“I’ll do that.” Rogan frowned into his brandy. “You can be sure of it.”

“You’ve a fine cook, Rogan me boy.” Niall strolled in carting a tray loaded with china and a huge chocolate torte. He was a large man, sporting his thirty extra pounds like a badge of honor. And did indeed look somewhat like a jolly jack-o’-lantern in his orange sport coat and lime-green tie. “A prince of a man, he is.” Niall set down the tray and beamed. “He’s sent out this bit of sweet to help calm my nerves.”

“I’m feeling nervous myself.” Grinning, Gray rose to cut into the torte himself.

Niall boomed out with a laugh and slapped Gray heartily on the back. “There’s a lad. Good appetite. Why don’t we tuck into this, then have a few games of snooker?” He winked at Rogan. “After all, it’s my last night as a free man. No more carousing with the boy-os for me. Any whiskey to wash this down with?”

“Whiskey.” Rogan looked at the wide, grinning face of his future grandfather. “I could use a shot myself.”

They had several. And then a few more. By the time the second bottle was opened, Gray had to squint to see the balls on the snooker table, and then they still tended to weave. He ended by closing one eye completely.

He heard the balls clack together, then stood back. “My point, gentlemen. My point.” He leaned heavily on his cue.

“Yank bastard can’t lose tonight.” Niall slapped Gray on the back and nearly sent him nose first onto the table. “Set ’em up again, Rogan me boy. Let’s have another.”

“I can’t see them,” Rogan said slowly before lifting a hand in front of his face and peering at it. “I can’t feel my fingers.”

“Another whiskey’s what you need.” Like a sailor aboard a pitching deck, Niall made his way to the decanter. “Not a drop,” he said sadly as he upended the crystal. “Not a bleeding drop left.”

“There’s no whiskey left in Dublin.” Rogan pushed himself away from the wall that was holding him up, then fell weakly back. “We’ve drank it all. Drunk it all. Oh, Christ. I can’t feel my tongue, either. I’ve lost it.”

“Let’s see.” Willing to help, Gray laid his hands heavily on Rogan’s shoulders. “Stick it out.” Eyes narrowed, he nodded. “ ’S okay, pal. It’s there. Fact is, you’ve got two of ’em. That’s the problem.”

“I’m marrying my Chrissy tomorrow.” Niall stood, teetering dangerously left, then right, his eyes glazed, his smile brilliant. “Beautiful little Chrissy, the belle of Dublin.”

He pitched forward, falling like a redwood. With their arms companionably supporting each other, Rogan and Gray stared down at him.

“What do we do with him?” Gray wondered.

Rogan ran one of his two tongues around his teeth. “Do you think he’s alive?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Don’t start the wake yet.” Niall lifted his head. “Just get me on me feet, lads. I’ll dance till dawn.” His head hit the floor again with a thud.

“He’s not so bad, is he?” Rogan asked. “When I’m drunk, that is.”

“A prince of a man. Let’s haul him up. He can’t dance on his face.”

“Right.” They staggered over. By the time they’d hefted Niall to his knees, they were out of breath and laughing like fools. “Get up, you dolt. It’s like trying to shift a beached whale.”

Niall opened his bleary eyes, tossed back his head, and began, in a wavering but surprisingly affecting tenor, to sing.

“And it’s all for me grog, me jolly, jolly grog. It’s all for me beer and tobacco.” He grunted his way up on one foot, nearly sent Gray flying. “Well, I spent all me tin on lassies drinking gin. Far across the Western ocean I must wander.”

“You’ll be lucky to wander to bed,” Rogan told him.

He simply switched tunes. “Well, if you’ve got a wingo, take me up to ringo where the waxies singo all the day.”

Well insulated by whiskey, Rogan joined in as the three of them teetered on their feet. “If you’ve had your fill of porter and you can’t go any further—”

That struck Gray as wonderfully funny, and he snickered his way into the chorus.

With the harmony and affection of the drunk, they staggered their way down the hall. By the time they reached the base of the stairs, they were well into a whiskey-soaked rendition of “Dicey Riley.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say it was only poor old Dicey Riley who’d taken to the sup, would you, Brie?” Maggie stood halfway down the stairs with her sister, studying the trio below.

“I wouldn’t, no.” Folding her hands neatly at her waist, Brianna shook her head. “From the looks of them, they’ve dropped in for several little drops.”

“Christ, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Gray mumbled.

“Yes.” Rogan grinned brilliantly at his wife. “Takes my breath away. Maggie, my love, come give me a kiss.”

“I’ll give you the back of my hand.” But she laughed as she started down. “Look at the lot of you, pitiful drunk. Uncle Niall, you’re old enough to know better.”

“Getting married, Maggie Mae. Where’s my Chrissy?” He tried to turn a circle in search and had his two supporters tipping like dominoes.

“In her own bed sleeping, as you should be. Come on, Brie, let’s get these warriors off the field.”

“We were playing snooker.” Gray beamed at Brianna. “I won.”

“Yank bastard,” Niall said affectionately, then kissed Gray hard on the mouth.

“Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” Maggie managed to get an arm around Rogan. “Come on now, that’s the way. One foot in front of the other.” Somehow they managed to negotiate the steps. They dumped Niall first.

“Get Rogan off to bed, Maggie,” Brianna told her. “I’ll tuck this one in, then come back and pull off Uncle Niall’s shoes.”

“Oh, what heads they’ll have tomorrow.” The prospect made Maggie smile. “Here we go, Sweeney, off to bed. Mind your hands.” Since she considered him harmless in his current state, the order came out with a chuckle. “You haven’t a clue what to do with them in your state.”