Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
W hen they arrived at The Last Drop, Aisling paused on the threshold. The pub was packed. Banners of Irish clans lined the walls. People were in color-coordinated shirts, pint glasses raised high, and a sign above the stage read in bold Celtic lettering:
“ Battle of the Clans Trivia Night: Come with wit, leave with pride. ”
She turned on him. “You brought me to trivia night?”
He grinned shamelessly. “You love a challenge.”
“You tricked me.”
“I prefer ‘strategically guided.’”
Aisling narrowed her eyes. “So this whole thing was just a public declaration of… what, exactly? That we’re now… seeing each other?”
He took her coat and hung it on the rack. “That I’m proud to be seen with you. Is that a problem?”
The gall. The absolute gall.
And yet, her cheeks warmed anyway.
Paddy spotted them from behind the bar. “O’Byrne and Gallagher on the same team tonight?”
“Unfortunately,” Aisling said, sliding onto a bench.
“Victory or death,” Ronan said, clinking his pint against hers.
“More like trivia and tension,” she muttered but smiled all the same.
The first round began. General Irish history. Aisling nailed question after question, Ronan keeping pace beside her with literary references and obscure folklore.
“Who was the last High King of Ireland?” the quizmaster bellowed.
“Brian Boru,” Aisling whispered.
“Show-off,” Ronan said, scribbling the answer down.
“Did you bring me here to make a fool of myself?” she asked during the next break.
“No. I brought you here so you’d have an excuse to show off that terrifying brain of yours,” he said, sipping his beer. “And also, because I enjoy watching you get competitive. You bounce in your seat a little. It’s adorable.”
“I do not bounce.”
“You absolutely bounce.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable.”
“But charming,” he said.
“I’ll give you insufferable with a dash of charm.”
The second round—music and poetry. Ronan took the lead. He quoted Yeats from memory, and the way his voice dropped on the last stanza had her pulse tapping a faster beat.
The pub buzzed with energy. Teams heckled one another playfully, people waved flags, and by the final round, Ronan and Aisling were tied for first with the Doyle Clan.
“Final question!” the quizmaster roared. “What was the original color associated with St. Patrick?”
Aisling froze. “It wasn’t green, was it?”
Ronan leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Blue. St. Patrick’s blue.”
The breath caught in her throat.
“Are you sure?”
His fingers brushed hers under the table. “Trust me.”
She scribbled down the answer, still flustered.
When the scores were tallied and “Gallagher-O’Byrne United Front” was declared the winner, the pub exploded in cheers.
They stood, mildly stunned, as Paddy held up their prize—two T-shirts that read: “Battle of the Clans Champion – May the Best Clan Win.”
Ronan handed one to her with a wink. “Teamwork looks good on you.”
She snorted. “This was a setup.”
“Maybe,” he said, watching her like she was something worth memorizing. “But you had fun.”
She didn’t argue. Because he was right, damn him. And for just a little while, he’d taken her mind off her problems.
By the time they got back to the estate, the stars had scattered like glitter across the Irish sky. The night hummed around them quiet, slow, perfect.
Ronan walked her to the door, hands in his pockets, body language a perfect blend of restraint and temptation.
“I had a good time,” she said.
“I noticed.”
“You planned this whole thing so people would see us together.”
“I did.” He stepped a little closer. “You’re not mad?”
“Not as much as I should be.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s flattering,” she admitted. “And annoying.”
“Two things I do very well.”
She turned the key in the door, aware of his presence beside her, of the way he kept glancing at her lips like they held secrets he was dying to read.
Then he said, voice low, “I was thinking… maybe a nightcap?”
Aisling gave him her best you-must-be-joking face. “Not happening.”
He didn’t budge. “Come on. I’ll behave.”
“That’s what men say right before they don’t behave.”
“So you’re afraid of me.”
She leaned back against the door, crossing her arms. “Not even a little. But I am afraid of my own judgment when it comes to very handsome men who smell like soap and testosterone and make me laugh during trivia.”
He took a half-step forward. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
He leaned in, his gaze locked on hers. “Aisling…”
Her heart jumped as his hand cupped the side of her face.
And then he kissed her.
Not the hungry, showy kiss from the pub. This one was deliberate. Deep. Possessive in that quiet way that said: I see you. I want you. And I’m not in a hurry.
She melted into it, tasting whiskey, warmth, and something far more dangerous. Something she could get addicted to.
When she pulled back, slightly breathless, she looked up at him and smirked.
“That was… unnecessarily good,” she whispered.
He brushed his thumb across her jaw. “Just wait till I get to show off.”
She opened the door behind her and slipped inside. “Not tonight, Mr. Gallagher. Go home.”
“I could stand here a little longer—just in case you change your mind.”
She gave him one of her no-nonsense looks. “And I could set Céilí loose on your flowerbeds again.”
He grinned, tipping his head in mock defeat. “Fair enough.”
“Goodnight, Ronan.”
“Sweet dreams, Aisling.”
As she shut the door, she leaned against it, a hand pressed to her racing heart.
This was getting dangerous.
Dangerous to her heart.