She barely had time to red-line three paragraphs before she heard footsteps.
Not goat feet. Man feet.
Heavy. Determined. Familiar.
She looked up—and there was Ronan Gallagher, storming up the drive like an avenging angel with a vendetta.
Well, someone hadn’t had their coffee yet.
“Good morning, Mr. Gallagher, written any more sleepy time prose?”
He ignored her taunt.
“Your goat is out,” he said flatly.
“No, she’s not,” Aisling replied, standing. “I locked her in the barn myself this morning.”
He arched a brow. “Want to bet?”
Together, they marched toward the barn.
“Did you enjoy dinner with your brother last night?” she asked, mostly to poke the bear.
“No.”
She grinned. “Oh, I quite liked Brendan. Handsome chap.”
Ronan made a noise of begrudging agreement. “He’s tolerable. When he’s not being arrested.”
Charming.
“And Declan?” he asked, voice hardening. “I warn you, he’s a rake.”
Aisling stopped in her tracks. “I’m a grown woman, Ronan. I’ve handled cheating narcissists in New York City. I think I can manage a slick-talking estate agent in a country pub.”
“Just trying to save you from catching something.” He paused, letting that hang in the air.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
He smirked. “Gossip. What did you think I meant?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe that he’s a walking venereal disease.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone said it.”
A beat passed.
“He was going to introduce me to his friend, the interior designer.”
The look he gave her, should have warned her. Deep laughter resonated from his chest.
“Do you really think there’s an interior designer in Mountshannon?” he asked.
She shot him a death glare. “Charming. Men are despicable.”
“I’m just saying—an interior designer? In Mountshannon?”
She frowned. “She could live in Killaloe.”
