Declan's Cross. Carla Neggers

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      JULIANNE MARONEY WAS half in love with Father Bracken and totally in love with Andy Donovan, and that, she thought, was reason enough to head to Ireland. She grabbed a coffeepot and headed across the dining room to Father Bracken’s table. It was a dreary afternoon in southern Maine, and she was wrapping up her shift at Hurley’s, a popular, rustic restaurant on Rock Point harbor.

      This time tomorrow, she’d be in Declan’s Cross on the south Irish coast.

      She’d accepted a marine biology internship in Cork, but it didn’t start until January. Impatient, going crazy, she’d jumped when opportunity had knocked last week in the shape of Lindsey Hargreaves, a diver, a marine science enthusiast and a member of the family that had founded the prestigious Hargreaves Oceanographic Institute in Massachusetts.

      Impulsive, maybe, but Julianne didn’t care. She was packed. Her flight to Shannon left tonight.

      She arrived at Father Bracken’s table overlooking the harbor. “Not much of a view today, Father,” she said, refilling his mug. “Gray rain, gray sky, gray ocean.”

      He smiled up at her. “I’m Irish. Wet weather doesn’t bother me.”

      He’d ordered fried eggs, ham, toast and jam, a late breakfast by Rock Point standards but not, he insisted, all that late by Irish standards. He’d taken his time, reading a book and jotting notes in a black Moleskine. The lunch crowd, such as it was on a Monday in November, was in now, mostly locals—fishermen, carpenters, retirees, a group of young mothers with babies in tow.

      No Donovans, at least not yet.

      There were four Donovan brothers—gray-eyed, dark-haired, rugged, sexier than any men had a right to be and not one of them even remotely easy.

      They said Finian Bracken reminded them of Bono. Maybe with a little Colin Firth, Julianne thought as she checked to make sure he had enough cream in the little stainless-steel pitcher. He was in his late thirties, relatively new to the priesthood. In his early twenties, he and his twin brother, Declan, had started a whiskey business in Ireland. Bracken Distillers was a success, but the tragic deaths of Finian’s wife and daughters had changed everything.

      Julianne didn’t have many details and wasn’t sure she wanted any. She couldn’t fathom such a loss. He’d left Ireland in June to serve a one-year assignment at struggling St. Patrick’s, the Maroney family’s church a few blocks from Rock Point harbor.

      He wore his usual priestly black garb. She had on knee-high boots, dark brown leggings and a Hurley’s-required white shirt and dark blue apron. She had her hair tied back. It was golden brown, and Andy used to tell her its natural highlights matched the gold flecks in her hazel eyes.

      “You must be about to leave for the airport,” Father Bracken said. “How are you getting there?”

      “My brother’s dropping me off.”

      “Will you be seeing Colin and Emma while you’re in Ireland?”

      She almost reminded him that Colin was a Donovan but instead said, “They’re in the southwest, and they’re supposed to be relaxing.”

      Father Bracken’s midnight-blue eyes leveled on her. He had to be aware of the complicated dynamics of Colin’s relationship with Emma Sharpe and the reaction of his family and friends in Rock Point to her. An FBI agent, an ex-nun, a Sharpe. She and Colin were, to say the least, an eyebrow-raising match.

      “Have you told them you’re coming?” Father Bracken asked.

      “No, but it’s fine. They don’t need to know. I wouldn’t want to interrupt their time together.” Julianne stopped herself, which wasn’t her style. Usually she said too much, not too little. “You haven’t told them about my trip, have you?”

      “I wouldn’t without your permission,” he said simply.

      She felt her cheeks flame. “Oh, right, of course not. I hope they’re having a good time, and Emma isn’t finding out the hard way what rock heads the Donovan men can be.” She gave Father Bracken a quick smile. “Sorry, Father.”

      His mouth twitched with humor. “No worries.”

      “I can handle Colin. It’s not that. I’m used to Donovans.”

      And she’d never slept with Colin. Never even considered it. She’d known better than to get mixed up with any of the Donovans. Mike, the eldest, was an ex-army wilderness guide on Maine’s Bold Coast. Then came Colin, an FBI agent. Kevin, the youngest, was a Maine state marine patrol officer. But it was third-born Andy, a lobsterman who restored classic boats on the side, who had captured her heart.

      She’d slept with him, all right. One of the stupidest things she’d ever done.

      Father Bracken was frowning at her, but if he guessed what she was thinking, he kept it to himself. She smiled. “Sorry. Mind wandering.”

      “No apology necessary. Be sure to tell Sean Murphy I said hello.”

      Sean Murphy owned the cottage Julianne was renting in Declan’s Cross. She’d expected to stay in a bed-and-breakfast, but Father Bracken had arranged for the cottage after she’d brought him his fried eggs yesterday morning and told him about her trip. He and his fellow Irishman were friends somehow. Julianne didn’t have any details. She was curious but felt awkward prying into Father Bracken’s private life.

      “I will,” she said. “He’s not a priest, is he?”

      “No, but he’ll look after you if you need anything.”

      “This will be great. I’m really excited. I can get the lay of the land, figure things out ahead of my internship. I’ve never been anywhere. I’ve told my folks and my brother, and Granny, naturally, but I don’t need everyone in town knowing my business.”

      “Meaning the Donovans,” Father Bracken said with a smile.

      “Trust me, it’ll be easier if I just go on my way without the benefit of their opinion of my sanity.”

      “Well, then. Godspeed, Julianne. Give my love to Ireland.”

      “Thanks,