Chapter 26
CHAPTER 26
T he Last Drop buzzed with energy when Aisling pushed open the heavy wooden door. The warm blast of music, laughter, and the smell of beer hit her like a wave. If the town expected her to hide after what happened, they had another thing coming.
She wore her best-fitted jeans, a soft sweater that hinted at curves but didn’t scream look at me, and just enough lipstick to say she was alive, damn it. She was here to show them all, including Ronan Gallagher, that Aisling O'Byrne wasn't some lovesick fool crawling back into the shadows.
When she spotted him, her stomach gave a stupid, traitorous flip. There he sat, across the room, a drink in his hand, brooding like some fallen Irish god. He glanced up, and when their eyes locked, the air practically snapped between them.
No smiles. No waves.
Just two glacial, silent death glares.
Perfect.
She marched to the bar and slid onto a stool, tossing her bag onto the counter with more force than necessary. Paddy, polishing glasses like he had all the time in the world, gave her a sidelong grin.
"Evening, Aisling," he said, pouring her usual without asking. "Lovely night for a public standoff, isn't it?"
"You were right," she muttered, accepting her drink. "About all of it."
Paddy chuckled. "Takes a stubborn woman to admit it. Proud of ya.”
“I’ve not met him, but I officially hate Séamus Gallagher.”
Paddy nodded. “He’s a contrary old goat.”
She raised her glass in mock salute and sipped. Fire burned down her throat, but it was a good kind of burn. The kind that said she was alive, furious, and absolutely not crying into her pillow tonight.
When her name was called, she didn't hesitate.
She grabbed the second chapter she’d polished to within an inch of its life, strode up to the little stage, and adjusted the microphone.
"Evening," she said. "This is chapter two of my story. Hope you enjoy it."
And oh, they did.
She had them hooked from the first sentence.
Laughs in the right places. Gasps when her heroine delivered a savage one-liner.
When she finished, the pub erupted in claps and a few loud whistles.
She bowed slightly, grinning, feeling lighter than she had in days.
And then Ronan’s name was called.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him saunter to the stage with the casual confidence of a man who knew he had the whole damn room eating out of his hand. He flipped open a folder and started reading.
It only took two paragraphs before Aisling's blood pressure spiked.
No. No, no, no.
She shot up from her chair mid-sentence and pointed at him like an avenging angel.
"What the hell is this?" she demanded, loud enough that half the pub gasped and the other half leaned in, grinning like hyenas at a fresh kill.
Ronan stopped, mid-read, and raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, did you forget how public readings work?"
"You forgot how editing works!" she snapped. "I fixed that chapter. I spent hours fixing that chapter. And you went right back to the old, wandering-in-the-roses crap.”
The crowd howled with laughter.
Ronan crossed his arms over his broad chest. "My publisher prefers this version."
"Your publisher has no taste.”
"And you write romance drivel!" he shot back. "Kissing and crying and running dramatically into the rain?—”
The fire inside might have just exploded into a full-blazing inferno.
"My drivel actually has a plot!" she snarled. " And character development! Your guy's still sniffing flower petals like a lost puppy. Kind of like the writer.”
The place was now howling with laughter. Paddy was doubled over behind the bar. Someone at the back was taking bets.
"And while we're at it," Ronan added, voice low and dangerous, "your bloody goat ate my new rose bushes this morning. Again."
The pub broke into actual applause.
Aisling slammed her hands on her hips. "Maybe Céilí just has excellent taste, and your flowers suck. She’s doing the world a favor by getting rid of them.”
"One more time and I'm putting her on a spit!" he roared.
"You so much as touch a hair on her head, and I'll call PETA, the Irish Times, and the Pope himself.”
He took a step closer. She took a step too. There was barely a breath between them now, the heat rolling off them, anger and something else mixing in the small, electric space.
The crowd was utterly silent, holding its breath.
"You're impossible," he said in a rough whisper.
"And you're a stubborn, egotistical mule," she hissed back.
"For the love of God," someone muttered from the back. "Just snog her already!"
Without thinking, without caring, Aisling grabbed the front of Ronan’s shirt, yanked him down, and kissed him.
Hard.
The pub exploded in cheers and whistles and stomping feet, but she barely heard it.
Because the second their lips met, the anger transformed into something hot and raw and breathtaking.
He kissed her back like a man who hadn’t tasted water in days. His hands slid into her hair, holding her like he was afraid she’d vanish. And she kissed him like her life depended on it, furious and desperate and aching for everything they couldn't seem to say out loud.
When they finally pulled apart, gasping for air, the room was a riot of shouts.
"That’s more like it!" Paddy bellowed.
"You owe me twenty euros!" someone else yelled.
Aisling blinked up at Ronan, dazed, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"You still think my writing’s boring?" he rasped, his forehead resting lightly against hers.
"You still think romance is drivel?" she fired back, breathless.
He grinned, slow and wicked. "Not anymore."
She laughed, the sound bubbling out of her before she could stop it. And maybe, just maybe, for the first time in a long time, the ache in her chest loosened its grip.
The cheering hadn't even died down when Paddy slammed two more whiskeys onto the bar.
"On the house!" he bellowed staring at Ronan and Aisling.
"God save Mountshannon!" someone hollered.
Someone else started clapping out a rhythm like they expected Aisling and Ronan to start dancing next, or maybe get engaged right there between the battered bar stools.
Aisling pulled herself free from Ronan's arms and smoothed her hair back, cheeks flaming hotter than a midsummer bonfire.
Kissing him was a big mistake. Huge mistake.
She didn’t want the town to think they were back together.
And she sure as hell didn’t want him thinking that either.
"Well," she said airily, turning toward the bar and picking up her whiskey. "That settles that. The crowd got their show. You can all go home now."
Ronan leaned against the bar next to her, way too casual for a man who had just been kissed like his life depended on it.
He picked up his own whiskey, lifted it in salute, and said loud enough for the whole pub to hear, "To the O’Byrne and Gallagher feud. May it continue forever in public make-out sessions."
More roaring laughter. Someone even shouted, "Marry her already, you coward!"
Aisling downed her whiskey in one savage gulp and slammed the glass on the bar.
"Keep dreaming, Gallagher," she said, her voice sugar-sweet and loaded with venom. "This was a one-time show. You’re not getting a sequel. Remember, your grandfather is evicting me in less than ninety days.”
He tilted his head, studying her with those stormy blue eyes that had once melted her knees with just a glance.
Tonight? Tonight, she barely wobbled.
“He’s a demented old man,” he said softly.
“Doesn’t matter. There will be no more make-out sessions in the pub. We’re officially done,” she said.
"Are you sure about that?" he murmured, low enough that only she could hear it.
"Absolutely," she lied.
He laughed under his breath, the sound deep and rough and maddening. "You keep telling yourself that, darling. But don’t forget, I’m coming for you.”
Before she could think of a sufficiently savage comeback, a group of locals swarmed them, slapping Ronan on the back and clapping her on the shoulder like she’d just scored the winning goal at a championship match.
"Finally!" Mrs. Flannery cried, tears in her eyes. "You two are meant to be. ”
"I'll call Father O’Malley!" someone shouted. "He'll marry you tonight!"
Aisling forced a tight smile and elbowed her way through the crowd toward the door. She needed air. She needed space. She needed Ronan Gallagher about as much as she needed a second goat terrorizing the neighborhood.
Ronan was hot on her heels, of course. Because he was Ronan.
She stepped out into the cool night air, breathing deeply, staring up at the stars, and wishing she could teleport back to New York. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be here in Mountshannon after all. Maybe she should book her trip back to the Big Apple.
Behind her, Ronan leaned casually against the pub's stone wall, arms crossed, and one eyebrow lifted.
"You’re running," he said.
"I’m breathing," she snapped. "And if you don’t want me to start screaming about goats and contracts and blood feuds in front of the whole town, I suggest you stay ten feet away from me."
He straightened, hands up like he was surrendering. "Fine. Truce for tonight."
She narrowed her eyes.
"But listen to me," he said, stepping closer anyway. His voice dropped to a low rumble that did dangerous things to her knees. "Whatever’s between us, whatever you're pretending isn't there, it's not going away just because you’re pissed at me."
"I’m not pissed, " she said through gritted teeth. "I’m done. "
"Done," he repeated, slow and thoughtful. "That’s why you kissed me like you wanted to climb me like a tree five minutes ago?"
She turned sharply, her boots crunching on the gravel as she walked away from him, her hands balled into fists.
"Go home, Ronan."
"Aye," he called after her. "But I’m still not giving up.”
“Your grandfather is evicting me. Give up because I’m mad as hell about what he’s doing,” she said. “I’m ending this damn feud.”
“It’s not over. We’re not done.”
She didn’t turn around.
Didn’t answer.
Didn’t let him see how those stupid words wrapped around her heart and tugged.
Instead, she kept walking into the dark, the night cool against her flushed skin, her boots echoing off the empty street.
She might have given him one kiss.
But he wasn’t getting her heart.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.