But it wasn’t Brendan’s presence that made her jaw clench.
It was Ronan.
Dressed in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to showcase forearms that should come with warning labels. His hair was still damp from a shower, curling at the ends, and he was glaring straight at her like she’d committed war crimes by showing up to dinner with another man.
“Oh look,” she muttered. “The storm cloud has arrived.”
Ronan’s eyes locked with hers as the hostess led them to a table across the room, but not far enough away.
Declan leaned back with a smirk. “Careful, Aisling. If looks could kill, I’d be bleeding out on the floor. Are you two dating? I heard about the kiss in the pub, but didn’t think it was serious.”
“Please. He’s probably just furious Céilí didn’t sneak into his garden this morning,” she said. “And no, we’re not dating. We’re betrothed, but that’s not going to work out.”
“Betrothed?”
“Yes, our grandparents betrothed us at birth. And no, it means nothing,” she responded, wishing the waiter would bring their glasses of wine.
“I think he’s furious someone else got to you first.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Got to me?”
Declan held up his hands. “Figure of speech.”
No one would get to her. No one. She wasn’t up for grabs, least of all by this guy.
Their wine arrived—red for her, white for him—and she took a sip to cool the irritation building under her skin. She should not care that Ronan was watching her. She should not like that he was staring at her.
And yet…
Her cheeks warmed.
Declan talked—mostly about the property, how he thought the value would double once the renovations were done, how he had buyers in Dublin just waiting for something like the O’Byrne estate.
She nodded, even smiled when appropriate, but her brain was only half listening.
The other half was busy screaming: Don’t look at him. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
Naturally, her eyes betrayed her.
She glanced.
Ronan stared straight at her, his fork paused halfway to his mouth as if he had forgotten how to eat.
Brendan said something. Ronan didn’t even blink.
And then, the audacity, he smirked.
Oh, he was going to die. A slow, torturous death.
She turned back to Declan. “So. Where exactly are these buyers of yours hiding? Because they’re not going to get this house.”
His brows rose. “You’ve decided?”
“No. But I’m leaning toward keeping it. Maybe renting part of it out as a writer’s retreat. I just don’t know yet what I’m going to do, but the thought of selling a home that has been in our family for generations makes me sick.”
It was the only thing keeping her tied to family, and the thought of letting it go made her cringe inside.
He smiled again, but there was a flicker of something underneath it. Disappointment? Calculation? She couldn’t tell.
