Page 90 of Inheriting an Irish Groom
"You’ll figure it all out. In your own time. And if you don’t, well, the whole village will be too busy gossiping about your goat to notice."
That drew a genuine laugh from Aisling. A laugh she hadn’t felt she could summon even an hour ago.
"I should probably check on Céilí," she said. "Make sure she hasn't staged a prison break into Ronan's yard again."
"If she has, it's a sign," Bríd said, grinning mischievously.
"A sign of what?"
"That stubborn hearts sometimes find a way back home, even if they have to crash through a few fences to get there."
Aisling rolled her eyes but smiled. Maybe Bríd was right.
Maybe real strength wasn’t just building walls.
Maybe it was knowing when to tear them down too.
CHAPTER33
The next afternoon, Aisling opened the front door slowly, her heart hammering in her chest.
Patrick Wright stood just beyond the threshold, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his worn jacket, his silver hair curling slightly at the edges from the damp Irish air. His eyes, the same deep green she saw every morning in the mirror, lifted to hers, uncertain. Hopeful.
"May I come in?" he asked, voice rough.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
She could slam the door.
She could scream.
She could crumple into a heap at his feet.
Instead, she stepped aside.
“Come in,” she said, knowing they needed to talk.
Wordlessly, he entered, glancing around the old stone house like a man stepping into a cathedral. His eyes lingered on the dusty portraits, the cracked tile floor, the fire that had long gone out in the hearth.
He turned back to her.
"You look just like her," he said softly.
Aisling stiffened. “Maybe. But you weren’t there to watch her grow older. To see her suffer.”
The words came out harsher than she intended, but she didn’t apologize.
She was tired of softening herself for men who had abandoned her.
Patrick winced but nodded. "You’re right.”
His mouth worked for a moment, searching for the right beginning. “Can we sit and talk? Again, I didn’t know about you," he said finally. “Not then. Not when you were born."
Aisling's laugh was sharp and bitter. "How convenient."
"And when she came to New York?" Aisling asked, her voice low and trembling. "When she found you? You couldn’t see that she was pregnant?”
He swallowed hard. “No. She didn't say anything about a baby. She was furious. Hurt. Proud. And I—I was a coward. I let her walk away."
