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enough.” He shrugged, then seemed to have second thoughts. “As long as it’s not one of those pretentious places that puts weeds on a plate and calls it a salad.”
    “I thought you California types liked sprouts and field greens.”
    “Scurrilous lies and vicious slander.”
    She laughed. “In that case, you’re going to love this place.”

Chapter 7
     
    “
YOU’RE
right, I love it,” Mike said over the din of noise the minute they stepped into Paddy’s Pub. Dark paneling and a green coffered ceiling gave the place the feel of an old Irish pub; a long, mirror-backed bar took up most of the back wall.
    As Kate led the way between the crowded tables, she greeted several waiters and customers by name. The woman operating the gleaming brass beer fountain looked up and smiled.
    “Kate!” the woman called, then laughed when she sloshed beer down the front of her Paddy’s Pub T-shirt. “Hang on, I’ll be right with you.”
    “Take your time,” Kate called back and motioned toward an empty booth in the corner. “We came for lunch.”
    “I take it you come here often,” Mike said as they slid into the corner booth upholstered in a faded cabbage-rose brocade. A stained-glass window beside them illuminated the scarred, wooden table.
    “I have to. My cousin Mary Pat is the owner.” She nodded toward the woman behind the bar.
    “Well, your cousin has a great place.” He looked around at the coat of arms over the unlit fireplace, the posters of Ireland, and pictures of people in famous locales around the world wearing Paddy’s Pub T-shirts. If he didn’t know they were in Texas, he’d swear they were in some neighborhood bar in Dublin. “Very authentic.”
    “It ought to be,” Kate said with pride. “Most of it comes straight from London—paneling, bar, and all.”
    “London?” He raised a brow. “I would have guessed Ireland.”
    “My mother and uncle grew up in Ireland, but they both moved to London when they were in their early twenties.”
    His curiosity perked up at the mention of her family. “Oh? What took them to London?”
    “Well now,” she said, taking on an Irish brogue, “Uncle Paddy would be having a bit of wanderlust, wouldn’t you know? And me ma, dear young lass that she was, fancied a better selection of suitors for herself than the lads back home.”
    He stared at her, enchanted. She was so fresh and animated when she let her guard down; and he realized this was the first time she truly had around him. “Is that where your parents met? London?”
    “Yep,” she said. “My father’s a professor of medieval history at UT. He met Mom while he was in England working on his doctoral thesis.”
    “When was that?”
    She cocked her head sideways. “Are you really interested in all this?”
    I
’
m interested in everything about you, he l onged to say. Every single detail from the day you cut your first tooth to the name of every boy whose heart you broke. I want to know your favorite food, what music you like, and how I can make you scream with pleasure in bed. Most of all, I want to know who put that wary
look in your eyes and what I ca
n do to take it away.
    He shrugged as he took a menu from between the bottles of malted vinegar and Tabasco sauce. “I figure, as long as we’ll be working together, we might as well get to know each other.”
    “Makes sense.” She shrugged. “Although I think it’s more important for me to get to know you than the other way around, if I’m going to help you pick out the perfect wife.”
    “All right,” he agreed amiably. “What do you want to know?”
    “Tell me about this movie you’re working on?”
    “Ooo, dangerous topic.” He leaned back with his palms flat on the table.
    “Why’s that?”
    He narrowed his eyes. “First you tell me you don’t like men who are compulsive workaholics. Then you ask me the one question that is sure to keep me talking about my job for hours, bore you to tears, and convince you I’m a total