“You can.” Brenna got the glass, remembered ice as Jude had that Yank preference for it. “Why would you be afraid to ask?”

“Because you look as if you want to punch someone. I wouldn’t want it to be me.”

“It’d more likely be myself, or that blonde over there.”

“Eileen? Why?”

“To start, she has tits.” Brenna set the glass down, ordered herself to put the rest aside. “You look well tonight, Jude Frances. Well and happy.”

“I’m both. I’ve gained two more pounds. I can’t get my trousers hooked anymore.”

Brenna took orders and coin, continued to work the taps. “So you’ll make use of all those maternity clothes Darcy talked you into. Don’t you want a table—a chair for your back?”

“No, I’m fine here for now. I’m just staying long enough for the first set, and a bowl of soup.”

“You want a meal?” It came out as an accusation, making Jude stare.

“Well, I’d considered it.”

“You’ll want a table,” Brenna said briskly. If Jude ordered from a table it would be Darcy’s job to go into the kitchen.

“No, I don’t. I’ve gotten some bits and pieces about trouble between you and Shawn. You can’t deal with it, Brenna, if you can’t so much as open that door and shout out an order for soup.”

“Maybe I don’t want to deal with it.” When Jude only folded her hands on the bar, Brenna hissed out a breath. “You know, I’m finding married women a pain in the ass.” She finished building a Guinness, pulled a pint and a glass of lager, and exchanged them for the price. “You’ve got fairy tales on your brain,” she continued. “That’s not how it is here.”

“I might agree with you but for one thing. Well two things. Carrick and Lady Gwen.”

Brenna snorted and started another pair of pints. “They’ve nothing to do with me. I’ll tell you how I’d end a fairy tale,” she continued, thinking of Jack Brennan’s joke. “In mine, the princess doesn’t kiss the frog, but dines well on frog legs at end of day. I’ll get your damn soup.”

Spoiling for a fight, she strode to the door, shoved it open. Shawn was at the stove, a wooden spoon in one hand, a spatula in the other. The heat had his hair curling just a bit, and he needed a trim. He hadn’t bothered to shave, which was an odd thing for Shawn. But under the day’s growth on his jaw was unmistakable bruising.

Before she could speak, the warm, liquid voice of the blond singer drifted into the room. It didn’t matter if it was unreasonable. It didn’t matter if it was uncalled for.

It just pissed her off.

“I need an order of soup.”

“It’s hot and ready,” he said easily, because he gauged her mood. “I’ve my hands a bit full here, if you wouldn’t mind spooning it up yourself.”

“Everyone’s hands are full,” she muttered, but she got down a bowl. “What happened to your face?”