From the stove, Aiden caught a flash of black curls hurry past his kitchen window. He frowned as he shut off the burner and slid his eggs on a plate. Is that her?

Seconds later, a sharp rap came from his front door. He wiped his hands on a dishtowel and approached the door. When he pulled it open, he found a fuming Antonia dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Though her hair was disheveled and last night’s makeup smudged her eyes black, she still looked sultry. He imagined that he could make her look like that after a good romp in bed. When she saw that it was him behind the door, her lips parted to form a dismayed “O.” Aiden was quickly becoming accustomed to this kind of greeting. “Antonia! Good morning on ya.”

This was the second time he had her at a disadvantage.

Antonia stepped back to look at his cottage number as if that would tell her who lived there. Her gaze flashed back to the shirtless man standing in the doorway. She blinked away the sight of his jeans dipping slightly off his hips. Black hair sprinkled over his broad and powerful chest with a long line tracing a path down the middle of his well-defined abs. The path disappeared at the waist of his jeans. Lord, please stop tempting me.

“You’re...you’re him?” she asked, reclaiming her voice.

He smoothed his damp hair out of his eyes and peered at her with feigned confusion. “I’m the man you keep meeting,” he said over the music that came from his home.

“You’re Professor Byrnes?”

“At your service,” he said with a grin. That perfect smile with his perfectly straight teeth and that perfect bottom lip. She could not trace the origins of her anger. Was it because she was dead tired and needed more sleep or that he continued to confuse her? He caught her off guard with that perfectly disarming grin.

“Why didn’t you tell me he was you? You were him?” She shook her head. “That you were Dr. Stuffy-elbow-patches?”

“Honest mistake,” he said. “What can I help you with?”

Her mouth snapped shut. Honest mistake, my ass. “Could you please keep your music down?”

Aiden frowned. “You don’t like Hozier?”

“I don’t know who that is, I’m just trying to—”

“—Oh, he’s grand,” Aiden interrupted. “You’ve probably heard something by him. Surely some of Ireland’s singers make it to your shores. It’s not all Irish Rovers and pipes, you know.”

“I don’t—”

“We gave you Sinéad, didn’t we?” The mirth in his eyes annoyed the hell out of her. “She’s a bit gone in the head lately, but she had that one song. What was it?”

“‘Nothing Compares 2 U,’” Antonia answered, amazed that she was following his train of thought.

He snapped his fingers. “That’s right! Admittedly, Prince wrote it, but the girl still came from Ireland.”

“Sure, I get it—”

“And you guys love Van Morrison, right? ‘Brown-Eyed Girl’?”

“Aiden!”