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when she was five, so
     she didn’t remember much about New York. A year later, her mother had married Jim Powell and they moved from their two-bedroom
     apartment to a house in the L.A. suburbs. Four years after that, they moved into a bigger house with a pool. Her step-dad
     and half-brothers still lived there. She had never seen where her mother grew up in Brooklyn, but she knew for sure it had
     running water and electricity.
    Donovan O’Shea stood with one foot resting on the bottom step, gazing up into the attic space that had once been his shared
     bedroom. Guilt washed over Rylie at the recollection of how she’d questioned him about moving to America. But she would be
     damned before she gave him the satisfaction of admitting he was right.

    How much would it take before Rylie Powell had a sufficient dose of quaint, rural Ireland? Donovan sought to distract himself with speculation rather than worry about the uncomfortable tightening in his gut caused
     by being here in his childhood home. Time and the elements had reduced the place to little more than a hovel. Not that it
     had been much better when he and his family lived here, but he’d been too young to know any different. The living quarters
     over the pub were posh in comparison.
    From the corner of his eye, he watched Rylie survey the stark, chilly room, her attractive mouth pressed into a thin line
     She obviously wasn’t finding this realism too pleasant. A little nudge of self-satisfaction tugged at his own lips.
    The reappearance of Sybil Gallagher with Professor McRory in tow broke the awkward silence. Sybil rushed to fill the teapot
     with water from the kettle while McRory stood outside the open door and shed his mud-caked boots and waterproof coveralls.
    “We’ve started a new trench out in the fens,” the professor explained. “’Tis nasty going at the moment.”
    He stepped carefully over the threshold and walked in stocking feet to the back room. Donovan didn’t envy him washing up,
     for the hot water heater hadn’t been connected in years. As if to confirm his thoughts, he saw Sybil pour hot water from the
     kettle into the sink to wash the dishes stacked there.
    “Let me help,” Rylie offered, picking up a tea towel.
    To keep out of the way, Donovan settled himself on the stairs and rested his elbows on his knees. By the time McRory rejoined
     them, Sybil was pouring tea into four cups.
    “I’m sorry, all we have is powdered milk,” she apologized as she reached for a covered tin.
    “That’s okay, I take mine plain.” Rylie took the offered cup.
    “As do I,” Donovan remarked. He watched McRory snag a three-legged stool and offer it to Rylie as Sybil passed him a mug.
    “And here’s two sugars for you, Aongus,” The sudden look of censure McRory shot his assistant left her mouth agape for a moment
     before she murmured, “I . . . I mean, Professor.”
    Donovan narrowed his eyes; so much for the cozy little domestic scene. He happened to know McRory was married. And apparently
     McRory was aware that he knew. A fleeting look in Rylie’s eyes as she hastily lifted her mug told Donovan that she had put
     it together as well. He wondered if she shared his same disgust for infidelity.
    The professor sat on one of the cots and spoke quickly to cover the silence. “I’m afraid we’ve all the artifacts bundled and
     boxed up for Brian to take back to Queen’s this afternoon, but I can fetch the carton from the Land Rover if you’d like.”
    “No!” Donovan felt all eyes jump at his sharp tone, but the last thing he wanted nearby was a passel of items that could trigger
     his “gift.”
    “That is,” he fumbled, “I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
    “No, please don’t,” Rylie agreed, flashing a demure smile. “Donovan and I probably wouldn’t recognize, much less appreciate,
     what any of those things were.”
    For an uncomfortable moment, Donovan gawked, not sure which had surprised him more, her