Dust motes dance in the harsh Atlantic light cutting through the tall windows of Quay Street. Niamh Brennan runs a hand over the cool, scarred surface of the marble tempering slab, the stone a solid anchor in a room stripped to its bones. The scent of old damp and floor wax lingers, waiting to be replaced by the rich, dark velvet of roasting cacao.
She pushes a stray auburn lock from her forehead, her thumb catching on the faint burn scar at her wrist. This space is hers, a ten-year gamble against the whispers in Dublin and the headlines claiming she stole Aengus Doyle’s legacy. Every floorboard in this listed building is a secret she’s sworn to protect, but the lease is a fragile thing. If the city engineer doesn't certify the structure, the boutique dies before the first truffle is tempered.
A heavy thud echoes from the front of the shop, followed by the jangle of keys against the frame. Niamh straightens her grey linen apron, her pulse quickening as she looks toward the entryway.
A broad-shouldered shadow falls over the frosted glass of the boutique door.
