“I’m shocked your degree wasn’t in destruction,” he said, smirking.
She grinned at him. Oh, how she loved goading him. “Darlin’, my goat hates you. I don’t need a degree in destruction. I just have to open the gate and she’s on her way.”
“I sprayed goat repellent on everything. She’s been avoiding my land like it’s cursed.”
“Smart girl.”
“Ronan,” Paddy cut in. “You reading tonight or not?”
He hesitated. “Sorry, Brendan called.”
“In trouble again?”
He glanced at Aisling. “You should be betrothed to him. Not me. You two could start the War of the Roses Part Two.”
Paddy froze. “Betrothed?”
The entire bar went silent, heads swiveling like synchronized church owls.
“Our grandparents thought it’d unite the estates,” Aisling said, forcing a smile. “Lovely plan. Not happening.”
Paddy grinned like a man who’d just been handed fresh gossip on a silver tray. “Ah, Noreen. Always scheming to end the O’Byrne-Gallagher feud. May her dreams rest in peace—or rise from the grave.”
“Please,” Aisling said, “You think I want to marry this grumpy man? No, I believe in love, in happily ever afters. It’s why I write romance.”
Ronan turned on her, his laughter quick. “Romance? I should have known. No wonder you mentioned hearts and flowers. I just wanted to bring the land together under one family.”
“I believe in love, not strategic farmland alliances.”
Ronan snorted. “That explains the hearts and flowers. Romance?”
“It’s what I write.”
He looked horrified like she’d confessed to worshiping glitter and heels.
Paddy waved him toward the stage. “Let’s go, Ronan. You’re up.”
Ronan took the mic. “Good evening.”
The people in the bar all turned toward him.
“You know he’s published,” Paddy said proudly.
“No, I didn’t know,” she said, wondering if he was really a good author or someone who just managed to find a vanity press that he paid to print his books. Either way, she was curious about how good an author he really was.
Aisling sat back, bracing herself.
His voice was smooth. His language rich and poetic. She could admit he was talented.
But the story? Good Lord.
It was five minutes of eloquent nothing. A real snooze fest of words and description, no action.
A man walking through a misty glen. Remembering things. Thinking. Touching leaves.
She nearly fell asleep halfway through. When he returned to the bar, looking pleased with himself, she was already finishing her second whiskey.
“Your turn,” he said smugly.
