CHAPTER14
The next morning, Ronan arrived at the O’Byrne estate with fog still clinging to the fields like an old lover.
She saw him through the front window, a folder clutched in his hand like it might bite him. Dressed in jeans and a black Henley, he looked like he’d either just stepped out of a rustic romance novel or was on his way to intimidate a medieval tax collector.
She opened the door before he knocked.
“That better be your manuscript,” she said, arms crossed.
“Nice to see you too,” he said, stepping inside and holding up the folder like a peace offering. “One freshly printed first chapter. Go easy on me.”
“No promises,” she replied, waving him toward the kitchen table which had become her unofficial editing station—a chaotic spread of red pens, scribbled notes, and a half-eaten scone.
Ronan glanced at the mess, then at her. “Is this what literary doom looks like?”
“No, this is what salvation looks like,” she said. “If you can take critique, that is.”
He sat, exhaled, and pushed the folder toward her like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Aisling flipped it open, pulled a pen from behind her ear, and scanned the opening paragraph. After a beat, she looked up. “Okay, first—no adverbs in your first sentence. It’s a red flag.”
He groaned. “You’re starting already?”
“Do you want honest feedback or do you want a pat on the back and a participation ribbon?”
“I hate that I like you when you talk like that,” he muttered. “It actually kind of turns me on.”
“You’re twisted,” she said, not looking at him, but kept reading.
Silence settled between them. The kettle clicked on. Outside, the workers shouted and hammered as usual. Céilí bleated once from the barn—likely still recovering from her scandalous rendezvous.
Ronan tapped his fingers on the table, clearly trying not to squirm. She didn’t rush. Every sentence got her full attention. Every metaphor received scrutiny. Every cliché earned a small, sharp frown.
After five pages, she set the manuscript down and looked at him.
“You can write,” she said.
His expression shifted like he wasn’t sure if he should brace for more or lean into the praise.
“But your pacing needs work. You have a lot of beautiful language that says absolutely nothing. You’re describing leaves for three paragraphs and the character doesn’t move.”
“He’s contemplating a difficult decision,” Ronan argued.
“Then show me the weight of that decision. Show me the stakes. Show me the pressure closing in. Right now it’s just…poetic dithering.”
He blinked. “Poetic dithering?”
“You’ve written a gorgeous sentence about a droplet on a rose petal. It made me want to cry. But then I realized the droplet is all that’s happening.”
Ronan ran a hand down his face. “This is brutal.”
“This is love,” she said gently. “I wouldn’t bother if you didn’t have real potential. What is your character’s goal? What are the obstacles in his way? I want to go on a journey with him, but you’ve got to convince me that I have to learn about what’s going on. Right now, I don’t care.”
He looked at her for a long beat, the edge of his stubbornness softening. “You’re the first editor who’s made me want to rewrite instead of drink.”
“They’re scared to make you mad. I’m already mad at you half the time, so it’s a win-win.”
He chuckled. “You’re enjoying this.”
