Chapter 10
“Maybe,” she admitted. “Or maybe not. I don’t know. I’m so confused. I just had coffee with Victoria.”
Raven’s smile vanished and she arched a black brow. “Now why’d you go and do a stupid thing like that?”
“Excuse me?” Dylan asked.
Raven put her arm around her shoulders and guided her into the boutique. It smelled of sandalwood and spices, and Dylan couldn’t help but notice the rich textures and colors of the clothing displays. She didn’t belong in here.
“You got a death wish or something?” Raven asked. “Why in the world would you meet with her?”
“Because she called and said there were things that need to be said.”
“Well, whatever she told you, erase them from your mind. Victoria is a barracuda. And she’s manipulative.”
“She said she still loved Aidan and that because I haven’t figured out my feelings yet then that means she still has a chance.”
Raven swore, which was so uncharacteristic of her all Dylan could do was stare.
“Sorry,” she said. “But if you want to know my opinion Victoria never had a chance. We all saw it back when they were together. If you could even really call them together. Anyone with half a brain could see that she was all wrong for Aidan. And Aidan saw it too.”
“Then why didn’t he break it off with her?”
“Because when things go bad in a relationship, women get domineering and independent, and men go passive. That’s just the way of the world.
Take it from someone who’s been married for a while.
It just worked out that Victoria’s daddy opened some doors for her to be a shark somewhere else.
Believe me, Laurel Valley was glad to see her go.
She always acted like more of a tourist than a local.
Like everyone here was supposed to serve her. ”
Dylan snorted out a laugh. “Tell me how you really feel.”
Raven grinned. “All I’m saying is don’t let whatever seeds she planted in your head take root.”
Dylan’s phone rang, and she looked down to see Aidan’s name pop up. “It’s Aidan.”
“Lordy, probably everyone in town knows you had coffee with that woman. Better answer quick.”
“Hey,” Dylan said.
“Hey yourself,” he said. “How’s the shop looking?”
“Like it’s becoming real,” she said. “I got another client this morning.”
“Which reminds me, now is a good time to start taking applications for help. You’ll need a receptionist and a couple of apprentices to help with the restorations. Might be a good idea to call Mr. Otto and see if he had anyone promising who graduated from his shop class last year.”
Employees. “Right,” she said, wishing she could just go bury herself under a hood somewhere so she didn’t have to think about this stuff.
As if Aidan was reading her mind he said, “You’ll need help. Especially on the administrative side. You don’t want to be stuck doing paperwork when you need to be working on cars.”
“Right,” she said again. “I’ll find someone.”
“Good, want to have dinner tonight? My place? I promise to cook something that won’t poison you.”
“Your place?” She’d never been to his house, only driven past the turnoff on her way to his parent’s house.
“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice to have dinner without being under the microscope.”
“What time?”
“Seven. I’ll text you directions to my house. It’s about five miles past the main house, by the lake.”
* * *
That evening, Dylan drove through the O’Hara ranch as twilight painted the valley in shades of lavender and gold.
The private road wound like a ribbon through their kingdom, past the main farmhouse where windows bloomed with amber light—each pane a promise of gathered family, of voices raised in laughter and argument, of the kind of belonging that had roots centuries deep.
She continued deeper into the property, where the land opened its arms to embrace the separate homes the brothers had carved from their inheritance.
Up here, the road climbed toward Aidan’s house, perched on a rise like a hawk’s nest overlooking the lake.
Built of honey-colored logs and weathered stone, it seemed less constructed than conjured—as if the mountain itself had dreamed of shelter and made it manifest in wood and glass.
Windows faced west to catch the last light, turning the peaks into a cathedral of shadow and flame.
He was waiting on the porch for her.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said, awe and wonder coloring her voice. “Why would you ever want to leave?”
“Some days it’s harder to come into work than others,” he said, handing her a glass of wine as she climbed the steps.
The inside revealed itself like a confession—all Aidan, every surface and corner speaking his language.
Leather furniture in shades of cognac and chocolate invited rather than impressed, worn soft in the places where he habitually settled.
Bookshelves climbed the walls like ivy, heavy with the democratic chaos of a real reader—repair manuals keeping company with dog-eared mysteries, technical diagrams pressed against poetry he’d probably never admit to owning.
The massive stone fireplace commanded the room like an ancient altar, flames painting shadows that danced across pine beams aged to honey.
But it was the windows that stole her breath—floor-to-ceiling expanses that transformed the mountains into living art, each peak and valley framed like a masterpiece that changed its mood with the light.
This wasn’t the careless space of a man marking time until something better came along.
This was a home built on the bedrock of intention, every beam and stone a declaration of permanence.
“Kitchen’s through here,” he said, and she followed him into a space that married rustic bones with modern comfort—copper pots hanging like bells from wrought iron, granite counters that gleamed like dark water, appliances that whispered efficiency beneath their farmhouse facades.
“Fair warning—I’m making venison stew. Duncan got a deer last week. And my mother gave me the recipe. I figure if I can take an engine apart I can follow a recipe.”
“It smells amazing.” The words came out steadier than she felt.
She perched on a stool at the island, an uninvited ache blooming in her chest as she watched him move through his kitchen with easy competence She didn’t believe for a second that he didn’t know his way around a kitchen well.
The sleeves of his henley were pushed up to reveal forearms that had earned their strength, the firelight from the next room painting gold across his shoulders as he stirred something that smelled like comfort and home and all the things she’d taught herself not to want.
This domestic tableau—Aidan cooking dinner while November pressed its face against the windows, the house settling into evening like a sigh—it was everything she’d never allowed herself to imagine. And that was precisely what made it dangerous.
“Victoria came to see me today,” she said, needing it out in the open.
His stirring paused. “I might have heard that somewhere. I was wondering if you’d bring it up.”
“She told me she’s not giving you up without a fight.”
Aidan turned to face her fully. “I don’t think she’s got anything to hold on to, so I’m not sure who she plans to fight. Maybe I’ll sic Raven on her. Raven never liked her. And I bet she’s got a mean right hook.”
“I don’t like being manipulated,” she said.
“I can’t blame you,” Aidan said. “Nobody does.”
“Then why do I feel this pressure, no matter which direction I turn? Is your grandfather’s treasure hunt real? Or is it another form of manipulation?”
He went very still. “What do you mean?”
“This whole thing—the riddles, the hunt, finding someone to search with. What aren’t you telling me?”
He set down the ladle, rubbing the back of his neck in that gesture she’d learned meant he was choosing words thoughtfully. “You’re right. There’s more to the hunt than I’ve said.”
Dylan’s stomach tightened. “Tell me.”
“My grandfather’s letter—the one that started all this. He didn’t just hide the ring for fun. He hid it specifically for…” He paused, then pulled out his wallet, removing a worn piece of paper. “Here. Read it yourself.”
Dylan took the letter with hands that weren’t quite steady.
My dear boy—and I know it’s you, Aidan. You got my looks and my charm, which means you’ve got my weakness too. You think life’s a dance where you never have to pick a partner for more than one song.
By now, they’ve shown you the ring. It’s a fine ring, and it’s served the family well. But here’s the truth of it, boy—that’s not the real ring.
The real claddagh ring, the one blessed by a priest in Galway before the hunger took half of Ireland, is hidden. I’ve left it somewhere on this land, along with clues to find it. Why? Because nothing worth having comes easy, and love least of all.
You want to know the secret of the O’Haras? It’s not charm or looks or the gift of the gab. It’s knowing how to work for something. How to earn it. Your grandmother made me prove myself seven times before she’d be my wife.
Find the ring, boy. But more than that, find someone worth giving it to. Someone who’ll make you want to stop dancing and finally learn to stand still.
PS. Don’t let your brothers help. They mean well, but this is your adventure. Find someone clever, with brains and heart. And for the love of all that’s holy, find someone who can’t be charmed by that smile of yours.
Dylan set down the letter, her mind spinning, but Aidan was already moving toward the stove. “Let’s eat while it’s hot,” he said quietly. “Then we can talk through whatever you’re thinking.”
They sat across from each other at his dining table, the stew rich and warming between them, but Dylan found herself studying his face in the firelight.
Victoria’s words circled like vultures overhead, picking at the tender places where hope had started to take root.
The domesticity of it—the way he’d ladled the stew into bowls his mother had probably given him, the way he’d set out cloth napkins instead of paper—felt simultaneously perfect and suspect.
“The last unmarried O’Hara,” she said finally, setting down her spoon. “This whole hunt was about finding you a wife?”
“No,” Aidan said quickly, though his own appetite seemed to have fled. “It was about making me work for something. Making me understand that love isn’t easy or convenient or—”
“So I’m what? A means to an end? The clever one who helps you get your inheritance?” The words tasted bitter, like medicine she didn’t want to swallow but knew she needed.
“Dylan, no. That’s not—”
She pushed back from the table, needing distance from the golden circle of lamplight that made everything feel too intimate, too real. “You asked me to help you that first Saturday. Was it because you actually wanted me, or because you were fulfilling some family prophecy?”
“Both. Neither. I don’t know.” He stood too, the space between them crackling with tension.
“Dylan, please. Yes, the letter made me think of you. But not because I was following instructions. Because when he described someone clever with brains and heart, someone who couldn’t be charmed, you were the only person I could picture. ”
“How convenient that your employee fit the description.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended, each one a small blade thrown with precision.
“Stop it. You know it’s more than that.”