“So what did you get up to today?” he asked, shifting the conversation.

Antonia took a breath. “I did quite a bit of writing. I finished three new chapters today.”

He leaned closer to the crackling fire. “Did you really? That’s excellent.”

“I thought so too.” She beamed at him. “I just put my head down and worked until the power went out.”

“Good job,” Aiden said with an encouraging tone. He appeared to actually be impressed. A university professor commending her efforts made her feel warm. “Now tell me what your book is about.”

Antonia’s mouth clamped shut. She feared that question. She had been so secretive about her writing that she wouldn’t even know how to describe it. “It’s nothing really.”

“You said that already,” Aiden reminded her. “I find that hard to believe. No one escapes to Ireland to write about ‘nothing.’ It’s just not done.”

“I didn’t escape just to write,” she protested and immediately closed her eyes. She didn’t mean to say that.

Aiden nodded as he lay back against the rug. He propped himself up on one elbow, his abdomen muscles taut. “I plan on drinking the night away with you, Antonia. You might as well spill it.”

As their eyes met, another jolt ran through her. The way he said her name caught her off guard. The sudden vibrancy of his voice and lilt in his accent made her shiver. “Was that your plan?” she breathed.

He nodded again. “A gentleman sits with a lady during a battering storm.”

“Does he?”

“At least that’s what my mam taught me...”

Antonia’s shallow breath turned into a relieved laugh. He lobbed her emotions back and forth between lust and humor so easily. It was confusing and thrilling at the same time. “If I tell you, do you promise not to laugh?”

“I promise,” he said.

She waited for a moment, watching his face for any signs of humor. “Okay then. First pour me another drink. I’d like to get slightly more tipsy before I do this.”

He obliged her with another heavy pour. “Fair play.”

Antonia took a large gulp and coughed, her eyes watering from the sting. “Goddamn!” she cried.

Aiden sat up and clapped her on the back. “If you’re not a shooter, don’t try to act like one.”

“Alright,” she said, heaving a breath. “So I’m writing a romance.”

“Okay.”

She watched his expression before continuing. “My protagonist is a ballsy journalist, who’s always after her next big story. She covered the Arab Spring from Tunisia where she got shot from a stray bullet.”

“Jaysus, that’s a bit intense for a romance.”

“I know,” she said excitedly. “I want the reader to really get a sense of how important her career is. So anyway, she’s laid up in the hospital suffering from PTSD. She doesn’t get back on her feet until a few years later, when she’s headhunted to work for this cushy travel magazine. She thinks that it might be a good way to get her feet wet again. Only, the thing is...”