“How can we keep talking about your book when I don’t know anything about the genre? I’m a researcher at heart, Antonia.”

Her contagious grin soon lit his face as she nodded. “Okay, yeah, let’s do that.”

“Excellent.”

Chapter Seventeen

“This is what you listen to?” she said, flipping through the CD book from under Aiden’s passenger seat. It seemed that the man was stuck firmly in the ’90s grunge scene and only deviated for Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin. He chuckled as he easily rounded a curve through the countryside. He drove his stick shift Volvo with an adeptness that made her jealous.

“What’s wrong with my music?” he asked, slowing down for passing sheep. Aiden pulled to a complete stop and reached over to take the book from her. “This is classic stuff.”

“Yes, it definitely is.”

“Please tell me you’re not too young to remember Zeppelin.”

“You’ve only got five years on me,” she said. “But there are nearly twelve Zeppelin CDs in here.”

Aiden plucked one of them from its sleeve and slid it into the player. A very loud, but familiar Jimmy Page riff filled the car. She immediately turned it down. “‘Black Dog,’” he cried. “That’s a brilliant song.”

“I appreciate them as much as the next layman, but twelve CDs?”

“Dear me, what kind of music do you like?”

“I like all kinds of things,” she said.

Aiden shifted the gear and started up when the last of the sheep finished crossing. “Spoken like a true fair-weather friend. Lemme guess, you’re the biggest Beyoncé fan there ever was?”

Antonia let out an exaggerated gasp. “You can let me out of this car and I’ll walk to Letterfrack if you utter one word against Bey.”

He laughed uproariously. “Let the record show I’ve got nothing to say about Queen Bey.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“She’s just a tad overrated, is all.”

“Boy, if you don’t stop...” she warned, giving him a swat on the arm.

“I’m just taking the piss, darling!” he said.

She bit back a smile as she gave him a sidelong glance. “That’s what I thought,” she repeated. Antonia enjoyed this. She missed laughing and joking with someone like this. She was happy that he suggested this trip to Letterfrack. When he’d asked for one of her books, she was shocked that a man who taught literature would be interested in her hobby. After working for Wild Hare for several years, a place that wouldn’t even entertain the idea of genre fiction, she was used to colleagues denigrating romance. But of the few instances romance manuscripts accidentally landed on her work pile, she had read them carefully, and mourned the rejection letters she’d sent the authors. They were good, but they weren’t good enough for her publishing house. Richard would have laughed at her if she attempted to acquire a kissing book. Antonia struggled to find fault with happily-ever-after endings that made women believe in true love. What was wrong with reading about a perfect man who could unconditionally love a woman?