Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
T he ring sat on the dining room table like it knew too much. A secret hidden behind a wall for how many years?
Aisling stared at it, the tin box still dusted with fragments of plaster and time. The note beside it curled slightly at the corners, as if it, too, had been holding its breath all these years. The ink hadn’t faded. The words were painfully clear.
I’ll be back in two weeks.
He never came. Had her mother gone to New York to try to find him?
She didn’t know how long she sat there, reading and rereading the letter until the words burned into her brain. Part of her wanted to scream, part of her wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a hundred years, and the other part—the dangerous one—wanted to write him.
She didn’t owe him that. But she needed to think she’d at least tried.
Aisling brushed her hair out of her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached for her laptop. Paper and pen suddenly felt too slow for the flood about to break loose.
She opened a blank document. The cursor blinked at her like it was daring her to begin.
Subject: You Might Want to Sit Down Before Reading This
Dear Professor Wright,
My name is Aisling Maeve O’Byrne. You may remember me as the publishing rep who sent you entirely too many emails in hopes of signing you to Blackwood House Publishing. We met in New York. You were kind, professional, and deeply intimidating. I was about an hour away from quitting. You may also remember that I did, in fact, quit—spectacularly.
I’m writing today for a reason that has absolutely nothing to do with publishing. I’ve just learned something shocking.
I recently inherited my grandmother’s estate in Mountshannon, County Clare. Her name was Noreen O’Byrne.
My mother’s name was Maeve.
In a box hidden in the walls of the house, I found a letter addressed to her from a man named Patrick, along with an engagement ring. It was dated the summer of 1994.
That summer, you were one of five visiting professors at University College Dublin. My mother was a student there.
I believe you are my father.
I don’t write that sentence lightly. I’m not looking for anything from you, no favors, no money, no retroactive parenting. I’ve lived thirty years without a father, and while it shaped me, I’m not broken.
What I do want is the truth. Did you know about me? Did something happen that kept you from coming back? From marrying her? From being part of her life?
If you didn’t know I existed, well, now you do.
I don’t expect a perfect answer, or even a fast one. But I hope, if you are who I think you are, you’ll write back.
With respect,
Aisling
She stared at the screen. Her hand hovered over the mouse for a full minute before she finally hit send.
Gone. Delivered. Digital lightning, zipping across continents.
Now she felt sick.
“Aisling?” Ronan’s voice came from the hall. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t look up right away. Her eyes were still locked on the sent confirmation, her heart doing acrobatics.
“I sent it,” she said. “The letter. To Patrick.”
Ronan crossed the dining room in two strides and sat across from her. His presence grounded her more than she cared to admit. No questions. Just quiet support.
“What did you say?” he asked finally.
“That I believed he was my father. That I didn’t want anything from him except the truth.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”
With a sigh, she glanced around the formal dining room at the dust covers draped across the furniture.
“I also asked if he knew about me. About my mother. About the fact that she waited for someone who never came back.”
Ronan exhaled through his nose. “And if he never responds?”
Aisling didn’t answer right away. She reached for the ring box and opened it again, staring down at the gold band with a single marquise-shaped diamond. Simple. Elegant. No frills, just like her mother.
It was a thought that had crossed her mind. Then she would never have the answers she sought.
“I’ll survive,” she said finally. “But I’ll always wonder.”
Ronan reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers.
“You’re braver than I would’ve been.”
She gave a soft snort. “Oh, don’t start. You’re the man who just asked a woman he barely likes to edit his life’s work.”
“ Barely likes?” he said with mock offense. “I’d say we’ve graduated to tolerated-and-mildly-adored.”
A corner of her mouth curled. “It’s been a very strange week.”
“Isn’t that the truth?”
They sat there, quiet for a moment. The workers had taken a lunch break. The only sound was Céilí bleating in the distance, probably annoyed her love affair with the billy goats had been cut short by a locked pen.
“I keep thinking about the what-ifs,” she said softly. “What if Patrick didn’t know? What if he did and left anyway?”
Ronan’s voice was gentle. “Then you’ll have your answer. Either way, you get to stop wondering.”
She nodded, fingers tracing the edge of the ring box. “Closure.”
He leaned closer. “Or… beginning.”
Aisling’s breath caught. “You’re dangerously optimistic, Gallagher.”
“It’s a side effect of kissing you, apparently. Even my bratty brother has noticed.”
That made her laugh. A real one. Full and unfiltered.
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about our kisses.”
“You brought it up.”
“No, you brought it up.”
“You literally just said the word ‘kiss.’”
“Only in reference to how irritating you are.”
“That’s slander.”
“That’s truth.”
Their eyes locked. Banter dissolved into something softer, slower. Warmer.
The kind of silence that pulsed.
“Are you still mad about me kissing you in the pub the other night?” he asked, voice low.
“Which part?”
“The kiss. The attraction. The feud. The fact that I said I wanted to see you again.”
Her voice was barely a whisper. “No.”
He leaned closer. “What about now?”
Her pulse skipped. “Still no.”
“Then I’m going to ask you something.”
She raised a brow. “If it involves goats or betrothals, or kissing me in a pub full of gossips, it’s a no.”
“It doesn’t.” He smiled, just enough to ruin her concentration. “Come to dinner with me again. Just you. Me. Food. Conversation.”
She tried not to grin too widely. “You’re relentless.”
“I’m Irish. It’s in the blood.”
After a beat, Aisling crossed her arms and tilted her head. “All right. A girl’s gotta eat, and my kitchen’s currently a war zone. But I’m paying.”
Ronan straightened, looking scandalized. “Absolutely not.”
“Then it’s a no.”
He leaned back in his chair, one brow arched, wearing that infuriatingly smug smirk. “We’ll see.”
Aisling rose and stepped forward, her hands braced on the table. She kissed him, soft and teasing, just a brush of lips and heat.
“Get the hell out of here,” she murmured, “so I can get some work done.”
He blinked, still leaning into the kiss that was already gone. “What about my next chapter?”
“It’ll keep until tomorrow,” she said, moving to the doorway. “Today’s for clearing out the bedrooms. Paint’s going up soon.”
It wasn’t a total lie, there was plenty to do, but if she was being honest, she needed space from the story, from him , from the emotional aftermath of finding Patrick’s letter and the whiplash of her own feelings.
“I’ll pick you up at six,” he said, standing. “And this time we’re eating in Mountshannon.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You really want to start a town-wide gossip fire, don’t you?”
He grinned. “I’m not sneaking around like some scandal. Either you’re with me or you’re not.”
His words were low, steady, confident, not a demand, but a declaration. There was no pressure in his tone, but the weight of what he meant settled in the air between them.
Aisling hesitated. Not because she didn’t know her answer. But because she felt it in her chest, heavy and real.
“You in?” he asked again, his gaze never leaving hers.
She let the silence stretch, testing the truth inside her chest. Then, finally.
“I don’t know how Declan’s going to take it,” she said with a crooked smile. “The poor man thinks I’m his next conquest.”
Ronan’s expression darkened. “Fuck Declan,” he muttered. “Let him hear it from me.”
Her brow lifted. “That sounds like you’re marking your territory.”
He stepped closer, close enough for her pulse to stutter. “Not marking,” he said. “Just making things clear.”
Aisling gave him a slow smile that promised mischief. “Clarity suits you.”
He leaned in once more, lips barely grazing hers. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Then he turned and left.
And for one long moment, she stood there with her fingers at her lips, pulse racing.
Clarity, indeed.