fuss in her carrier. “And poor Murphy ringing back like a man possessed. Who talked him out of hopping in his lorry and driving all the way to Dublin if it wasn’t me?” she asked Kayla. “And didn’t I take her upstairs and see that she ate a bowl of soup before she slept the rest of it off?”

Her ears pricked up. “There’s Liam awake.” She passed the baby to Shannon, then went through to Brianna’s bedroom, where she’d laid him down for a nap.

Brianna stepped back to judge the frosting job before she turned. “Other than last evening, did you enjoy your trip to Dublin?”

“Yes. It’s a lovely city. And the gallery there—it’s a religious experience.”

“I’ve thought so myself. You’ve yet to see the one here in Clare. I was hoping we could all go, a kind of outing. Soon.”

“I’d like that. Brianna . . .” She wasn’t sure she was ready to ask. Far less sure she was ready for the consequences.

“Is something troubling you?”

“I think—I’d like to see the letters.” She said it quickly before her courage evaporated. “The letters my mother wrote.”