Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
S he had to stop changing outfits.
It was dinner, not a date. Declan had invited her out to introduce her to his interior designer friend. Strictly business. Just a chance to talk shop over wine and a few classy entrees, maybe flirt a little, but only because he was annoyingly attractive in a way that required minimal effort on his part.
She pulled on a navy wrap dress, added her favorite gold earrings, and called it good. It said: I’m confident, composed, and absolutely not spiraling over a kiss with the man who lives next door and threatens to turn my goat into stew.
By the time she reached The Fern & Thistle, Mountshannon’s most upscale restaurant, her nerves had mostly settled. The interior was charming—wood beams, low candlelight, soft trad music playing from a corner speaker. It was the kind of place where you said “lovely” a lot and ordered something with a balsamic reduction.
Declan stood as she arrived, greeting her with that same smooth grin.
“Aisling, you look stunning.”
“Thanks,” she said, sliding into the chair across from him. “Where’s your friend?”
His expression flickered for just a second—too quick for most people to catch, but she’d worked in publishing. She knew a half-truth when she saw it. It was an excuse to see her, and while she should feel flattered, frankly, it irritated her.
“She had to cancel,” he said, offering a small shrug. “Family emergency. So I figured we’d enjoy the evening anyway. Just the two of us.”
Of course. There was no friend. She should’ve known. Declan was too polished, too curated. He probably handed out business cards that reeked of ambition—real estate on one side, monkey business on the other, with a hint of cologne that screamed 'trust me, I'm trouble.'
Still, she smiled. “Well, now I feel underdressed.”
He laughed. “Trust me, you’re perfect.”
She picked up her menu just to have something to look at besides his annoyingly perfect cheekbones. But before she could even read the appetizers, the low hum of the restaurant shifted.
She didn’t need to look.
She felt it.
That prickly, unmistakable sense of being watched.
Her spine stiffened.
Declan glanced toward the door. “Well. Looks like the entertainment just arrived.”
She looked.
There, in the doorway, stood Ronan Gallagher. And who must have been his younger brother, Brendan, who looked like trouble in the way frat boys and border collies do: overly eager and possibly covered in dirt.
But it wasn’t Brendan’s presence that made her jaw clench.
It was Ronan.
Dressed in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to showcase forearms that should come with warning labels. His hair was still damp from a shower, curling at the ends, and he was glaring straight at her like she’d committed war crimes by showing up to dinner with another man.
“Oh look,” she muttered. “The storm cloud has arrived.”
Ronan’s eyes locked with hers as the hostess led them to a table across the room, but not far enough away.
Declan leaned back with a smirk. “Careful, Aisling. If looks could kill, I’d be bleeding out on the floor. Are you two dating? I heard about the kiss in the pub, but didn’t think it was serious.”
“Please. He’s probably just furious Céilí didn’t sneak into his garden this morning,” she said. “And no, we’re not dating. We’re betrothed, but that’s not going to work out.”
“Betrothed?”
“Yes, our grandparents betrothed us at birth. And no, it means nothing,” she responded, wishing the waiter would bring their glasses of wine.
“I think he’s furious someone else got to you first.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Got to me?”
Declan held up his hands. “Figure of speech.”
No one would get to her. No one. She wasn’t up for grabs, least of all by this guy.
Their wine arrived—red for her, white for him—and she took a sip to cool the irritation building under her skin. She should not care that Ronan was watching her. She should not like that he was staring at her.
And yet…
Her cheeks warmed.
Declan talked—mostly about the property, how he thought the value would double once the renovations were done, how he had buyers in Dublin just waiting for something like the O’Byrne estate.
She nodded, even smiled when appropriate, but her brain was only half listening.
The other half was busy screaming: Don’t look at him. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
Naturally, her eyes betrayed her.
She glanced.
Ronan stared straight at her, his fork paused halfway to his mouth as if he had forgotten how to eat.
Brendan said something. Ronan didn’t even blink.
And then, the audacity, he smirked.
Oh, he was going to die. A slow, torturous death.
She turned back to Declan. “So. Where exactly are these buyers of yours hiding? Because they’re not going to get this house.”
His brows rose. “You’ve decided?”
“No. But I’m leaning toward keeping it. Maybe renting part of it out as a writer’s retreat. I just don’t know yet what I’m going to do, but the thought of selling a home that has been in our family for generations makes me sick.”
It was the only thing keeping her tied to family, and the thought of letting it go made her cringe inside.
He smiled again, but there was a flicker of something underneath it. Disappointment? Calculation? She couldn’t tell.
Their dinner arrived, roast duck with blackberry compote for her, something involving sea bass for him. The food was excellent. The tension, less so.
At one point, she dropped her fork.
Of course, it bounced across the floor, landing near Ronan’s table.
She bent to grab it, and when she looked, Ronan was still gazing at her. Eyes like steel, mouth tight, like he was debating throwing his plate at Declan’s head.
“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t want to fork you.”
His brother laughed and glanced at his brother, who only continued to stare daggers at her like she was cheating on him or something.
It had been a kiss. Nothing more.
Brendan leaned in and whispered something that made Ronan mutter a word that was probably not safe for the ears of any nearby nuns.
Declan seemed oblivious or chose to be. “So tell me, what do you really want to do here, Aisling? I mean, if you could stay, work, and write, would you?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know. I came here to settle an estate. Now it feels like I’m unearthing ghosts and fighting goats and making enemies with flower-loving men.”
“Ronan?” Declan asked, grinning.
“Oh, he’s not my enemy,” she said, swirling her wine. “He’s my personal migraine in a Henley.”
Declan laughed, but it was tighter this time. “Well, just remember, migraines can be managed. Sometimes eliminated altogether.”
She blinked.
Before she could respond, Brendan appeared at their table.
“I’m Brendan Gallagher, by the way,” he said.
“Aisling O’Byrne,” she said, gripping his hand.
He leaned in, all charm and crooked grin. “Sorry to interrupt. But my brother has been staring so hard, he’s in danger of burning a hole through that wrap dress. Would you mind standing up and twirling for us?”
Aisling gasped. Declan leaned back in his chair, amused.
“Yes, I would,” she said. “Tell your brother he can suck on a lemon for all I care.”
The boy chuckled. “Oh, I like your spirit.”
“I swear to God, I’ll throw this fire poker like a Gáe Bolga at him if he doesn’t stop glaring at me. Tell him to lighten up. I’m having dinner with a friend.”
Ronan’s brother smiled. The kid was handsome just like his older brother but taller, more outgoing, and laid-back. And yet, she’d heard he got into trouble.
“Ignore him. I adore how you seem to get under his skin,” Brendan said. “I’m the chaos goblin. But if you ever need rescuing from brooding men and nosy villagers, I’m your guy.”
He winked, then sauntered back to his seat like he hadn’t just blown up the entire dinner.
Aisling groaned. “Why did God make two of them?”
Declan chuckled. “Subtle, aren’t they?”
“Subtle like Céilí in a rose garden.”
They finished dinner, conversation stalling slightly as the mood shifted. Declan was still charming, still easy to talk to—but the temperature had changed. And not just because Ronan hadn’t taken his eyes off her all night.
There was something about Declan that set off warning bells inside her. In some ways, he reminded her of Michael, and she knew how that ended. Plus, there was Brid’s warning.
When they stood to leave, Declan walked her outside. “Let me walk you home.”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks for dinner,” she said. “Even if your designer friend mysteriously vanished.”
“Rain check on that,” he said. “But… can I see you again?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know yet. Check back with me in a couple of weeks. I’m moving at turtle speed right now about everything. But thank you for the lovely dinner.”
He smiled like he’d expected that. “Fair enough. But if you ever get tired of broody farmers and lust-crazed goats…”
She laughed. “I’ll let you know.”
As she began to walk toward the house, she glanced back through the restaurant window.
Ronan was still there.
Still watching.
And the look in his eyes?
Trouble.
The kind she might not say no to twice. Could Bríd be right? That a hot fire under a stew cooked a relationship just right?