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C olin stared out the window as the Lear jet descended through the gray skies of Dublin. Patches of green were visible in the distance, but were quickly eclipsed by patches of dense fog as the plane got closer to the tarmac.

“It’s lovely to be home,” Emma sighed as the wheels touched down.

Aidan glanced out the window. “‘Lovely’ isn’t a word I’d use to describe this weather, Em. It’s damn depressing. Let’s go to Spain, get some sun.”

“Sorry, lad, but Emma’s on company time now.” Colin shuffled the papers in front of him into a neat pile and handed them to Emma. “Hiring you was one of my more brilliant decisions.”

She grinned. “I agree with that.” She placed the papers into her bag and snapped her laptop shut.

“I am so ready for a cup of tea. Should we stop at a shop in the city before heading out?” Colin’s phone started ringing before she finished her sentence.

He held it up to show them the caller, and Emma laughed.

“Not even a moment on the ground and he’s already calling you! ”

“He’s our ride,” Colin explained before answering. “We’ve landed,” he said into the phone.

“I’m aware of that,” Reilly O’Malley, his cousin many times removed, replied dryly. “I’m in contact with Les.”

“Of course you are. Private lessons going well?”

Reilly loved to fly, and for years, each time he traveled on Aidan’s private jet, Les, Aidan’s pilot, would have to kick him out of the cockpit. In an effort to save his sanity, Les finally offered Reilly lessons, which he accepted as eagerly as a schoolboy.

Colin could almost hear Reilly’s shrug. “I haven’t crashed, so there’s that. I’m waiting outside the terminal. Tell Emma I can’t wait to see her, aye?”

“Ballbuster,” Colin chortled. Reilly enjoyed nothing more than to irritate Aidan—the two fought like brothers.

Poor Emma was usually the one breaking it up—she adored Reilly, and was eternally grateful to him for bringing her husband back to her when they’d been separated.

Reilly loved to flirt with her, and though she didn’t flirt back, it was enough to set Aidan’s teeth on edge.

Colin had a much cooler head than Aidan—he was more laid back in general.

Reilly had yet to rattle him; they’d been through so much together over the last twenty years that Colin wasn’t sure Reilly could shock him even if he tried.

“O’Malley’s waiting for us,” Colin reported as they gathered their belongings. He checked his watch and grimaced. “You’ll have to convince him to stop for that tea.”

“I loathe the jet lag, too,” Emma said sympathetically as Colin stifled a yawn. She tossed Colin an easy smile, her hair bouncing over her shoulder as she turned towards the exit. “When’s your next flight?”

“Tomorrow night,” he replied, following her and Aidan.

“Where are you headed, Mr. O’Rourke?” Les asked, standing in front of the cockpit .

“London,” Colin replied grimly. “Possibly my least favorite place.”

Les drew his brows together. “If your plans allow for it, the jet has some scheduled maintenance at Heathrow. I leave tomorrow morning, however.”

Colin shook his hand briefly. “I’ll gladly hop on board your flight, mate.”

Les told him the flight time, and Colin disembarked behind the MacWilliams, making a mental note to cancel his commercial flight. He heartily wished he could stay in Ireland longer than a night.

He reconsidered for a moment, though, as he heard Reilly and Aidan bickering. He grinned.

Nothing ever changed with those two.

Ellie gently placed her book down and glanced out the picture window facing the bay.

Boats bobbed in the water as the late-afternoon sunlight glinted off the placid waves.

The church bell tolled in the distance, informing her it was close to dinner time.

A warm breeze, hinting at summer, lifted a few strands of hair away from her face.

The quiet village in Ireland was her idea of the perfect retreat.

Aside from the house itself, which was an eclectic mix of modern and vintage styles inside a 1700s structure, the water view always relaxed her soul.

Ellie could breathe here, and allow herself a little more flexibility than in London.

She never put her dark hair up here; she preferred to have it loose, down her back, letting the wind tangle and play with it.

Her wardrobe here was softer, too—gone were her work clothes of long sleeves and tweed skirts.

Here she could wear jeans, flowing dresses, and sometimes, in the summer, shorts.

No one would look twice at her here, for the people were down-to-earth and kind .

Not that Londoners weren’t kind. But there was always that unspoken pressure to keep up with the latest fashions, look good at all times, and be somebody .

Her aunt was right—the clothes were a sort of armor.

They granted her anonymity in a city that loved scandals, and when new scandals weren’t forthcoming, they dredged up old ones if a new picture surfaced.

She made sure any pictures of her were unflattering and unsalable. A few rags had, of course, tried to use that to their advantage, but no one wanted to revisit an earl’s fling a decade on. Especially if that fling was now a dowdy nothing, uninterested in climbing any rungs on the social ladder.

Her thoughts turned to Celtic Connections.

Whoever thought to bring that kind of a company to England was brazen, to be sure.

She looked at their website, and the fees they charged in the States were high.

Really high. And while she wasn’t familiar with class wars over there, in Britain, there was most definitely one raging.

If the matchmaking fees remained that high, everyday people wouldn’t be able to use their services.

If only the wealthy could use them, then the people would turn their backs, and some of the wealthy might even think the company crass to offer them services they felt they didn’t need.

Ellie had a feeling that she might be the bridge this company would need.

If they were successful with her, a commoner, then perhaps they would be successful with others like her, and the fees wouldn’t matter because the company could deliver the promised results.

But if Celtic Connections failed…well, the Brits would make up their own mind about whether or not the company had any shot of staying in the country.

The church bell tolled again, shaking Ellie from her thoughts.

She honestly didn’t care if the company succeeded or failed.

She was ready to take that first step into dating, and they could help her with that.

Perhaps they wouldn’t find her the love of her life, but they could potentially offer her a stable relationship, one that wouldn’t result in heartbreak when it ended.

Her phone buzzed loudly, startling her, and she glanced at the text.

The press has been notified. Your picture is on the front of the entertainment section of the Telegraph . You look like a pretty woman dressed for a funeral. Go buy some clothes that show the real you. Xoxo W

She laughed. If her aunt could see her now, in her long cotton skirt and gorgeous Irish-knit sweater, she would most definitely approve. Her hair loose, no glasses, just a touch of ocean breeze…and an unreserved smile.

She felt happy here. Happy and free to be the Ellie that she knew she was, but never had the courage to be in London.

When people realized who she was, they immediately assumed she was either a social climber (because of Andrew) or an opinionated and loud woman (because of her aunt).

She let her guard down for three people: Winnie, her best friend Gwen, and Andrew.

A boat’s horn blew from far off, and Ellie stared at the sea for a moment longer. She wanted to be brave. She wanted to be happy. And she knew she could be both, if she gave herself a chance.

The horn blew again, as if agreeing with her, and she made her decision. With the next person she met, she was going to practice being herself. She was going to laugh and enjoy herself, and not tuck herself away in a corner, determined to blend into the wall.

With that, she headed out the door for her daily walk, her head high and a smile on her face.

Until she tripped over the doorjamb.

Perhaps I ought to lower my head a little and watch where I’m going .

No. No head lowering. She was ready for a change, and it started now.

Reilly turned his car down the long dirt road to his cottage. “Glad you’re here, mate. It’s been too long.”

Colin grinned. “Aw. Did you miss me?”

“I missed your swordplay,” Reilly snorted. “That’s about it, though.”

Colin smacked him on the back of the head, and Reilly laughed.

Another half mile and his charming thatched-roof cottage came into view.

Colin always appreciated how simplistic Reilly made it; decades ago, when he first designed it, he insisted that it look as though it could fit into any century in Irish history.

Built solidly of cob and thatch and surrounded by wildflowers, the cottage could’ve graced any number of fairy tale book covers.

Most of Reilly’s visitors, however, were harder to believe in than any fairy tale character.

“Home sweet home,” Reilly said, cutting the engine. “I didn’t make up your bed. You know where the linens are.”

“Linens?” Colin echoed. “We’re calling them linens now? You’ve gone all fancy on me, Ry.”

“Sheets, linens, blankets…doesn’t matter to me. Grab some and sleep with the horseflesh.”

“Shove off,” Colin laughed, grabbing his suitcase from the trunk. “Any other houseguests?”

Reilly glanced up at the second-floor windows. “None lately. I’ve enjoyed the respite.”