A Letter from Ireland – Juliet Gauvin #6
And Shane was there. Not always. Not every day.
But often enough that his absence felt like a pause, not a disappearance.
He claimed to be “thinking through the design” of the house he’d been hired to plan—testing light angles, considering foundations, and climbing trees to think through window placements.
But more often, he’d show up with takeaway or fresh Guinness cake from Ida’s Bakery, use the drawing desk to sketch alongside her, or talk her into long walks through the woods.
They didn’t touch much—just the occasional brush of hands, the light bump of shoulders—but something about it was enough. They hadn’t come close to the intensity of that first night at O’Leary’s, but somehow it was clear they were heading together in one direction.
For the first time in her life, she didn’t analyze it. She didn’t overthink. She just allowed it to unfold the way it was meant to.
They continued in this way until the first week of July.
The day had started with a bright blue sky—not a cloud in sight—but by four in the afternoon a summer storm rolled in without warning. The sky darkened, and within minutes, sheets of rain slammed down against the lake and pelted the French doors.
Erin stood in the kitchen watching it through the glass, barefoot and content, a glass of red wine in her hand.
A knock rattled one of the French doors.
She didn’t need to open it to know it was Shane.
She crossed the living room and let him in.
He’d been caught in the storm. He was damp but grinning, his hair wet and curling around his forehead, droplets still clinging to the collar of his white button-down shirt.
“Mind if I take shelter?” he asked, a hint of mischief in his voice.
She laughed and handed him a towel. “If I say no, will you melt?”
“Very likely,” he said, drying his hair and stepping inside. “I was out checking sun angles for the back windows. Apparently, I should’ve been checking the forecast instead.”
She walked back to the kitchen, poured him a glass of wine, and handed it to him without asking.
He took a sip, then nodded approvingly. “Is it a Cab?”
“Tempranillo.”
“Oooh. Fancy.”
They moved through the space like they’d done dozens of times during the past month.
“How’s your day been?” he asked, taking another sip.
“I finished the oak tree painting,” she said. Her eyes grew bright. “Want to see?”
He answered without hesitation, “Of course.”
They set their glasses down on the kitchen counter, then climbed the spiral staircase.
Upstairs, the light was diffuse, silvery and soft. The lake below was blurred by ripples and falling rain.
She led him to the easel.
He stepped in front of the painting and just stood there, silent.
The rain tapped steadily against the windows. The light from the storm made everything feel suspended—like the world had gone quiet just for them.
She could feel her pulse in her fingertips. Every inch of her was tuned into him.
It felt like stepping into a dream she’d had a thousand times.
Her heart started pounding. That same intensity from their night at O’Leary’s rushed back, sudden and sharp.
Her skin buzzed. Her chest rose and fell a little faster.
The quiet between them was no longer soft. It was charged.
She watched him instead of the canvas. Watched the slow way his chest expanded. The way his moss-green eyes moved across her brushwork. The quiet reverence in his face.
“Some of my favorite memories are of us in that tree,” he finally said. “You made us feel real again.” His voice was thick.
She didn’t know what to say, so she just stood beside him, breathing.
She turned slightly towards him. “It’s a shame,” she said, barely above a whisper, “that the storm made it hard for you to finish your design plans.”
He was still staring at the painting. “I got everything I needed after the third day in June.”
She blinked. “What?”
He turned then, finally meeting her eyes. “The rest of the time . . . I’ve just been looking for excuses to see you.”
Something inside her stilled.
He stepped closer and took her hand.
Her voice was soft. “So . . . you’ve been lying for a month?” There was no accusation in her tone.
“No,” he whispered, reaching into her hair and removing her hair tie so it fell loose all around her shoulders.
“I have been spending time on the land, surveying, climbing trees . . . so it wouldn’t be a lie.
But I didn’t need to do any of it. I already knew what I was going to design. I just wanted to be near you.”
She stopped breathing.
He moved his hand to cup her face.
For a long moment they stared into each other’s eyes.
He moved his thumb against her cheek. “I love you, Erin.”
All she could see were his moss-green eyes, his full lips. All she could hear was pounding rain and her pounding heart.
He said it again, slower. “I love you.”
She found her voice. “I love you too.”
And that was it. No more restraint. No more waiting.
Their mouths collided.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative.
It was everything.
All the weeks of near-misses, of charged glances, of skin brushing against skin but never staying—came rushing forward in one breathless moment.
His hands went to her waist. Hers tangled into his damp hair.
She tasted the rain on his lips, while the wine still lingered on hers.
He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist without thinking.
She could feel every line of his body and suddenly she wanted nothing between them.
He moved to press her against the wall next to the glass windows.
His mouth moved to her neck, slow and deliberate, grazing over the line of her jaw, her collarbone. Her head tilted back on instinct, lips parted, breath shallow.
“I’ve been thinking about this for a month,” he murmured against her skin. “No, I’ve been thinking about this for decades.”
Her hands slid beneath his shirt, feeling the firmness of his back muscles. He groaned softly as her nails scraped gently along his spine. The sound lit something inside her.
She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, and he let it fall to the floor. Within seconds her own linen blouse was next to it.
His eyes moved over her—bare shoulders, flushed skin, the lace edge of her pale pink bra—and he looked like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
He reached behind her, unhooked her bra, and removed it slowly. Her breasts swung free.
The air between them changed. Thickened.
She stepped out of her leggings while he pulled his belt free with one smooth motion. They undressed each other without looking away.
When they were bare, he stepped in close again, lifting her up and placing her on the daybed in the corner, next to the glass wall.
Their bodies touched—hip to hip, chest to chest. She gasped softly at the feel of him. He kissed her again, this time slower, like he was memorizing her mouth.
The lake shimmered next to them, rain still falling in sheets against the window. Light flickered in silver tones across their skin.
He kissed down her chest, pausing to take her breast into his mouth, swirling his tongue slowly, then giving the other the same attention. Her body arched beneath him.
“Shane,” she breathed, her voice filled with need.
He brought his mouth down on hers again and positioned himself between her legs. She reached down and guided him in, her breath caught as he entered her, slow and deep.
They moved together in a rhythm that felt inevitable—like waves returning to shore. Every thrust pushed her higher. Every kiss, every breath, was laced with the feeling that this wasn’t just passion. This was coming home.
He whispered her name like a prayer, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged, skin slick with heat.
Her hands gripped his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his back, drawing him deeper into her. They moved together faster, losing themselves in each other.
The tension built until she was shaking, clinging to him as pleasure crashed over her.
He followed a moment later with a groan that rumbled through his chest and into hers.
They stayed tangled for a long time, breath mingling, hearts racing.
He held her against him tightly, like he refused to let her drift away again.
Later, they moved down to her bedroom.
Round two was slower.
Deeper.
They fell asleep wrapped around each other. The storm still raged against the glass, but their bodies and souls were finally at peace.
The morning after, Erin stood at the easel, barefoot, wearing only a long linen white button-down shirt. Her hair was a wild halo from the night before. The studio was bathed in golden light. Outside, the lake shimmered with the sun.
Shane entered quietly, a steaming mug in each hand.
“You’re at it already?” he asked, grinning.
She turned, smiling. “Can’t help it.”
He kissed her cheek and handed her the tea, before wrapping one arm around her waist. They stood that way for a moment, tangled and content.
EPILOGUE: The Second Bloom
The rest of July unfolded like a dream. They were inseparable—painting, laughing, walking in the woods, listening to live music in the pub at night, and dancing in the kitchen. And somehow, through it all, she’d painted like never before. By month’s end, she’d completed twenty-two pieces.
At the private gallery showing, fifteen sold, netting her nearly €80,000. Enough to build a future.
Marina offered her a part-time job teaching a children’s art class at the gallery—along with a promise to showcase her new work. It would be an amazing new life.
She said yes.
Now, on her final night in the cottage, Erin lay curled beside Shane on the couch facing Lough Rhiannon, listening to the wind through the trees and watching the moon shimmer on the water.
“Tomorrow, you’ll move in with me. Any second thoughts?” he teased.
She shook her head against him. “No. I’m ready for my second life,” she said softly. “Marina was right. My second bloom is going to be brighter than my first.”
He kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said with a smile, then nuzzled into him. “It’s going to be extraordinary.”
Juliet writes romantic women’s fiction with a dash of spice set in Ireland, * think * The Holiday & Letters to Juliet .
She is a hopeless romantic from a small town in California.
Her first kiss was with a Frenchman in Paris & her first love was an Eagle Scout.
After traveling for book research, she fell in love with a Scot and moved to Edinburgh.