Chapter 27
CHAPTER 27
T he next morning, Aisling woke with a hangover so vicious it felt like someone had parked a tractor on her skull and left it idling.
Groaning, she buried her face deeper into the pillow.
Bad idea. The movement made the world tilt dangerously.
Too much whiskey.
Too much Ronan.
Way, way too much public kissing.
Her phone buzzed from somewhere on the floor, but she didn’t bother reaching for it. If it was Bríd checking in, she’d get a full report of the gossip later anyway. Everyone in Mountshannon probably knew she’d snogged Ronan Gallagher senseless at the pub.
Aisling dragged herself upright and shuffled toward the kitchen—where she remembered, with a fresh wave of despair, that her stove was still out of commission thanks to the renovation.
"Brilliant," she muttered, slapping a teabag into a mug and pouring water from the electric kettle.
Outside, she heard Céilí bleating like her soul was being torn apart.
Aisling groaned. What now?
Probably breaking into Ronan’s garden again to feast on the last surviving roses out of pure spite.
Still barefoot, she shoved the back door open, blinking into the harsh morning sunlight.
There was Céilí—headbutting a small, terrified gnome statue in her garden like it owed her money. Thank goodness she hadn’t gone wandering over to Ronan’s prized roses, yet.
“Céilí! Leave the poor gnome alone!” Aisling shouted.
The goat turned, gave her a look of pure goat disdain, and then pranced merrily away, straight into a bush full of prize lilies.
Aisling slapped a hand to her forehead. She never wanted to own another goat, and yet she feared another would be arriving in the spring.
She staggered back inside desperate for caffeine and quiet.
That’s when the knock came at the front door.
She paused. Frowned.
It was Wednesday morning, and the workers had yet to arrive. It was a little early for visitors unless it was another package from the devil himself, Séamus Gallagher.
Unless Ronan was brave, or drunk, enough to come back already. She didn’t have time for his nonsense today, regardless.
“Well, you’re about to get a face full of hungover rage,” she muttered.
She shuffled to the door and yanked it open.
And stopped cold.
It wasn’t Ronan.
It was Michael.
Standing there on her porch, looking sheepish and smug at the same time.
Holding a cheap bouquet of flowers.
Wearing his best I’m-so-sorry-please-take-me-back expression.
Dear God, she didn’t need this today.
“Aisling,” he said as if his appearance wasn’t equivalent to a bomb detonating in her already-shattered morning. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”
She gaped at him, mind refusing to process the horror.
Finally, she found her voice.
"You have got to be bloody kidding me."
Michael shifted awkwardly, shuffling his feet like a scolded schoolboy. "I—I heard you were in Ireland. I needed to see you."
“Why? So you could cheat on me in two different time zones?”
He winced. “I made a mistake.”
"A mistake?" She laughed, sharp and bitter. "Sleeping with my boss was a mistake? What was it, Michael, a clerical error?”
“They fired me,” he said, his face crumpling.
It was hard not to laugh.
“I’m not surprised. You are replaceable, Samantha, not so much.”
He pushed the flowers toward her like they were some kind of magical solution.
“I love you.”
She stared at the sad drooping daisies.
At his hopeful face.
At the absolute audacity of men.
Even the damn goat knew he was full of it. It sounded like judgment itself. The man was looking for a sugar momma, and she was not going to take the bait.
“No, it wasn’t a mistake. It was a flashing neon sign. You’re wasting your time. We’re done.”
She smiled sweetly.
And slammed the door right in Michael’s stunned face.
Leaning against the wood, she let out a long, shaky breath.
First, Ronan and his secret inheritance schemes.
Now, Michael, crawling back from the grave of their disaster.
Was it something in the water? Had she been cursed by an old Irish fairy?
She needed tea. Stronger tea. Possibly laced with whiskey.
She turned?—
And froze for the third time that morning.
Standing awkwardly in her kitchen, as if he’d just materialized out of thin air, was a man she’d only ever seen once.
A man whose photo she’d studied endlessly since finding that letter hidden behind the old walls.
Professor Patrick Wright.
Her father.
He stood there, holding his battered leather satchel like a shield, his blue eyes hesitant and searching. His face seemed older now, lined with guilt and time, but unmistakably the man she’d seen a month ago.
"Aisling," he said, voice cracking a little. “I let myself in the back. I…I got your email.”
The world tilted sideways again—but this time it had nothing to do with the hangover.
She stared at him, her breath locking in her chest, her heart hammering so hard it hurt.
After all these years.
After all the questions.
The silence.
The wondering.
He was here.
Finally, here.