“Shawn.” The man made her light in the head and wild in the belly. “I can’t go on like this much longer.”

“I can.” He was dreaming in her. “I could go on like this for years.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He chuckled, then drew back, pleased by the clouds of desire in her eyes. “What did you say to this Daniel?”

“Daniel who?”

His grin flashed, and her mind cleared. Swearing, she gave him a shove and jumped off the counter. “Damn you, Shawn, that’s what this was about. Just softening me up and fogging up my brain so I’d boost your ego a notch.”

“That was just a side benefit.” He got out the makings for a sandwich. “But the fact is, Brenna, I’ve an interest in knowing if you’re going out with the Dubliner again just now.”

“I ought to, just to slap at you.” She jammed her hands in her pockets. “That’s what Darcy would do.”

“Ah, but you’re not Darcy, are you, darling?”

“No, I’m not, and I haven’t the talent or the energy to juggle men like apples. I told the Dubliner I was seeing someone.”

Shawn glanced over, met her eyes. “Thanks for that.”

“What I’d like to know is when I’m going to be sleeping with someone.”

He added the spiced mustard he knew Mick O’Toole favored, and kept his brows lifted. “In all the years I’ve known you, never did I realize you had such an obsession with sex.”

“I wouldn’t be obsessed with sex if I was having sex.”

“Well, now, how can you be sure of that, as you’ve never had it with me?”

She wanted to pull her hair, decided to laugh instead. “Christ Jesus, Shawn, you’re enough to drive a woman to drink.”

“Go out and have Darcy pull you a pint on me,” he began, then his head came up again as he heard the sound of voices through the back door. “No, wait. Follow along here.”

“Follow what?”

“Ladle the soup.” He gave a wag of his hand toward the bowls. “And just follow along.”

The back door opened, and Aidan stepped back to let Finkle go through. “The kitchen’s Shawn’s territory, as you can see. We’ve added this and that as he’s felt a need for it. Oh, hello, Brenna. This is our friend and occasional employee, Brenna O’Toole. Brenna, Mr.Finkle from New York.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Clueless, Brenna put on a company smile and ladled the soup.

“Mr. Finkle’s here about adding a restaurant to the pub,” Shawn began.

“A theater,” Aidan said in a tone so sharp that Brenna nearly bobbled the bowl in surprise. “The theater, Shawn. You’re confused again.”

“Oh, aye, the theater. Sure and I can’t keep business dealings straight in my mind for five minutes at a run.”

“But you make a lovely soup.” Brenna gave him an encouraging look, one she might have sent to a slightly slow twelve-year-old. And hoped that was what he’d had in mind. “Would you care for a bowl of it now, Mr. Finkle, or have you eaten already?”