Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
T he next morning, Ronan arrived at the O’Byrne estate with fog still clinging to the fields like an old lover.
She saw him through the front window, a folder clutched in his hand like it might bite him. Dressed in jeans and a black Henley, he looked like he’d either just stepped out of a rustic romance novel or was on his way to intimidate a medieval tax collector.
She opened the door before he knocked.
“That better be your manuscript,” she said, arms crossed.
“Nice to see you too,” he said, stepping inside and holding up the folder like a peace offering. “One freshly printed first chapter. Go easy on me.”
“No promises,” she replied, waving him toward the kitchen table which had become her unofficial editing station—a chaotic spread of red pens, scribbled notes, and a half-eaten scone.
Ronan glanced at the mess, then at her. “Is this what literary doom looks like?”
“No, this is what salvation looks like,” she said. “If you can take critique, that is.”
He sat, exhaled, and pushed the folder toward her like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Aisling flipped it open, pulled a pen from behind her ear, and scanned the opening paragraph. After a beat, she looked up. “Okay, first—no adverbs in your first sentence. It’s a red flag.”
He groaned. “You’re starting already?”
“Do you want honest feedback or do you want a pat on the back and a participation ribbon?”
“I hate that I like you when you talk like that,” he muttered. “It actually kind of turns me on.”
“You’re twisted,” she said, not looking at him, but kept reading.
Silence settled between them. The kettle clicked on. Outside, the workers shouted and hammered as usual. Céilí bleated once from the barn—likely still recovering from her scandalous rendezvous.
Ronan tapped his fingers on the table, clearly trying not to squirm. She didn’t rush. Every sentence got her full attention. Every metaphor received scrutiny. Every cliché earned a small, sharp frown.
After five pages, she set the manuscript down and looked at him.
“You can write,” she said.
His expression shifted like he wasn’t sure if he should brace for more or lean into the praise.
“But your pacing needs work. You have a lot of beautiful language that says absolutely nothing. You’re describing leaves for three paragraphs and the character doesn’t move.”
“He’s contemplating a difficult decision,” Ronan argued.
“Then show me the weight of that decision. Show me the stakes. Show me the pressure closing in. Right now it’s just…poetic dithering.”
He blinked. “Poetic dithering?”
“You’ve written a gorgeous sentence about a droplet on a rose petal. It made me want to cry. But then I realized the droplet is all that’s happening.”
Ronan ran a hand down his face. “This is brutal.”
“This is love,” she said gently. “I wouldn’t bother if you didn’t have real potential. What is your character’s goal? What are the obstacles in his way? I want to go on a journey with him, but you’ve got to convince me that I have to learn about what’s going on. Right now, I don’t care.”
He looked at her for a long beat, the edge of his stubbornness softening. “You’re the first editor who’s made me want to rewrite instead of drink.”
“They’re scared to make you mad. I’m already mad at you half the time, so it’s a win-win.”
He chuckled. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
She flipped to another page, pointing. “This dialogue here—tighten it. Your character is saying the same thing three different ways. Trust your reader to get it the first time.”
“You are… terrifyingly thorough,” he said, shaking his head.
“Occupational hazard.” She sat back, folding her arms. “Okay. What is this book actually about ? What’s the heartbeat? Because right now, I don’t feel urgency. I don’t know what’s driving him.”
Ronan hesitated. Then, after a beat, he said, “It’s about being stuck between duty and desire.”
“That’s your pitch? Why does he have to choose between the two?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
Aisling raised an eyebrow. “Then make it complicated on the page. Right now, you’re treading water when you should be throwing your character off a cliff and forcing him to learn how to swim on the way down.”
He winced. “Ouch. Is that where you twist the knife?”
“That’s where I make it bleed for art,” she replied sweetly.
He flinched. “Jesus, you don’t hold back.”
For a second, she thought he might argue. His jaw twitched like he was gearing up for a defensive retort. But then?—
“You’re really good at this,” he said quietly, his voice a touch rougher than before.
“I know.”
He smiled, eyes lighting with something that made her stomach flip in a way she really didn’t appreciate.
“You’re also insufferable,” he added.
“There it is,” she said, tossing her pen onto the table with a grin.
They sat in the morning quiet for a moment. Not exactly friends. Not exactly enemies anymore. Something new and dangerous stretched between them—like a freshly laid fuse, just waiting for someone to strike a match.
“We’ve indulged in two kisses,” he said suddenly.
Her eyes narrowed. “I was pretending that neither one happened.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier than admitting I liked it.”
“You did?”
“I didn’t hate it.”
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking smug. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“And you’re annoyingly perceptive.”
The kettle whistled. She stood, trying to get a grip on herself, and poured water into a teapot.
Behind her, he said quietly, “So what now?”
“What do you mean?”
“This… thing between us. The goat wars. The feud. The attraction. The kiss that nearly broke time and space.”
“Please don’t start monologuing. You’re not in one of your books. I’m not wanting to go to sleep.”
He stood, slowly, walking around the table until he was beside her. Not too close. But close enough that she felt his warmth, the weight of what they hadn’t said.
The weight of I want to drag you onto this kitchen table and do unspeakably satisfying things to you was heavy in the air—but acting on it? Probably not the wisest life choice.
“I’m not apologizing for the kiss. But I will apologize for not knowing what the hell to do about you.”
She looked at him then, heart thudding. “Good. I don’t know either.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, then lifted again.
“I want to give this, whatever it is, a real shot. No promises. No pressure. Just… something real,” he said. “Slowly. Without expectations. No talk of betrothals or merging lands or fixing a hundred-year-old family feud.”
Aisling swallowed. “What does that mean? I need detailed instructions. I don’t like vague.”
“It means I like you, Aisling O’Byrne. And not just because you challenge me, or because your goat makes my life hell, or because you’re the only one who’s ever told me the truth about my writing.”
“Then why?”
He smiled, just a little. “Because when I look at you, everything feels like it’s in the right place. Even when it’s on fire.”
Aisling blinked. “Well, damn. That was…good. I even feel a little emotional.”
“I am a writer.”
She studied him, really studied him. Ronan Gallagher with his rose obsession and literary pretentiousness and shoulders that looked like they belonged in an Irish folklore illustration.
“I’m not promising anything,” she said.
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“But I’ll keep editing your chapters.”
“And I’ll keep trying to be worthy of your red pen.”
She laughed, then handed him his marked-up manuscript. “You’re going to cry when you read this.”
“Already am.”
He took it from her, brushing her fingers for a split second too long. A split second that sent heat rippling through her.
“If I don’t hate you after reading this, would you like to have dinner with me?”
“Depends,” she said.
“On what?”
“That you take me someplace where the town doesn’t go all crazy about the two of us being together. This place has more gossip than the town of Mayberry on the Andy Griffith Show. Right now, I think we should keep our hate out of the public eye.” She paused, then added , “Before someone starts a betting pool on when I’ll stab you with a gardening fork.”
A grin spread across his face. “We’ll go to Killaloe.”
She shrugged.
“I’ll pick you up at six tonight,” he said.
“See you then.”
Then he left.
And for the first time in a long while, Aisling felt like the story of her life was just starting to get interesting.