The Mighty Quinns: Ronan Read Free

over at the Visitor’s Center. I have a young man here named Ronan Quinn and he’s looking for a—yes, that’s what I said. He’s looking for a room. Well, that’s a shame. All right. You, too, Josiah.”
    She hung up the phone again and shrugged. “He doesn’t have any vacancies either. Newcastle really is your best option. It’s just over the bridge.”
    “I need to stay here, in Sibleyville,” he said. Ronan picked up his duffel bag. “Never mind, I’ll find a place on my own.”
    Maxine forced a smile. “Can I offer you a bit of advice? Don’t give them your name. In fact, use a different name entirely. But don’t dare tell anyone I gave you this advice. Run along now.”
    With a soft curse, Ronan walked outside, keeping his temper in check. What the hell was going on here? Did the town have something against the Irish? Or was it just because he was a single guy? From what he could tell, the town thrived on tourism so it didn’t make sense they’d turn anyone away. If he’d thought Sibleyville looked like a friendly place at first glance, he’d been sadly mistaken.
    He looked down at the card he held. Mistry Bay Oyster Farm. Contact Charlie Sibley. Would a potential employer feel the same? Especially one named after this very village? For now, he’d keep his name to himself until he knew for sure.
    “Maybe living a different life is going to be more difficult than I thought it would be,” he muttered.
    * * *
    “Y OU NEED TO scrape harder than that,” Charlotte Sibley said, running her hand over the rough hull of the skiff. “All this old paint has to come off. If you paint on top of it, it won’t stick.”
    Her fourteen-year-old brother, Garrett, looked up from the task she’d given him and rolled his eyes. “I know what I’m doing.”
    “Of course you do. You’re just not doing a very good job of it. You’ve been bugging Dad to let you work the boats on your own but you’re not willing to put in the effort that comes with it.” She ruffled his hair. “Come on, princess, put some muscle into it. We’re going to need that skiff this season.”
    “Who made you the boss of me? You’re not the boss of me, Charlie. Dad is.”
    “And if you haven’t noticed, Einstein, Dad is laid up with a bad back. His doctor says he can’t work for at least a month or two. He made me the boss of things, so that makes me the boss of you, too.”
    Garrett muttered something beneath his breath and went back to work. Charlotte smiled to herself. Now that she’d been put in charge of the Mistry Bay oyster farm, it had been a bit of a rocky ascension from worker to boss. Charlie knew the business from top to bottom, after working it for years with her family. And six years away hadn’t been long enough to forget the ropes. But being in charge meant that she’d had to rein in the members of the Sibley clan who preferred malingering to hard work.
    A knock sounded on the door of the boathouse and Charlotte strode over to the door. She’d been expecting a visit from an up and coming chef from Boston who was visiting the area. Chef Joel Bellingham had already made a name for himself in Boston with one highly rated restaurant and would soon be opening a second—a seafood place that might feature Mistry Bay oysters.
    She yanked the door open, but her greeting died in her throat as she came face-to-face with an impossibly handsome man, not much older than she was. He watched her with pale blue eyes, as she tried to regain her breath, his gaze holding hers. Charlie swallowed hard, then cleared her throat. “Hello! Come on in. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.” She’d met Bellingham over the phone earlier that morning and had somehow gotten the impression he was much older. This guy could be thirty, tops.
    “There was a sign above the door,” he said, glancing around.
    They stood there for an uncomfortable moment before Charlie could shake herself into action. “How was your trip?”