Aisling slapped a hand to her forehead. She never wanted to own another goat, and yet she feared another would be arriving in the spring.
She staggered back inside desperate for caffeine and quiet.
That’s when the knock came at the front door.
She paused. Frowned.
It was Wednesday morning, and the workers had yet to arrive. It was a little early for visitors unless it was another package from the devil himself, Séamus Gallagher.
Unless Ronan was brave, or drunk, enough to come back already. She didn’t have time for his nonsense today, regardless.
“Well, you’re about to get a face full of hungover rage,” she muttered.
She shuffled to the door and yanked it open.
And stopped cold.
It wasn’t Ronan.
It was Michael.
Standing there on her porch, looking sheepish and smug at the same time.
Holding a cheap bouquet of flowers.
Wearing his best I’m-so-sorry-please-take-me-back expression.
Dear God, she didn’t need this today.
“Aisling,” he said as if his appearance wasn’t equivalent to a bomb detonating in her already-shattered morning. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”
She gaped at him, mind refusing to process the horror.
Finally, she found her voice.
"You have got to be bloody kidding me."
Michael shifted awkwardly, shuffling his feet like a scolded schoolboy. "I—I heard you were in Ireland. I needed to see you."
“Why? So you could cheat on me in two different time zones?”
He winced. “I made a mistake.”
"A mistake?" She laughed, sharp and bitter. "Sleeping with my boss was a mistake? What was it, Michael, a clerical error?”
“They fired me,” he said, his face crumpling.
It was hard not to laugh.
“I’m not surprised. You are replaceable, Samantha, not so much.”
He pushed the flowers toward her like they were some kind of magical solution.
“I love you.”
She stared at the sad drooping daisies.
At his hopeful face.
