“Hmm…we could discuss it over a nightcap.”
“Goodnight, Ronan.”
“Goodnight, Aisling.”
As he turned and walked to his car, she watched him go, her lips still tingling. With a wave, he climbed into his sedan and backed down the drive.
That man wasn’t just trouble—he was the kind that came wrapped in charm, kissed like sin, and left a path of delicious regret.
The door shut softly behind her, and she leaned against it, grinning into the quiet.
Was she really ready for something real again? One broken engagement still echoed in her chest—sharp, lingering, and not fully healed. And now here came Ronan—stormy-eyed, infuriating, and all kinds of dangerous. Not the usual kind of dangerous either. No, this was worse. This was the kind that didn’t just sting—it carved. She’d only just unhooked herself from one emotional trainwreck, and yet, somehow, this man made her heart ache with possibilities she wasn’t sure she could afford.
CHAPTER16
Aisling awoke to the sound of birdsong slipping through half-drawn curtains, the kind of gentle chorus that signaled promise—or mischief. The crew hadn’t yet arrived, and that meant she had a precious sliver of time to herself. Today, she intended to dive into her mother’s room.
It looked like Noreen had left it untouched. As if Maeve might walk in any moment, toss her coat over the old vanity chair, and grumble about the Irish rain.
Drawers, trunks, and shelves stuffed with timeworn belongings—Aisling was determined to uncover something. A truth. A journal. Maybe both.
Yawning, she tugged on jeans and a sweatshirt, then made her way to the kitchen. The tea kettle whistled like a mother calling her late child, and she poured herself a mug, grateful she still had hot water. Renovation meant her stove was off-limits for at least a week, and she'd be surviving on instant coffee, sandwiches, and takeout.
Outside, dew still clung to the grass like tiny, trembling secrets.
She wandered down the drive to collect the mail she'd forgotten the day before, passing stone fences and overgrown hedges kissed by early morning fog. The familiar sound of a lorry announced the crew’s arrival just as she reached the roadside box.
“Morning, Miss O’Byrne!” Fergal called from the truck, his voice cheerful. The back end was loaded with her new appliances.
“Morning!” she waved back, pulling the mail out of the box.
“Your demolition fun starts in about ten minutes!”
Hurrying back up the drive, she quickly returned to the kitchen, knowing her time was precious in the culinary museum.
Inside, the kettle still steamed. She made a quick cup of coffee and swept her remaining dishes from the counter before the crew descended like cheerful chaos. As she wiped the last plate, a worker stepped in with a sledgehammer big enough to threaten a small castle.
Aisling laughed. “I’m leaving before something gets crushed.”
“You’ll have a brand-new kitchen by next week,” Fergal promised, beaming.
“You’re a saint,” she said, grabbing her mug and heading to the patio.
There, she spread out the mail. Mostly junk. Ads. A water bill. And then, one envelope stood out. Her fingers tingled as she ripped it open.
University College Dublin. Finally.
Dear Miss O’Byrne,
There were five visiting professors in the summer of 1994:
Dr. Charles Whitmore – English Literature, Boston University
Professor Nathaniel “Nate” Baird – Philosophy & Ethics, University of Michigan
Dr. Thomas Carroway – History, Georgetown University
Professor James “Jamie” Ellison – Creative Writing, NYU
