The Mighty Quinns: Ronan Read Free Page B

particularly hungry.
    When she wasn’t talking, she was nervously sipping champagne, trying to keep herself from spinning right out of the room. He finally held up his hand at a dozen, then drew a deep breath. “They were really good. Thanks.”
    Really good? Usually her oysters received more than a “good.” Exquisite, delicate, satisfying, better than sex. Really good wasn’t that good at all. “Do you have any questions?” she asked.
    “Just one. Does this mean I have the job?”
    She sent him a quizzical look. “Job? I—I don’t understand.”
    He reached into his pocket and pulled out an index card, then held it out to her. “I found this over at the visitor’s center. It said you were looking for help?”
    A gasp slipped from her throat. “Wait a second. You’re not Chef Joel from Boston?”
    “Nope. I’m Ronan. Ronan Smith from Seattle. I don’t mind working hard. I’ll be here early and stay late. You tell me to do something and it’ll be done.” He gazed at her silently.
    Charlie felt a shiver skitter down her spine and she had to force herself to look away. She cleared her throat. “You ate a dozen oysters,” she said. “Did you think that was part of the interview?”
    “I just thought you were showing me the product. And I was hungry.”
    She really couldn’t blame him for the mix-up. She’d been caught off guard from the moment she set eyes on him. The fluttery feeling in her stomach and the buzzing in her head had made it impossible to think clearly. Maybe if she’d had her wits about her, she might have seen his confusion sooner.
    “So, do I have the job?” he asked again.
    “Come with me,” Charlotte said. She had just posted the job yesterday. Considering the other employment opportunities available, she hadn’t expected such a quick response. Nor such an interesting prospect. But here was guy who set her heart racing and she had a perfectly good reason to keep him around a little longer.
    “The job is hard, with long hours. The pay isn’t great, but with the hours you work, you should make a decent living. Are you going to have a problem with that?”
    “Nope,” he said as he followed her downstairs.
    She led him over to the inverted skiff. “This is my brother, Garrett. Garrett, this is Ronan Smith. He’s interviewing for the job. Give him your scraper.”
    “No problem,” Garrett said, handing Ronan the paint scraper. “I’m going home, Charlie.”
    Charlotte didn’t argue this time. She was glad to be rid of her little brother. She certainly didn’t need him watching her fall all over herself around the gorgeous new employee. “Cut the lawn when you get home. You know Dad can’t do it and Mom is too busy.”
    “Yeah, yeah,” Garrett said.
    “Teenagers,” she murmured as they watched Garrett walk out the door. When she turned back to Ronan, she caught him staring, his blue eyes direct and intense.
    “You’re Charlie?” he asked. “You’re the boss?”
    “Yes. Charlotte. Charlie. Sibley.”
    “I was expecting a man.”
    “And I was expecting a chef,” she countered.
    “What do you want me to call you?”
    She caught a look in his eyes that appeared to be amusement. Was he just toying with her? Or had she completely lost control of this interview. “You don’t have the job yet.” She picked up the paint scraper and safety glasses and handed them to him. “If you want the job, show me what you can do with this scraper first.”
    He nodded. And for the first time since they met, he smiled. To Charlie, it was as if the morning mist had suddenly parted and the sunshine shone down. He was even more attractive, if that was possible.
    Men who looked like Ronan Smith usually learned to wield their charm early on. By the time they reached their teens, they knew the effect they had on the opposite sex and used it to their advantage. But Ronan seemed reluctant to use his God-given advantages.
    He set to work on the skiff, a shower of paint chips flying off