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  PRONE TO MALARKEY

  Shenanigans & Malarkey Book 2

  CARLY KEENE

  THISTLE KNOLL PUBLISHING

  Copyright © 2020 Carly Keene. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is that short excerpts may be quoted in a review.

  Cover designed by DesignRans at Fiverr.com.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For the Kellys

  Bright-headed, or those who frequent the church.

  Turris fortis mihi Deus: God is my strong tower.

  Azure two lions rampant combatant argent, chained or, supporting a tower triple, turretted of the second.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  Epilogue

  Thank you!

  About the Author

  Also by Carly Keene

  ONE

  Jennifer

  There’s a sign on the brick wall near the door saying “KELLY’S PUB, FOUNDED 1984,” and I’m surprised the pub is that new because the building itself is old. The other businesses on that street are a little bodega, a shoe repair place, a photography studio, a bakery, and a coffee place. Every other building on the street is residential; the houses are those long narrow ones you get in Baltimore and other East Coast towns with blue-collar history. It feels new to me, but familiar.

  I walk inside.

  I hadn’t expected it to feel this homey. It’s got that real Irish pub feeling, like the patrons come in to nurse a pint, have a gossip, play darts and socialize, rather than the desperate feeling you get in a lot of bars, with people coming in to get blotto and find their next one-night stand. I like that.

  I go up to the bar and sit down, shoving my duffel bag under the bar stool. The bar itself is really nice, a long wooden counter polished by countless hands, and I’d bet that somebody hauled it out of a much older bar somewhere else. I’m a little underdressed for the place in my tough-girl carpenter pants and combat boots, but the other people in the place don’t seem to be giving me any judgy looks. It’s mostly some older guys, with a younger couple flirting with each other at a small table. She’s got a cocktail and he’s got what looks like a whiskey. The old guys are drinking draft beers: lagers and Guinness and I think I see a traditional Irish red too.

  The barkeep nods in my direction with the universal “be with you in a sec” signal while he’s putting bottles in the icer.

  He’s way cute. I mean, damn cute. I mean, panty-dropping cute. His green Kelly’s Pub t-shirt clings to his chest and biceps, and his jeans cling to his taut ass, and holy shit, I never have this kind of reaction to a guy. Well, almost never.

  Okay, truth: so there was Pauly LoGubbio back in high school, who had soft ringlets and a sweet smile, and while I was under the influence of the adorable hair, I got talked into sharing my homework every day of geometry class.

  And later, there was Matt Felson, whose big blue eyes talked me into going to prom with him. He wasn’t a super-popular kid, but he was an athlete, and I thought I’d finally made it into the normal-kid crowd, with a normal kid who really liked me for me. Instead, I got talked out of my cherry in the back of his dad’s car. And then on Monday, I saved him a seat at lunch, only to have him walk right past me like I didn’t exist. He never spoke to me again.

  I’d like to say I wised up about men after that, but not really. It took me a couple more years to lose my naivete about the things that guys say when all they want is to get in my pants. What with all the losers I seem to attract, I’m extra-careful these days to avoid the ones who over-promise, because they always under-perform.

  Okay, so lately I never have this kind of nipple-perking reaction to a guy. But I’m sure having it now, because up close the cute bartender has a great smile and deep dimples and his eyes are light brown, like the color of cream sherry in a glass, and wow, I did not expect my ladyparts to be waking up this suddenly. I’ve had a good celibate run over the past three years, ever since I started working for Billy and learned a little respect for myself. I’m used to taking care of my own needs.

  But dammit, I can’t help wondering if Cute Barkeep could maybe take care of them for me.

  This was all Billy’s idea, that I should come to Baltimore and help out the son of one of his fellow pub-owner buddies, while they got through a sudden shortage of bartenders caused by a big fancy new bar opening up downtown and poaching their help away. But it may not work at all if I have to work in close proximity to this guy. I might not be able to resist him, and personal relationships in a hospitality environment seem to cause a lot of trouble. I mean, the mushroom cloud of bad feelings that comes when the relationship eventually sours can ruin a bar overnight. I’ve seen it.

  Still, it’s supposed to be temporary. A couple of months, until I can help train a replacement or two.

  “Temporary, unless you like it and you want to stay,” Billy told me last week. “I thought of you because you have such solid skills, and you’ve been talking about moving out of Philly for months. But now, listen: if you don’t think it would suit you, I’ll either find somebody else or I’ll tell Finnan’s boy it didn’t work out. Up to you, hon.”

  Billy’s been good to me. I worked a couple of other bars before I went to work at The Harp, and when you find a good boss, you’ll want to stay put. Billy’s a good boss. He pays fair, schedules fair, treats me fair. He’s taught me a lot, and he and his wife have been really good to me. Especially after my Nonna died last year. It was tough, because she was all the family I had.

  “What can I get ye, lass?” Cute Barkeep’s Irish accent and light, musical voice isn’t helping the state of my panties.

  But I’d like to see how authentic this place is, and a good way to judge that is to order a basic drink that has to be prepared a certain way. “Pint of Guinness.”

  He grins at me. “Good taste. I like that in a woman.” I watch him pull the pint, also checking for the cleanliness of the bar. It appears to be good. The pint glass is the right kind of glass, and Cute Barkeep does things right, filling the glass three quarters full and letting it rest before topping it up and letting the head settle completely before bringing to me with another flirty grin.

  Damn those dimples.

  The Guinness is excellent. Before I can say so, Cute Barkeep says, “All on your own today? Not working?” He’s just making conversation.

  “Not yet. I’m new to the city.”

  “Oh?” He gets out two lemons and cuts them into wedges. “Can I be helpin’ ye find anything at all?”

  “I’m here for a job, and I do need to find a cheap place to live. Got any suggestions?”

  He thinks a minute. “Well. It’s a bit early for the college students to be looking for summer sublets, but there’s the odd flat over a business too. How picky are you?”

  “Not.”

  “Well, that’s good. Shall I show ye around later? I get off at ten.”

  Still flirting. I remind myself not to be susceptible, but the warm sherry eyes and the grin and the dimples are making my heart beat a little faster. Not to mention the biceps. And the good ass. “Might be hard to get a good idea of things at night.”

  “Tomorrow, then? I’m off ‘til s
ix.”

  Calm down, ovaries. “We’ll see.”

  “I’m Macallan. Mac.”

  “Jennifer. Jen, actually.” We shake hands, and my whole body gets a thrill from the skin contact.

  “My favorite name.” That grin again. “And where would ye be looking for a job, Jen?” He puts the lemon wedges into a glass dish with a lid, and sets it in the chiller.

  Did nobody tell him I was hired sight unseen? “Uh, here.”

  Eyebrows up. “I can get you an application. Waiting tables or tending?”

  “Tending,” I say. “Certificate from Mixology Inc in Philly, four years experience.”

  “Yeah, we’re a bit short of ‘tenders around here for now. Still, I should warn you my brother’s picky about them. It’s an intensive interview.”

  “Already got the job. My former boss recommended me to somebody named ‘Finnan Kelly’s boy.’”

  The grin slides off his face. “That’d be me.”

  “I thought this was settled, and all I’d have to do is show up. I’m Jennifer Romano. From The Harp in Philly. Ring a bell now?”

  He shakes his head, frowning. “Nobody said a word to me about a new hire.”

  This is not the way to begin a relationship. A working relationship, I mean.

  Never mind the physical attraction.

  TWO

  Macallan

  It’s a Wednesday afternoon. We’ve got the usual afternoon regulars, plus a few more patrons, but it’s slow. I’m thinking about getting a head start on the inventory of frozen stuff, just to help Seanan get a jump on the office work.

  Then she comes in.

  If I was Raymond Chandler, I could write it all hard-boiled film noir style: When she walked in on her long, spectacular stems, a wedge of sunshine followed her, but she was the shadow.

  Or something like that.

  I can’t actually tell what her legs look like, because she’s wearing tan carpenter twills and big shit-kicker boots, and a denim jacket over a purple shirt. I take another look at her face, which is heart-shaped and delicate under her cap of spiky dark curls. She’s wearing smoky eye shadow and her eyelashes are about a mile long, and her eyes are dark as her hair. No lipstick on that sexy full mouth. Her clothes and her hair say “tough and tomboyish,” but all that really does is make you notice her femininity.

  Damn, she’s pretty.

  Turns out she’s just moved to Baltimore to get a job, so against my usual policy with hot patrons, I offer to show her around a little. We chat.

  She slips the jacket off her shoulders, slinging it across the back of the barstool. The purple shirt is a crewneck tank top, and it shows off her arms. They’re toned and strong, and she’s got a lot of tats down them. Flowers, some lines of script, an eternity symbol. Under the tank is a nice rack, too.

  Not only is she pretty, she’s smokin’ hot. Below my waist, my dick pulls a yum, who-dat move. I flirt a little more.

  And then she drops the bombshell that she’s supposed to be working here.

  Behind the bar.

  With me.

  I get a little defensive with her immediately, because it feels like ever since Mam and Da pulled up stakes here and left Seanan in charge, I’m out of the loop. I’m not running the place, but Seanan is. All I do is pull pints and flirt, and lately I’m working crazy hours to make up for losing three bartenders to that new fancy place downtown. We’ll get replacements eventually, I know, but Seanan is really picky about the barkeeps we hire, so for now we’re making do with some temp barbacks to clear empties and wait tables, and I’m working double shifts more than single 8-hour ones.

  This being Kelly’s, St. Patrick’s Day is going to be insane. We really do need more mixologists on hand, but I don’t know if I can work with this one. I want to fuck her too badly to be bumping into her repeatedly at the icer on a busy Friday night.

  What the hell was Seanan thinking, taking on a new ‘tender without even interviewing her?

  “What makes you sure you want to work here?” I demand.

  Her pointy little chin goes up. “I’m not. I understood that I was doing somebody a favor. Look, if you’re not going to take me on, then somebody owes me bus fare back to Philly, and I’ll just have to hope my landlady hasn’t already rented my room.”

  Shite.

  I yank my phone out and call my brother.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says instead of hello. “I meant to be back by now.”

  “When were you going to tell me about the new ‘tender?” I demand.

  Two seconds of silence.

  “Oh. Right. Billy Farraday, remember him? Da’s mate in Philadelphia. Anyway, Billy found us somebody.”

  Another two seconds of silence, during which I bite my tongue really hard to not curse him up one side and down the other.

  “What, is she there already?”

  “You got it.”

  “Oh good. Does she seem nice?”

  “I guess.” She’s hotter than hell and my dick is on permanent alert.

  “Why are you shirty?” Seanan asks. “Because I made a decision without you? Look, Da left me manager because I have most of a degree in Hospitality. The half a B.A. you managed to scrape up is in English Lit. You tell me why I’m in charge.”

  “You didn’t interview her,” I point out.

  “Well, get her to mix a couple of basic cocktails and pull some drafts. It’s what I’d do in a practical interview, anyway. And if she’s not suitable, well, I guess we’ll just have to wing it.”

  Grand. Also, now I’m going to have to do damage control. “Thank you very much,” I say, in the polite tone my brother will recognize as a restrained insult, and ring off.

  This is not how a relationship, working or romantic, should begin. Especially when every time she breathes, I’m desperate to throw her down on the bar and fuck her blind.

  “Okay,” I say, turning back to the walking temptation that is Jennifer Romano and lifting the bar flap for her, “come on through and pull me a proper pint of Guinness.”

  She does it. It’s perfect. Her martini and her Old-Fashioned are also impeccable. She knows what she’s doing.

  “So do I have the job?” she asks, arms crossed under that excellent bosom.

  I take a deep silent breath. “How long, did they say?”

  “Six weeks, two months, something like that.” She tilts her head, challenging me. “Or I might stay most of the summer, if I like it.” And then, the very next second, she’s looking past my head with an expression that seems like worry, and her voice gets quiet. “If I can find a cheap place to stay.”

  I hadn’t been entirely truthful with her before. March is a tough time to find an available apartment here. It can be done, if you have plenty of money and/or leisure time to look. Jennifer’s got neither.

  I don’t know where the idea comes from, and the second it pops into my mind I know it’s a bad one, but I can’t stop myself saying it. “Oh, don’t worry about that, lass. You’re staying in the guest room upstairs.” She blinks. I embellish. “You’re helping us out. Free rent is part of your compensation.”

  Seanan is going to shit a brick.

  Hell, I might, too. Six weeks of this screaming hot chick with her tattoos and her tits and her very kissable mouth staying in the bedroom next to mine. Sharing a bathroom. Not touching her.

  She looks extremely relieved. “Oh. Billy didn’t tell me. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Kind of you to get us out of a bind.”

  What have I done?

  THREE

  Jen

  Seanan Kelly, the manager, gets back to the pub and thanks me eight million times for getting them out of a jam. Mac Kelly leads me up the stairs to the apartment over the pub. I didn’t realize that I’d be staying here, and while on the one hand I’m grateful I won’t have to find a place and then pay for it, on the other hand . . .

  I eye the firm, grabbable ass going up the stairs in front of me. Then I look up a li
ttle higher and eye the broad shoulders. He smells good, too, lavender and vanilla and something woody. Cedar? I sniff again. Mmm.

  Shit, I’m already too close to him. I don’t know how I’ll make it six weeks without grabbing that ass, and then all hell will break loose behind the bar. Not to mention, I’ll get fucked over by yet another cute, charming guy.

  I always do. No reason this time should be any different.

  After his little nobody-told-me snit earlier, he’s back to charming me. Calling me lass, giving me little compliments, admiring my mixology skills. I mean, I’m not claiming it’s not working, because it’s hard to resist a guy this handsome smiling at me and saying nice things that appear to be true. It’s just that I know he’s just trying to make up for the rough start to our relationship.

  Working relationship, duh.

  He insisted on carrying my bag upstairs, too. I wanted to protest, because I didn’t survive twelve years of foster care without learning that it’s best to keep your hands on your own stuff, or you’re likely to lose it. But I try making nice, too, and I let him carry it.

  Plus, that mofo is heavy. It’s just clothes and personal care items, because another thing I learned in foster care was to limit keepsakes. They get lost or misplaced or stolen. I’ve got memories of Nonna in my head. But that bag holds everything I own.

  The apartment is nice. Same wood paneling as downstairs, same brick back wall. Same warm cream paint and framed photographs, although the ones upstairs are clearly family. There’s a nice shot of a tall fair man holding a brown-haired toddler, and his dark-haired wife with an older, blonder, boy in her lap. I look closer and see Mac Kelly’s dimples on the toddler.

  “I’ll get you a key,” Mac says from in front of me as we go down a long hall. I stop staring at the photos, and my gaze latches right back on his beautiful tautly-muscled ass. He suddenly stops, and I nearly run into his back. “Here’s your room. I hope it’s all right. The bed’s a bit firm, and it’s a wee bit squashed in here, but it’s bigger than my room.” He turns and beams his dimpled smile at me, shrugging his shoulder. “I suppose you could switch with me, if my room suits you better.”