When they stood to leave, Declan walked her outside. “Let me walk you home.”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks for dinner,” she said. “Even if your designer friend mysteriously vanished.”
“Rain check on that,” he said. “But… can I see you again?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know yet. Check back with me in a couple of weeks. I’m moving at turtle speed right now about everything. But thank you for the lovely dinner.”
He smiled like he’d expected that. “Fair enough. But if you ever get tired of broody farmers and lust-crazed goats…”
She laughed. “I’ll let you know.”
As she began to walk toward the house, she glanced back through the restaurant window.
Ronan was still there.
Still watching.
And the look in his eyes?
Trouble.
The kind she might not say no to twice. Could Bríd be right? That a hot fire under a stew cooked a relationship just right?
CHAPTER13
The morning sun slanted through the curtains like a whisper, soft and golden—but it was the bleating that yanked Aisling out of sleep.
Long. Loud. Desperate.
Definitely Céilí.
With a groan, she rolled out of bed, shoved her hair into a messy ponytail, and stumbled toward the kitchen in her oversized sweatshirt and fluffy socks. Coffee first. Then the crisis.
Outside, the bleating turned downrightsuggestive.
Mug in hand, she marched to the barn. And there it was.
Céilí—wide-eyed, panting, and aggressivelyhumping a blanketlike her life depended on it.
Aisling froze in the doorway, blinking. “Oh, sweet Mother Mary…”
The goat turned to her with the manic gaze of someone mid-romance-novel climax and bleated like she was auditioning for The Bachelor: Livestock Edition.
“Oh no. No, ma’am. You are officially grounded. No leaving the barn for you today. You’re likely to pick up the first billy goat you find. No babies. One goat is bad enough.”
She backed out slowly, closing the door like she was containing a wild beast. Which, in fairness, she was.
“You are not going next door to play kissy-face with the Gallagher goat harem,” Aisling muttered, bolting the barn door. “I cannot afford a goat scandal.”
Back inside, she made eggs, toast, and a second cup of coffee, only to be interrupted by the unmistakable sound of power tools screaming through drywall.
The crew had arrived.
“Good morning, Miss O’Byrne!” one of the lads called from the scaffolding with a cheerful wave.
“Morning,” she called back, mustering a smile. “Sounds like a lovely symphony of destruction today.”
She carried her breakfast and manuscript draft outside to the porch where the breeze was mild and the view of the lake was, blessedly, goat-free. A perfect spot for editing.
