She clinked hers against it with a grin. “Make that two.”
This town might be small. The house might be falling apart. Her life might be one giant question mark. But she had a pen.
A story. And people who actually wanted to hear it.
“I’m going to shoot your goat,” he said as he slammed down his second drink. “And make a stew with it.”
She laughed and gazed at him drunkenly. “Oh, come on, you can do better than that. Don’t get your panties in a twist. You write beautifully. It’s just boring.”
Ronan turned toward her, eyes dark and unreadable. The muscle in his jaw ticked once, twice—then he leaned in close, his breath warm against her cheek.
“I’m going to hate myself in the morning for this,” he said, voice low, rough. “But someone needs to shut you up.”
Before she could retort, his mouth came crashing down on hers.
It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t soft. It was all heat and frustration and something darker simmering underneath—something that had been brewing since the moment she set foot in Mountshannon and made his life infinitely more complicated.
For a heartbeat, Aisling froze, stunned. Then she melted.
Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt as she pressed against him, meeting fire with fire. The kiss deepened, his mouth parting hers, tongue brushing teasingly past her lips like a challenge. Her knees went loose. Her brain went offline. Somewhere behind her, the pub roared—but she didn’t care.
He tasted like whiskey and smug satisfaction, andGod help her, it made her want more.
When his hand slipped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, she let out a low, involuntary sound that shocked them both. The tension snapped like a taut wire. He broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing hard.
The pub exploded into applause.
Aisling blinked, stunned by the weight of what had just happened. Then she turned to face the cheering crowd and gave them a theatrical bow.
Turning back to Ronan, she licked her lips, tasting him there, still.
“Don’t ever do that again,” she whispered, “unless you want me to cut your balls off.”
She tossed a few euros onto the bar and strode out into the night, head high and lips still tingling.
Behind her, she heard him growl, “Bloody hell,” and order another drink.
CHAPTER11
Aisling woke up with a hangover that could strip paint. Her head pounded like the renovation crew had installed a jackhammer directly into her skull, and the high-pitched whine of a saw made her question all her life choices—starting with that third whiskey and ending with kissing Ronan Gallagher like she hadn’t spent the last week fantasizing about punching him in the face.
She stumbled into the kitchen, fumbled for a mug, and blessed the Holy Spirit when she found tea already steeping. She shuffled out to the porch like a Victorian ghost with a death wish.
Céilí, the chaos goat, was already braying and nosing toward the gate like she hadromantic intentionsand a schedule to keep.
“Please don’t,” Aisling muttered. “My head feels like someone’s marching band held rehearsal in it.”
Céilí bleated like a defiant teenager.
“And if you want to live to see the next full moon, don’t evenlookat Ronan’s roses.”
More braying. She narrowed her eyes at the goat.
“Also… keep your legs together. For the love of all things holy.”
A man walked up the drive. A tall, dangerously charming man in a perfectly pressed shirt and the kind of smile that had probably gotten him out of at least two traffic tickets and one divorce.
“Morning,” he said, stepping into her hangover bubble like he owned it. “Mind if I join you?”
