Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
T he sky over Mountshannon bled into twilight, turning soft lavender as Aisling added a final swipe of lipstick. Her hair fell in loose waves, her emerald dress fitting like it had been made for her curves. She stared at her reflection, trying not to look like she cared.
But she did. More than she should. The man was as tempting as sin and twice as infuriating—her hormones threw a riot every time he showed up. And yet, the memory of Michael tangled up with Samantha was enough to dump a bucket of ice water over the whole damn thing.
Ronan had his work cut out for him if he thought she was going to get involved with a man anytime soon.
Sure, Ronan was temptation on legs, but if he thought she’d fall for him after what she’d been through? Bless his beautiful, clueless heart.
A knock sounded—sharp, confident. Her pulse quickened.
She opened the door.
Ronan stood there in a black Henley that hugged his chest and dark jeans that looked criminally good on him. In his hand, he held a single wildflower—purple and stubborn like it had been plucked from a hill that didn’t want to be climbed.
“For you,” he said, handing it over. “Thought you might prefer something that hadn’t been airlifted in from Amsterdam.”
Aisling blinked at the flower, then at him. “Thank you. You’re oddly charming when you try.”
“I try very hard. You just have high standards.”
If he thought she was a tough sell before dinner, he’d better buckle up—because convincing her to sleep with him would require a miracle, divine intervention, and probably an exorcism. After Michael, her bedroom door had done more than close—it filed for an emotional restraining order and changed the locks.
“Someone has to.”
It felt damn good knowing Ronan thought she was worth the effort—like he actually saw her standards and rose to meet them. Had Michael ever even tried?
“Let me put it in water,” she said, hurrying toward the kitchen.
They drove in companionable silence to Killaloe, the soft hum of the engine underscored by the occasional glance he tossed her way. When they pulled up to the restaurant—stone walls, arched windows, glowing lanterns—she lifted a brow.
“This looks… fancy.”
“I figured if you were going to judge me, you should do it somewhere with tablecloths. Besides, I had to outdo Declan.”
She grinned at him. “That won’t be hard.”
Inside, the room flickered with candlelight. The host led them to a small corner table, half hidden behind ivy-draped lattice.
“Romantic,” Aisling murmured, raising a brow. The man was trying to make her feel special and she appreciated his efforts.
“Coincidence,” Ronan said, eyes gleaming. “Unless it works. Then I’ll take credit.”
They ordered—she went for salmon in a white wine sauce; he, predictably, chose steak, rare.
When their drinks arrived, Aisling swirled her wine and leaned in. “So, you’re voluntarily spending time with a woman who’s edited your soul onto a page.”
“You say that like I’m the only masochist in the room.”
She grinned. “You’re definitely the only one who enjoyed it.”
Ronan shrugged, cutting into his steak. “You’re brutal. But fair. There’s something sexy about a woman who can shred a sentence and still wear heels.”
“I’m not wearing heels,” she said. She’d deliberately downplayed her sexuality tonight, knowing this was a dinner date, nothing more.
“I noticed. Still sexy.”
Aisling nearly choked on her wine.
They talked easily—books, bad dates, her ongoing feud with Céilí, his inability to keep a rose garden intact. At one point, he told her about a writing residency he’d done in Galway.
“I lasted four days,” he said. “One of the writers kept quoting Yeats in the shower.”
“Why were you in the shower with them?”
“We weren’t. He just liked to wander the halls with gel in his hair and despair in his voice.”
Aisling laughed so hard she snorted.
Ronan stared at her for a beat too long.
“What?” she asked, brushing a hand over her cheek.
“Nothing. Just—your laugh. It’s lethal.”
“That’s the wine talking.”
“No, that’s me.”
She flushed but covered it by taking a large bite of her salmon.
By the time dessert arrived—a warm slice of sticky toffee pudding with two spoons—her heart was thudding in a way that had nothing to do with sugar. This version of Ronan could charm a nun out of her habit and sweet-talk his way straight into a woman’s panties. Good thing she’d built up an immunity—and wasn’t afraid to say no.
He leaned back, spoon in hand, eyes lazy with amusement. “So, do you always split dessert with men you plan to critique for the rest of their lives?”
“Only the ones who survive page one. And who said anything about the rest of our lives?”
“Brutal.”
“Flattery will get you a second chapter,” she said, lifting her spoon to meet his.
They clinked like it was a toast.
On the drive home, silence fell again—but this time, it wasn’t awkward. It buzzed, thick with possibility. Their hands didn’t touch, but Aisling felt the space between them like it was alive.
When he pulled into the drive, she didn’t move right away. The porch light cast a soft glow over the steps, and Céilí was nowhere in sight. Mercifully.
Ronan got out and came around to open her door.
“Oh, chivalry,” she said. “I thought it was extinct.”
“I resurrect it for women who correct my semicolons.”
They walked slowly to her front door, the air cool and crisp. When they reached the steps, she turned, heart thudding louder than it should.
“Well,” she said. “That was almost enjoyable.”
He tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Only almost?”
She stepped onto the first stair. “Don’t push your luck. We didn’t kill each other. We didn’t even argue. We even laughed.”
Ronan moved closer. Not too close. Just enough to make her forget that breathing was a thing she used to do without effort.
“I had a good time,” he said, voice lower now. “I don’t have a lot of those.”
She nodded, fingers fidgeting with her house key. “Me either.”
“And the only thing we argued over is your rose-killing goat.”
“And your sleepy time prose,” she said, wanting to ask him in, but knowing it was for the best that she didn’t.
They stood there, something warm and unspoken wrapping around them.
“You know,” he said, “tradition says I should walk you to the door, kiss your cheek, and pretend I don’t want to come inside.”
Aisling raised an eyebrow and took another step up onto the porch. “You’re already at the door.”
“True. I could come in.”
She grinned, slowly. “Not happening.”
“No?”
“Not unless you want to meet a goat in lingerie. Céilí’s been weird ever since her, uh, romantic awakening. She may try to seduce you.”
Ronan barked out a laugh. “And here I was thinking she only had eyes for my roses or my billy goats.”
“She’s moved on. Now she’s just… emotionally complicated.”
He stepped onto the stair below her, bringing them almost eye to eye. “Fair warning: I don’t usually go this slow.”
“Fair warning,” she said, “I do.”
And then—finally—he kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t chaste. His mouth captured hers with purpose, a slow burn that crackled down her spine. His hand found the curve of her waist, steady but gentle, as though he knew just how easily she might bolt.
She kissed him back, parting her lips, tilting into his heat, the weight of everything that had been building between them since the day she arrived.
When they pulled apart, breathless, her hand lingered on his chest. His heart thundered beneath her palm.
“Wow,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “That should be illegal.”
She laughed, stepping back. “Now go home.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. This isn’t an invitation. It’s a farewell.”
“I could… just come in for a minute. Say hello to Céilí.”
“Nice try.”
“She misses me.”
“She’s hormonal. You’re confusing that with affection.”
Ronan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You’re going to make me drive home after that kiss?”
“Yup.”
He stared at her like she’d just declared war. “You’re kind of evil.”
“I know,” she said sweetly. “When I tell you about my last breakup, you’ll realize just how truly mean I can be.”
“Hmm…we could discuss it over a nightcap.”
“Goodnight, Ronan.”
“Goodnight, Aisling.”
As he turned and walked to his car, she watched him go, her lips still tingling. With a wave, he climbed into his sedan and backed down the drive.
That man wasn’t just trouble—he was the kind that came wrapped in charm, kissed like sin, and left a path of delicious regret.
The door shut softly behind her, and she leaned against it, grinning into the quiet.
Was she really ready for something real again? One broken engagement still echoed in her chest—sharp, lingering, and not fully healed. And now here came Ronan—stormy-eyed, infuriating, and all kinds of dangerous. Not the usual kind of dangerous either. No, this was worse. This was the kind that didn’t just sting—it carved. She’d only just unhooked herself from one emotional trainwreck, and yet, somehow, this man made her heart ache with possibilities she wasn’t sure she could afford.