They spent the next couple of hours serving sandwiches. At night, orders of beer and wings ruled, but the lunch crowd preferred french fries and burgers. The crowd thinned to stragglers around two o’clock.

“Well, look at that.”

Hefting a new case of beer, Conor paused, tracking Pat’s gaze to the door. In the dim entryway, a slim blonde smoothed a hand over her sleek, fancy updo.

Oh, snap.

Conor wouldn’t have been more shocked if the pope walked through the door and ordered a boilermaker. Louisa Hancock, PhD, didn’t belong in his bar or his life, regardless of how many times she’d sneaked into his thoughts—and dreams—over the past six months. Besides her cool and prickly nature, which he perversely found to be a huge turn-on, he and Louisa were as different as NASCAR and yacht racing.

But she was here. In his bar. Every perfect, polished inch of her, as if his earlier thoughts had conjured her.

Like the first time they’d met, she was dressed in a conservative suit. The feminine cut of her skirt was just snug enough to give him plenty of ideas, and the silky drape of the fabric made him wonder if she wore fancy lingerie underneath. The less she showed, the more his hopeless imagination ran with the images. Where were the glasses that gave her that hot librarian look?

“Earth to Conor.” Pat nudged him, whispering, “Who is that?”

“That is the museum curator I met in Maine when I was helping Danny out.”

“She doesn’t look much like a curator.”

“No shit.” Conor dumped the beer on the counter.

Pat poked him in the back. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go see the lady.”

“Going.” Conor dusted his hands on his jeans. “You got the bar covered for now?” he asked.

Pat motioned to the nearly empty barroom. “You’re joking, right?” He nodded toward Louisa. “Get the hell over there and talk to her.”

Without further urging, Conor crossed the worn, old floor in a few long strides. Wishing he’d taken the time to shave this morning, or even yesterday morning, he held out a hand. “Louisa, it’s nice to see you.”

Sure, he’d known she’d moved to Philly.

Not that he was keeping track of her.

OK. He had been keeping track of her. Ugh. He even went to the Livingston Museum a few weeks ago, but he’d left without asking to see her. They had nothing in common, and despite the fun he’d had teasing the hell out of her, his acute and inexplicable attraction to Louisa was irritating.

Close-up, she wasn’t quite as perfectly presented as usual. A few locks had escaped the uptight bun his fingers always itched to unravel. What would she look like with all that hair down, tumbling over her shoulders?

“Louisa?”