Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
T he morning sun slanted through the curtains like a whisper, soft and golden—but it was the bleating that yanked Aisling out of sleep.
Long. Loud. Desperate.
Definitely Céilí.
With a groan, she rolled out of bed, shoved her hair into a messy ponytail, and stumbled toward the kitchen in her oversized sweatshirt and fluffy socks. Coffee first. Then the crisis.
Outside, the bleating turned downright suggestive .
Mug in hand, she marched to the barn. And there it was.
Céilí—wide-eyed, panting, and aggressively humping a blanket like her life depended on it.
Aisling froze in the doorway, blinking. “Oh, sweet Mother Mary…”
The goat turned to her with the manic gaze of someone mid-romance-novel climax and bleated like she was auditioning for The Bachelor: Livestock Edition .
“Oh no. No, ma’am. You are officially grounded. No leaving the barn for you today. You’re likely to pick up the first billy goat you find. No babies. One goat is bad enough.”
She backed out slowly, closing the door like she was containing a wild beast. Which, in fairness, she was.
“You are not going next door to play kissy-face with the Gallagher goat harem,” Aisling muttered, bolting the barn door. “I cannot afford a goat scandal.”
Back inside, she made eggs, toast, and a second cup of coffee, only to be interrupted by the unmistakable sound of power tools screaming through drywall.
The crew had arrived.
“Good morning, Miss O’Byrne!” one of the lads called from the scaffolding with a cheerful wave.
“Morning,” she called back, mustering a smile. “Sounds like a lovely symphony of destruction today.”
She carried her breakfast and manuscript draft outside to the porch where the breeze was mild and the view of the lake was, blessedly, goat-free. A perfect spot for editing.
She barely had time to red-line three paragraphs before she heard footsteps .
Not goat feet. Man feet .
Heavy. Determined. Familiar.
She looked up—and there was Ronan Gallagher, storming up the drive like an avenging angel with a vendetta.
Well, someone hadn’t had their coffee yet.
“Good morning, Mr. Gallagher, written any more sleepy time prose?”
He ignored her taunt.
“Your goat is out,” he said flatly.
“No, she’s not,” Aisling replied, standing. “I locked her in the barn myself this morning.”
He arched a brow. “Want to bet?”
Together, they marched toward the barn.
“Did you enjoy dinner with your brother last night?” she asked, mostly to poke the bear.
“No.”
She grinned. “Oh, I quite liked Brendan. Handsome chap.”
Ronan made a noise of begrudging agreement. “He’s tolerable. When he’s not being arrested.”
Charming.
“And Declan?” he asked, voice hardening. “I warn you, he’s a rake.”
Aisling stopped in her tracks. “I’m a grown woman, Ronan. I’ve handled cheating narcissists in New York City. I think I can manage a slick-talking estate agent in a country pub.”
“Just trying to save you from catching something.” He paused, letting that hang in the air.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
He smirked. “Gossip. What did you think I meant?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe that he’s a walking venereal disease.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone said it.”
A beat passed.
“He was going to introduce me to his friend, the interior designer.”
The look he gave her, should have warned her. Deep laughter resonated from his chest.
“Do you really think there’s an interior designer in Mountshannon?” he asked.
She shot him a death glare. “Charming. Men are despicable.”
“I’m just saying—an interior designer? In Mountshannon?”
She frowned. “She could live in Killaloe.”
He shrugged. “Sure. And I’m the King of Denmark.”
They reached the barn. Aisling’s stomach sank.
There it was. A gaping hole in the side of the wooden paneling. Céilí had gone full Shawshank Redemption.
“Oh no…” she breathed. “How does a goat kick through lumber?”
“Determination,” Ronan said grimly. “And maybe lust.”
“Did you see her?”
“No. But I did see my roses. Or rather, I didn’t. She ate them. All of them.”
“She’s in heat,” Aisling said, following him toward the low stone wall between their properties.
“I’m aware,” Ronan muttered. “The yodeling tipped me off.”
They walked toward the low-slung wall that surrounded her property.
He vaulted the wall like it was nothing. Then, turning, he offered her his hand. She hesitated—then took it.
His hand was calloused, warm, strong. Too strong. Definitely not something she needed to be thinking about.
Once on the other side, they began crossing his field, the grass brushing at their ankles.
“You really think my writing’s boring?” he asked after a long pause.
She tilted her head. “I think your prose is beautiful. But your story? It’s not moving. The reader’s stuck wandering with a man in a rose garden, and nothing’s happening . There’s no tension. No stakes. Nothing to keep them reading.”
“He’s reflecting. He’s about to make a critical decision.”
“Then make the decision in motion . Put him in a situation where that choice costs him something. Otherwise, it’s just poetic daydreaming. Beautiful and sleep-inducing.”
He stopped walking. “Why has no editor ever said this to me?”
She smiled. “Because they want to keep the peace. I want you to write the best damn story you can.”
He looked at her like she was both infuriating and irresistible.
“I want you to edit it,” he said. “Help me fix it. Give me real feedback.”
She blinked. “You won’t like everything I say.”
“What would be new about that? I’m counting on it.”
Her heart gave a funny lurch. “Fine. Bring me the first chapter. We’ll go one day at a time. You decide when we stop. And don’t you dare yell at me, or I will set fire to your pages, do you understand me?”
“Yes, but I’m not a quitter,” he said.
She looked away. “No, but sometimes quitting is what keeps you sane.”
They reached the goat pen, and sure enough, there was Céilí—in all her scandalous glory—cozying up to a smug-looking billy goat like she was on her honeymoon. Offering herself with relish. Aisling didn’t think she was innocent any longer.
Aisling groaned. “Oh no.”
Ronan sighed like a man who’d lived through worse. “Congrats. Come spring, you’ll have another goat.”
“She’s…breeding with your goats?”
“She’s not picky,” he replied. “But she has terrible taste. That one is the meanest of the bunch. I think she must like her sex a little rough.”
Aisling burst out laughing. “She’s a goat. All sex is probably a little rough.”
“How do I get her home?”
“I’ll have one of the men take her home. We’re too late to save her reputation, so we’ll return her later.”
With one last glance at the animal, she turned and walked toward her home. Ronan came hurrying up behind her.
“So,” Ronan said, glancing at her. “About that kiss…I wanted to offer an apology.”
Aisling turned sharply. “Apology not accepted.”
His brows furrowed. “What?”
“You never apologize for a kiss. You just ruined it.”
“You said you’d cut my balls off if I did it again.”
She shrugged. “Did you like the kiss?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then said, “Yes.”
She grinned. “Me too.”
“But you threatened me.”
People were still gossiping about that kiss in the pub—followed, naturally, by her threat to maim him. But truth be told, she got a real kick out of keeping him confused. It was like emotional dodgeball, and Ronan never knew if she’d kiss him or hit him with a frying pan.
“And you’re going to let that stop you? If so, you are not near the man I thought you were.”
“Jesus, woman,” he muttered. “What is a man supposed to do?”
She started laughing, spinning away from him and jogging across the field. “Figure it out, Gallagher!”
He chased her, and a thrill went through her as they sprinted across the field. “I’m trying!”
She turned—and ran straight into him. His hands caught her waist, steadying her, their faces inches apart.
“I thought you hated me,” he whispered.
“I still do,” she said, breathless. “But… you’re a damn good writer. And an even better kisser.”
Staring down at her, his gray/blue eyes shimmered with a heat that made her shiver.
Then he kissed her again—and this time, it wasn’t impulsive.
It was slow. Intentional. Smoldering. A bedroom-worthy kiss that sent heat spiraling through her.
His mouth moved over hers with a reverence that contradicted every insult they’d ever hurled. His hand cupped the back of her neck. She leaned into him, breath mingling with his, everything inside her softening like butter in sunlight.
It wasn’t just chemistry.
It was something else.
Something dangerous.
She broke the kiss first, her heart thundering. “Don’t make me regret that.”