“Please don’t start monologuing. You’re not in one of your books. I’m not wanting to go to sleep.”
He stood, slowly, walking around the table until he was beside her. Not too close. But close enough that she felt his warmth, the weight of what they hadn’t said.
The weight ofI want to drag you onto this kitchen table and do unspeakably satisfying things to youwas heavy in the air—but acting on it? Probably not the wisest life choice.
“I’m not apologizing for the kiss. But I will apologize for not knowing what the hell to do about you.”
She looked at him then, heart thudding. “Good. I don’t know either.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, then lifted again.
“I want to give this, whatever it is, a real shot. No promises. No pressure. Just… something real,” he said. “Slowly. Without expectations. No talk of betrothals or merging lands or fixing a hundred-year-old family feud.”
Aisling swallowed. “What does that mean? I need detailed instructions. I don’t like vague.”
“It means I like you, Aisling O’Byrne. And not just because you challenge me, or because your goat makes my life hell, or because you’re the only one who’s ever told me the truth about my writing.”
“Then why?”
He smiled, just a little. “Because when I look at you, everything feels like it’s in the right place. Even when it’s on fire.”
Aisling blinked. “Well, damn. That was…good. I even feel a little emotional.”
“I am a writer.”
She studied him, really studied him. Ronan Gallagher with his rose obsession and literary pretentiousness and shoulders that looked like they belonged in an Irish folklore illustration.
“I’m not promising anything,” she said.
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“But I’ll keep editing your chapters.”
“And I’ll keep trying to be worthy of your red pen.”
She laughed, then handed him his marked-up manuscript. “You’re going to cry when you read this.”
“Already am.”
He took it from her, brushing her fingers for a split second too long. A split second that sent heat rippling through her.
“If I don’t hate you after reading this, would you like to have dinner with me?”
“Depends,” she said.
“On what?”
“That you take me someplace where the town doesn’t go all crazy about the two of us being together. This place has more gossip than the town of Mayberry on the Andy Griffith Show. Right now, I think we should keep our hate out of the public eye.” She paused, then added,“Before someone starts a betting pool on when I’ll stab you with a gardening fork.”
A grin spread across his face. “We’ll go to Killaloe.”
She shrugged.
“I’ll pick you up at six tonight,” he said.
“See you then.”
Then he left.
