“I thought you liked him.”

“I do, yes. He just doesn’t give me a tug that way. But that could change,” she added cheerfully.

Lips pursed, Brenna studied the lipstick as she wound the tube up and down. “Have you ever wanted to sleep with a man who didn’t want to sleep with you?”

“I’ve never known a man who wouldn’t pull down his zipper at the least provocation. It’s the way they’re made, so you can’t blame them.”

“But there would be some, under certain circumstances, who just wouldn’t find a particular woman attractive in that way.”

“I suppose there are exceptions to every rule. But you’ve not to worry.” She gave Brenna a supportive pat on the shoulder. “Daniel finds you very attractive. I’m sure he’d be glad to sleep with you if you wanted.”

Heaving a breath, Brenna dropped the lipstick back in her bag. “Well, then, what a relief.”

She had a wonderful time. The best time she’d ever had in her life. A civilized meal in a civilized place with civilized people.

She’d been bored half to death but wasn’t ready to admit it.

With that block in place, she’d given Daniel her number and promised herself she’d go out with him again should he ring her to ask. He’d been polite and amusing, she reminded herself as she drove home from the pub, where she’d been let off after the date. He’d pretended to be interested in her work and had actually made the effort to find something they had in common. Which had turned out to be old American films, the noir type.

He had an extensive collection of them on video and had made casual mention of her coming up to Dublin, where they could have their own little film festival.

It might be something she’d enjoy. Just as she’d enjoyed the good-night kiss. He hadn’t been overly familiar with it, he hadn’t let his hands roam where they shouldn’t so early in an acquaintance.

A perfectly nice individual.

And damn Shawn Gallagher for ruining her palate for the taste of another man.

She slowed, then stopped as she came to his cottage, letting her lorry idle on the road while the fragile fog swam around it.

Oh, he was in there, all right, the snake in the grass. See there, the parlor light was on. He was likely playing at his music. If he’d had a window open, it would have drifted out into the night so she could hear it.

She wished she could.

Because knowing that made her feel soft, she deepened her scowl. She was tempted, sorely, to whip the truck into his street, march right in the door to give him a piece of her mind and the back of her hand.

But that would put too much importance on his earlier behavior. She’d rather shun him. The bastard.

What kind of man was it who could kiss you one night as if he’d happily spend eternity with his lips on yours, then behave like a furious father the next?