He shrugged. “Sure. And I’m the King of Denmark.”
They reached the barn. Aisling’s stomach sank.
There it was. A gaping hole in the side of the wooden paneling. Céilí had gone full Shawshank Redemption.
“Oh no…” she breathed. “How does a goat kick through lumber?”
“Determination,” Ronan said grimly. “And maybe lust.”
“Did you see her?”
“No. But I did see my roses. Or rather, I didn’t. She ate them. All of them.”
“She’s in heat,” Aisling said, following him toward the low stone wall between their properties.
“I’m aware,” Ronan muttered. “The yodeling tipped me off.”
They walked toward the low-slung wall that surrounded her property.
He vaulted the wall like it was nothing. Then, turning, he offered her his hand. She hesitated—then took it.
His hand was calloused, warm, strong. Too strong. Definitely not something she needed to be thinking about.
Once on the other side, they began crossing his field, the grass brushing at their ankles.
“You really think my writing’s boring?” he asked after a long pause.
She tilted her head. “I think your prose is beautiful. But your story? It’s not moving. The reader’s stuck wandering with a man in a rose garden, and nothing’s happening.There’s no tension. No stakes. Nothing to keep them reading.”
“He’s reflecting. He’s about to make a critical decision.”
“Then make the decision in motion.Put him in a situation where that choice costs him something. Otherwise, it’s just poetic daydreaming. Beautiful and sleep-inducing.”
He stopped walking. “Why has no editor ever said this to me?”
She smiled. “Because they want to keep the peace. I want you to write the best damn story you can.”
He looked at her like she was both infuriating and irresistible.
“I want you to edit it,” he said. “Help me fix it. Give me real feedback.”
She blinked. “You won’t like everything I say.”
“What would be new about that? I’m counting on it.”
Her heart gave a funny lurch. “Fine. Bring me the first chapter. We’ll go one day at a time. You decide when we stop. And don’t you dare yell at me, or I will set fire to your pages, do you understand me?”
“Yes, but I’m not a quitter,” he said.
She looked away. “No, but sometimes quitting is what keeps you sane.”
They reached the goat pen, and sure enough, there was Céilí—in all her scandalous glory—cozying up to a smug-looking billy goat like she was on her honeymoon. Offering herself with relish. Aisling didn’t think she was innocent any longer.
Aisling groaned. “Oh no.”
Ronan sighed like a man who’d lived through worse. “Congrats. Come spring, you’ll have another goat.”
“She’s…breeding withyourgoats?”
