Page 33 of Inheriting an Irish Groom
“I threatened to cut his balls off.”
Bríd laughed so hard, she had to sit down. “Noreen is dancing in heaven right now.”
“I still don’t like him,” Aisling said. “We fight like it’s our love language. I want a quiet life. Harmony. Zero property-line arguments.”
“Sometimes,” Bríd said, catching her breath, “fire brings the house down—but sometimes it cooks the stew.”
Aisling stared at her. “That might be the most Irish thing I’ve ever heard.”
Bríd shrugged. “Just be careful of both of them. Declan’s a flirt with a real estate license, and Ronan’s a soft-hearted grump who hides behind roses and goats. But neither of them will be easy to shake.”
Aisling sighed and sipped her lukewarm tea. Less than a month ago, she’d been engaged. She wasn’t ready for an Irish groom or even an Irish boyfriend. She’d had enough of men for a while.
She was just starting to rebuild her life. The last thing she needed was a love triangle, a goat in heat, and two men who looked like trouble.
But then again, when had her life ever been boring?
CHAPTER12
She had to stop changing outfits.
It was dinner, not a date. Declan had invited her out to introduce her to his interior designer friend. Strictly business. Just a chance to talk shop over wine and a few classy entrees, maybe flirt a little, but only because he was annoyingly attractive in a way that required minimal effort on his part.
She pulled on a navy wrap dress, added her favorite gold earrings, and called it good. It said: I’m confident, composed, and absolutely not spiraling over a kiss with the man who lives next door and threatens to turn my goat into stew.
By the time she reached The Fern & Thistle, Mountshannon’s most upscale restaurant, her nerves had mostly settled. The interior was charming—wood beams, low candlelight, soft trad music playing from a corner speaker. It was the kind of place where you said “lovely” a lot and ordered something with a balsamic reduction.
Declan stood as she arrived, greeting her with that same smooth grin.
“Aisling, you look stunning.”
“Thanks,” she said, sliding into the chair across from him. “Where’s your friend?”
His expression flickered for just a second—too quick for most people to catch, but she’d worked in publishing. She knew a half-truth when she saw it. It was an excuse to see her, and while she should feel flattered, frankly, it irritated her.
“She had to cancel,” he said, offering a small shrug. “Family emergency. So I figured we’d enjoy the evening anyway. Just the two of us.”
Of course. Therewasno friend. She should’ve known. Declan was too polished, too curated. He probably handed out business cards that reeked of ambition—real estate on one side, monkey business on the other, with a hint of cologne that screamed 'trust me, I'm trouble.'
Still, she smiled. “Well, now I feel underdressed.”
He laughed. “Trust me, you’re perfect.”
She picked up her menu just to have something to look at besides his annoyingly perfect cheekbones. But before she could even read the appetizers, the low hum of the restaurant shifted.
She didn’t need to look.
She felt it.
That prickly, unmistakable sense of being watched.
Her spine stiffened.
Declan glanced toward the door. “Well. Looks like the entertainment just arrived.”
She looked.
There, in the doorway, stood Ronan Gallagher. And who must have been his younger brother, Brendan, who looked like trouble in the way frat boys and border collies do: overly eager and possibly covered in dirt.
