And for the first time in a long while, Aisling felt like the story of her life was just starting to get interesting.
CHAPTER15
The sky over Mountshannon bled into twilight, turning soft lavender as Aisling added a final swipe of lipstick. Her hair fell in loose waves, her emerald dress fitting like it had been made for her curves. She stared at her reflection, trying not to look like she cared.
But she did. More than she should. The man was as tempting as sin and twice as infuriating—her hormones threw a riot every time he showed up. And yet, the memory of Michael tangled up with Samantha was enough to dump a bucket of ice water over the whole damn thing.
Ronan had his work cut out for him if he thought she was going to get involved with a man anytime soon.
Sure, Ronan was temptation on legs, but if he thought she’d fall for him after what she’d been through? Bless his beautiful, clueless heart.
A knock sounded—sharp, confident. Her pulse quickened.
She opened the door.
Ronan stood there in a black Henley that hugged his chest and dark jeans that looked criminally good on him. In his hand, he held a single wildflower—purple and stubborn like it had been plucked from a hill that didn’t want to be climbed.
“For you,” he said, handing it over. “Thought you might prefer something that hadn’t been airlifted in from Amsterdam.”
Aisling blinked at the flower, then at him. “Thank you. You’re oddly charming when you try.”
“I try very hard. You just have high standards.”
If he thought she was a tough sell before dinner, he’d better buckle up—because convincing her to sleep with him would require a miracle, divine intervention, and probably an exorcism. After Michael, her bedroom door had done more than close—it filed for an emotional restraining order and changed the locks.
“Someone has to.”
It felt damn good knowing Ronan thought she was worth the effort—like he actually saw her standards and rose to meet them. Had Michael ever even tried?
“Let me put it in water,” she said, hurrying toward the kitchen.
They drove in companionable silence to Killaloe, the soft hum of the engine underscored by the occasional glance he tossed her way. When they pulled up to the restaurant—stone walls, arched windows, glowing lanterns—she lifted a brow.
“This looks… fancy.”
“I figured if you were going to judge me, you should do it somewhere with tablecloths. Besides, I had to outdo Declan.”
She grinned at him. “That won’t be hard.”
Inside, the room flickered with candlelight. The host led them to a small corner table, half hidden behind ivy-draped lattice.
“Romantic,” Aisling murmured, raising a brow. The man was trying to make her feel special and she appreciated his efforts.
“Coincidence,” Ronan said, eyes gleaming. “Unless it works. Then I’ll take credit.”
They ordered—she went for salmon in a white wine sauce; he, predictably, chose steak, rare.
When their drinks arrived, Aisling swirled her wine and leaned in. “So, you’re voluntarily spending time with a woman who’s edited your soul onto a page.”
“You say that like I’m the only masochist in the room.”
She grinned. “You’re definitely the only one who enjoyed it.”
Ronan shrugged, cutting into his steak. “You’re brutal. But fair. There’s something sexy about a woman who can shred a sentence and still wear heels.”
“I’m not wearing heels,” she said. She’d deliberately downplayed her sexuality tonight, knowing this was a dinner date, nothing more.
“I noticed. Still sexy.”
