Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
S everal days into the renovation, Aisling stared at the chaos inside the house and officially declared it: she needed out. Between the hammering, the dust, and Céilí’s suspiciously well-behaved silence, she was going stir-crazy. Even the goat had stopped antagonizing Ronan’s garden, which felt like a sign of the end times.
She’d mailed off her letter to the University in Dublin, asking about the visiting professors from the year her mother would’ve gotten pregnant. Now, all she could do was wait—and wonder if the truth would shatter everything or finally fill the hole she'd carried her entire life.
In the meantime, she needed to see people. Human ones. Ones that didn’t snort, chew straw hats, or judge her for still crying over an engagement gone down in flames. But those pity parties were showing up less and less. This place felt like peace wrapped in purpose. Michael? He would've been a front-row seat to a meltdown—emotional whiplash in an expensive suit.
She’d overheard someone at the grocer mention a local event: Reading Night at The Last Drop. Bring something you’ve written, read it aloud, and brace yourself for applause—or mockery, depending on the crowd’s drink count.
She hadn’t intended to share her writing—not here, not yet—but tonight, she was feeling reckless. Or brave. Maybe both.
Walking down the lane, the hum of fiddles and laughter spilled out of The Last Drop. Its windows glowed gold, the front sign swinging gently in the breeze. A plaque on the wall said it was named after the last drop of a perfect pint…or the last drop of gossip before someone’s reputation drowns.
How very Mountshannon.
She gave a chuckle at the thought of someone’s reputation drowning. Would hers tonight?
Inside, the room was packed. Locals sat elbow to elbow, half of them already deep into pints. The air smelled of beer, peat smoke, and mischief.
“Lass, come in,” someone called from behind the bar. “Noreen O’Byrne’s granddaughter, yeah?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, slipping through the crowd.
“I’m Paddy. Padraig Dunne, but no one calls me that unless they’re shouting.” He thrust out a hand, warm and solid. “Come in, come in.”
He waved down the crowd. “Move over, lads, make room for the lady!”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at the man who grinned at her like she was lunch and he was starving.
Another winked at her like she was the pub’s Friday night entertainment.
“Brought something to read?” Paddy asked, nodding at the papers she clutched like a lifeline.
“Just a little something,” she said, instantly regretting not hiding the pages in her bag.
“You’ll be grand. Whiskey?”
“Only if it’s strong enough to make me forget I decided to do this.”
He chuckled. “On the house because you’re taking care of your grandmother’s will. We take care of our own. Especially the O’Byrnes.”
A moment later, a glass of golden Irish courage landed in front of her.
“Readings start once Ronan gets here,” Paddy added, rolling his eyes. “The man would be late to his own funeral. Nearly missed his father’s.”
Aisling laughed. Of course, Ronan was the center of the universe even when he wasn't present.
“We’re just waiting on him to decide if he’s going to join us tonight or sit and watch his flowers grow in the dark.”
That sounded like her raucous neighbor.
“Is he still complaining about your goat?” Paddy asked, pouring another round for the table beside them.
“Every chance he gets,” she said, thinking it was odd he’d not been over this week complaining about Céilí. “It’s making me nervous.”
“You might want to keep a closer eye on her,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s about the time she’d come into season.”
“Season?” Aisling blinked.
“You know— heat . Breeding urges. She’ll be yodeling for bucks if you’re not careful.”
Oh. Dear. God.
Aisling took a deep sip of her whiskey, internally screaming.
“She could leap a fence if there’s a buck nearby,” he added with a wink. “And Ronan’s got a few.”
“Of course, he does,” she muttered. “The man hoards flowers and male goats. Perfect.”
The man grinned. “I think you’re going to do just fine here. I hear you’re updating your grandmother’s house. We all loved that woman. She was like the pillar of our small community.”
Aisling nodded. “I wish I’d known her.”
“Ah, lass, she mentioned you often. She so wanted to meet you.”
Then the pub door swung open, and in strolled her enemy/betrothed/plant victim: Ronan Gallagher, looking rugged and smug in equal measure.
“’Bout time,” Paddy called. “We can start now.”
Ronan's gaze scanned the room, then landed on her.
“You’re here to listen?” he asked.
“She’s reading,” Paddy announced proudly.
His eyebrows lifted. “You write?”
“Worked in publishing,” she said coolly, omitting that she’d been a sales representative, peddling the newest releases, or that her degree was a B.A. in English Lit with a concentration in writing. Plus, she had a minor in marketing.
“I’m shocked your degree wasn’t in destruction,” he said, smirking.
She grinned at him. Oh, how she loved goading him. “Darlin’, my goat hates you. I don’t need a degree in destruction. I just have to open the gate and she’s on her way.”
“I sprayed goat repellent on everything. She’s been avoiding my land like it’s cursed.”
“Smart girl.”
“Ronan,” Paddy cut in. “You reading tonight or not?”
He hesitated. “Sorry, Brendan called.”
“In trouble again?”
He glanced at Aisling. “You should be betrothed to him. Not me. You two could start the War of the Roses Part Two.”
Paddy froze. “Betrothed?”
The entire bar went silent, heads swiveling like synchronized church owls.
“Our grandparents thought it’d unite the estates,” Aisling said, forcing a smile. “Lovely plan. Not happening.”
Paddy grinned like a man who’d just been handed fresh gossip on a silver tray. “Ah, Noreen. Always scheming to end the O’Byrne-Gallagher feud. May her dreams rest in peace—or rise from the grave.”
“Please,” Aisling said, “You think I want to marry this grumpy man? No, I believe in love, in happily ever afters. It’s why I write romance.”
Ronan turned on her, his laughter quick. “Romance? I should have known. No wonder you mentioned hearts and flowers. I just wanted to bring the land together under one family.”
“I believe in love, not strategic farmland alliances.”
Ronan snorted. “That explains the hearts and flowers. Romance?”
“It’s what I write.”
He looked horrified like she’d confessed to worshiping glitter and heels.
Paddy waved him toward the stage. “Let’s go, Ronan. You’re up.”
Ronan took the mic. “Good evening.”
The people in the bar all turned toward him.
“You know he’s published,” Paddy said proudly.
“No, I didn’t know,” she said, wondering if he was really a good author or someone who just managed to find a vanity press that he paid to print his books. Either way, she was curious about how good an author he really was.
Aisling sat back, bracing herself.
His voice was smooth. His language rich and poetic. She could admit he was talented.
But the story? Good Lord.
It was five minutes of eloquent nothing. A real snooze fest of words and description, no action.
A man walking through a misty glen. Remembering things. Thinking. Touching leaves.
She nearly fell asleep halfway through. When he returned to the bar, looking pleased with himself, she was already finishing her second whiskey.
“Your turn,” he said smugly.
“You’re going to hate it. It’s a romance, and you obviously don’t know how to woo a woman, so you’ll find this really boring.”
Paddy started laughing.
His face reddened. “Try me.”
She rose, hands trembling slightly, and took the stage. The papers rustled as she adjusted the mic.
“I’m Aisling O’Byrne, and I’d like to read the first few pages of something I’ve been working on. It’s… well, it’s romance.”
Some chuckles. A few encouraging nods.
She began.
The story followed a woman discovering her fiancé cheating—fiction, technically, but thinly veiled. The crowd gasped, laughed, and hissed in all the right places.
She hesitated for a beat, unsure if she should finish the scene.
“Don’t stop!” someone yelled.
“Oh, please,” Ronan groaned. “We know how it ends. She walks out.”
Anger flared. When she got to the part about locking the engagement ring around his… prized possession, the room erupted. She continued anyway, pushing past the lump in her throat to read the final lines, the elevator doors closing behind her heroine.
Silence. Then:
“More!” someone cried.
“Encore!”
“She’s got fire!”
Aisling stepped off the stage to applause, faces beaming at her. One by one, people came up to tell her about her grandmother, offer drinks, or demand the next chapter.
When she finally reached the bar again, Ronan was waiting.
“Romance,” he said like the word tasted sour. “More like porn.”
“Porn? Wow. That’s a reach.”
“You mentioned his private part.”
“So? You don’t have one?”
His brows rose and Paddy snorted behind the bar. “Oh, yes, she’s Irish and she’s an O’Byrne.”
“It was tasteless,” Ronan finally said.
“Yours was like watching fog think,” she shot back. “Beautiful, lyrical fog. But nothing happened.”
“I’m published,” he muttered, defensive.
“And I’m an editor. You’ve got skill but no story. You could put a rock to sleep.”
His jaw ticked. “My publisher likes it.”
“Your publisher needs an editor who’s awake.”
He slammed his glass down. “I need another.”
She clinked hers against it with a grin. “Make that two.”
This town might be small. The house might be falling apart. Her life might be one giant question mark. But she had a pen.
A story. And people who actually wanted to hear it.
“I’m going to shoot your goat,” he said as he slammed down his second drink. “And make a stew with it.”
She laughed and gazed at him drunkenly. “Oh, come on, you can do better than that. Don’t get your panties in a twist. You write beautifully. It’s just boring.”
Ronan turned toward her, eyes dark and unreadable. The muscle in his jaw ticked once, twice—then he leaned in close, his breath warm against her cheek.
“I’m going to hate myself in the morning for this,” he said, voice low, rough. “But someone needs to shut you up.”
Before she could retort, his mouth came crashing down on hers.
It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t soft. It was all heat and frustration and something darker simmering underneath—something that had been brewing since the moment she set foot in Mountshannon and made his life infinitely more complicated.
For a heartbeat, Aisling froze, stunned. Then she melted.
Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt as she pressed against him, meeting fire with fire. The kiss deepened, his mouth parting hers, tongue brushing teasingly past her lips like a challenge. Her knees went loose. Her brain went offline. Somewhere behind her, the pub roared—but she didn’t care.
He tasted like whiskey and smug satisfaction, and God help her , it made her want more.
When his hand slipped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, she let out a low, involuntary sound that shocked them both. The tension snapped like a taut wire. He broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing hard.
The pub exploded into applause.
Aisling blinked, stunned by the weight of what had just happened. Then she turned to face the cheering crowd and gave them a theatrical bow.
Turning back to Ronan, she licked her lips, tasting him there, still.
“Don’t ever do that again,” she whispered, “unless you want me to cut your balls off.”
She tossed a few euros onto the bar and strode out into the night, head high and lips still tingling.
Behind her, she heard him growl, “Bloody hell,” and order another drink.