Page 10 of Blame it on the Bet
Really?
That’s when I dazzle her with my witty, eloquent repartee.
“Uh…”
“You seem surprised by that, Mr. Pruitt,” she says, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“Truitt,” I correct her absently. “You’re Hennessy O’Halloran?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“I’m sorry…I thought you were a—you know—a man…”
“Clearly,” she replies, her lovely mouth quirking with some amusement.
Okay, this could go one of two ways. She’s either a daughter or a niece, or—as is more common in L.A.—she’s the obscenely young wife. Time to roll the dice.
“So, you’re Mrs. O’Halloran then?” I venture.
I can see in an instant that I’ve just come up snake eyes.
“What? No!” she says with a surprised laugh.“I’m Jack’s daughter.”
I feel strangely relieved to hear that she’s not the wife. “Nice to meet you. I wonder if I might come inside and have a word with your father, then? I’ve traveled a very long way to see him.”
She and the priest exchange a look that I can’t quite decipher.
“You can deal with me, Mr. Truitt,” she says, a little colder than just an instant ago.
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “Regrettably, this is something I can only discuss with the owner…”
“You’re looking at her,” she informs me flatly.
“Funny, you don’t look like a Jack. But, then again, you don’t look like a Hennessy, either,” I snark.
Suddenly, her face hardens, and there’s a brief, awkward beat of silence. Then she just turns around and goes back inside the pub without another word, leaving the good father and me to stare after her.
“I’m sorry. Did I say something?” I ask him quietly. The priest pats my shoulder.
“Son, Jack O’Halloran died just after Christmas. Hennessy is his oldest girl, and she’s running the place,” he explains quietly.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” I say, then smack a hand over my mouth for taking the Lord’s name in vain…again.“I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to…”
He offers me an amused smile and pulls the door open. “No worries, son. Come on inside and warm your bones with a good stiff drink. I’m sure Hennessy will be happy to chat with you after that.”
I nod absently and follow his direction. Dead? Well, I guess that explains the sudden radio silence on his end. But what that means for our deal…I have no clue.
Chapter Five
HENNESSY
O’Halloran’s Pub is dark. Dark paneling, dark wood floors. A huge, dark bar and matching dark barstools accented in dark burgundy. A half-dozen dark tables and chairs. And, all of these deeper hues might make the place depressing, it’s actually quite the opposite. The atmosphere of the place is warm and welcoming—the perfect spot to get out of the cold and into the cozy. We’re between lunch and dinner service right now, and there isn’t another soul in the place when Bryan Truitt follows the father inside. I level my best disdainful look on him from behind the bar.
“I’m really sorry,” he says sincerely. “Sorry for your loss and sorry for acting like a jerk?—”
“You had business with my father?” I cut in coolly, not interested in his platitudes.
He nods.
