“Of course, they did,” Aisling said, dipping another piece of bread in the stew. “She’s clearly the more emotionally stable one between the two of us.”
He tilted his head. “Are you calling me unstable?”
“I’m saying you hide behind your flowers and goats and big arms and smirks and your fake mystery dates.”
“That’s a new one. No one has ever accused me of a fake mystery date. You’re here willingly. Stew in hand. Legs crossed under the table. Looking like temptation incarnate and pretending you’re not enjoying yourself.”
But she was enjoying herself. Way more than she should be.
She rolled her eyes, though her pulse definitely kicked up a gear. If she didn’t jump his bones before this night ended, she’d be shocked. “You have a very high opinion of yourself.”
He shrugged. “I have a very high opinion of you.”
That stopped her for a second. Not because it was cheesy—it wasn’t. He said it too softly for that, like he meant it, which was the exact kind of thing that could ruin a perfectly good no-strings situation.
Only she knew the truth—this wasn’t just banter or casual heat anymore. Ronan Gallagher was quietly, stubbornly, slipping past her defenses, threading himself into places she’d long locked down. And that terrified her more than she cared to admit.
She cleared her throat and stabbed a potato in her bowl. “What time is this surprise?”
“Starts at eight. We’re on schedule.”
“And are you going to tell me what it is before we get there? Or do I need to start mentally preparing for a goat-themed strip show?”
His eyes sparkled. “That’s a unique idea. Do you think Céilí would be interested? Now I’m wondering if that would impress you.”
“It wouldn’t. But I’d take pictures.”
They finished their meal between more teasing and a few quieter stretches where they didn’t speak much at all. But even in silence, Aisling felt the shift. Something had changed between them.
This wasn’t just banter anymore. This wasn’t just flirtation.
He looked at her like she mattered.
And damn it, she wasn’t sure she hated it.
In fact, she wanted more.
When the cake arrived—a rich, decadent slice of Guinness-soaked chocolate—it did not disappoint. She groaned softly at the first bite, closing her eyes.
“Oh no,” Ronan said, watching her with open admiration. “You can’t make that noise and not expect me to react.”
Her eyes snapped open. “Excuse me?”
“You moaned. In public. For cake.”
“It’s cake,” she said, pointing her fork at him. “The only thing better than cake is cake you didn’t have to bake.”
“I’m going to remember that,” he said, voice low. “Next time, I’ll bring dessert to your house. Just so I can hear you moan like that again in private.”
Heat flooded her, and she gave a chuckle.
“There won’t be a next time if you keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re imagining licking icing off my?—”
“Miss O’Byrne!” he said, mock scandalized.
