Another winked at her like she was the pub’s Friday night entertainment.
“Brought something to read?” Paddy asked, nodding at the papers she clutched like a lifeline.
“Just a little something,” she said, instantly regretting not hiding the pages in her bag.
“You’ll be grand. Whiskey?”
“Only if it’s strong enough to make me forget I decided to do this.”
He chuckled. “On the house because you’re taking care of your grandmother’s will. We take care of our own. Especially the O’Byrnes.”
A moment later, a glass of golden Irish courage landed in front of her.
“Readings start once Ronan gets here,” Paddy added, rolling his eyes. “The man would be late to his own funeral. Nearly missed his father’s.”
Aisling laughed. Of course, Ronan was the center of the universe even when he wasn't present.
“We’re just waiting on him to decide if he’s going to join us tonight or sit and watch his flowers grow in the dark.”
That sounded like her raucous neighbor.
“Is he still complaining about your goat?” Paddy asked, pouring another round for the table beside them.
“Every chance he gets,” she said, thinking it was odd he’d not been over this week complaining about Céilí. “It’s making me nervous.”
“You might want to keep a closer eye on her,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s about the time she’d come into season.”
“Season?” Aisling blinked.
“You know—heat. Breeding urges. She’ll be yodeling for bucks if you’re not careful.”
Oh. Dear. God.
Aisling took a deep sip of her whiskey, internally screaming.
“She could leap a fence if there’s a buck nearby,” he added with a wink. “And Ronan’s got a few.”
“Of course, he does,” she muttered. “The man hoards flowers and male goats. Perfect.”
The man grinned. “I think you’re going to do just fine here. I hear you’re updating your grandmother’s house. We all loved that woman. She was like the pillar of our small community.”
Aisling nodded. “I wish I’d known her.”
“Ah, lass, she mentioned you often. She so wanted to meet you.”
Then the pub door swung open, and in strolled her enemy/betrothed/plant victim: Ronan Gallagher, looking rugged and smug in equal measure.
“’Bout time,” Paddy called. “We can start now.”
Ronan's gaze scanned the room, then landed on her.
“You’re here to listen?” he asked.
“She’s reading,” Paddy announced proudly.
His eyebrows lifted. “You write?”
“Worked in publishing,” she said coolly, omitting that she’d been a sales representative, peddling the newest releases, or that her degree was a B.A. in English Lit with a concentration in writing. Plus, she had a minor in marketing.
