“Battle of the Clans Trivia Night: Come with wit, leave with pride.”
She turned on him. “You brought me to trivia night?”
He grinned shamelessly. “You love a challenge.”
“You tricked me.”
“I prefer ‘strategically guided.’”
Aisling narrowed her eyes. “So this whole thing was just a public declaration of… what, exactly? That we’re now… seeing each other?”
He took her coat and hung it on the rack. “That I’m proud to be seen with you. Is that a problem?”
The gall. The absolute gall.
And yet, her cheeks warmed anyway.
Paddy spotted them from behind the bar. “O’Byrne and Gallagher on the same team tonight?”
“Unfortunately,” Aisling said, sliding onto a bench.
“Victory or death,” Ronan said, clinking his pint against hers.
“More like trivia and tension,” she muttered but smiled all the same.
The first round began. General Irish history. Aisling nailed question after question, Ronan keeping pace beside her with literary references and obscure folklore.
“Who was the last High King of Ireland?” the quizmaster bellowed.
“Brian Boru,” Aisling whispered.
“Show-off,” Ronan said, scribbling the answer down.
“Did you bring me here to make a fool of myself?” she asked during the next break.
“No. I brought you here so you’d have an excuse to show off that terrifying brain of yours,” he said, sipping his beer. “And also, because I enjoy watching you get competitive. You bounce in your seat a little. It’s adorable.”
“I do not bounce.”
“You absolutely bounce.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re insufferable.”
“But charming,” he said.
“I’ll give you insufferable with a dash of charm.”
The second round—music and poetry. Ronan took the lead. He quoted Yeats from memory, and the way his voice dropped on the last stanza had her pulse tapping a faster beat.
The pub buzzed with energy. Teams heckled one another playfully, people waved flags, and by the final round, Ronan and Aisling were tied for first with the Doyle Clan.
“Final question!” the quizmaster roared. “What was the original color associated with St. Patrick?”
Aisling froze. “It wasn’t green, was it?”
Ronan leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Blue. St. Patrick’s blue.”
The breath caught in her throat.
