Hot Property (Irish romantic comedy) Read Online Free PDF

step.
    She closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face and felt a calm come over her, just like the last time. She exhaled with a contented sigh.
      Like a knife ripping the canvas of a beautiful painting, a loud rumble broke the silence. Megan shot up from the step. Looking wildly around, she saw the back of a trailer come into view. What the —? She rushed around the side of the house and stared at the tractor with a large trailer full of bellowing calves backing in through the gate.
    The tractor stopped. A scruffy man jumped out. He froze when he caught sight of Megan. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in a sing-song Kerry accent.
    “I’m…” Megan stammered. “This is my…”
    “What?” The man said. “I’m loading off these calves, so you’d better get out of the way. In any case, this is private property.”
    Megan pulled herself up. “I know this is private property. It’s my private property, as a matter of fact. So if anyone’s trespassing, it’s you.”
    The man blinked. “Come again?”
    She took a deep breath. “I own this house and… and the… land thereof. My Uncle Pat willed it to me when he died. I mean, he put me in his will before he died.”
    The man took off his cap and scratched his thatch of black hair. His bright-blue eyes studied her for a long time. “Who are you then? Sean’s daughter?”
    Megan nodded. “Yes. I’m Megan O’Farrell.”
    “Thought so. You look like him. With his red hair and brown eyes. So Pat gave his house to you?” He started to laugh. “The crafty bastard.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Long story.”
    Megan studied him. Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in scruffy jeans and a sweater full of holes, he was an attractive man despite his unshaven, messy appearance. He looked back at her with a glint of approval and something else she couldn’t quite decipher.
    “Who are you?” she demanded. “And what are you doing here?”
    He wiped his hand on the back of his jeans and held it out. “Sorry. Where are my manners? I’m Paudie O’Shea.”
    His big hand was rough and calloused, his grip firm. Their eyes met for an instant, before Megan withdrew her hand and dropped her gaze. “Hello,” was all she managed. She looked at him again. “Uh, I don’t think I want your calves in my garden. And—” Her eyes drifted to the sheep grazing on the other side of the fence. “Are those your sheep?”
    “Yup.”
    “And the cows on the other side?”
    “No.”
    She suspected he was laughing at her. “No? Whose are they, then?”
    “Mine. But they’re not cows, they’re bullocks.”
    “Okay. Whatever.” Megan shifted from one leg to the other. “I don’t care if they’re giraffes, they’re on my land, and you don’t have permission to—”
    He glared at her. “Well, I’m sorry to upset your little applecart here, but the land has been let to me as conacre.”
    “Who’s Con Acre? Never heard of him.”
    “Have you never heard of conacre?”
    “I don’t think we’ve been introduced, no.”
      “It’s not a he. It’s a kind of contract. Hiring land for tillage or grazing. Conacre. Very well-known term.”
    “Oh,” Megan said, deflated. “Okay. Right. But that must have been an arrangement you made with my… the previous owner.”
    “You bet it was. An arrangement that goes back to my granddad’s time. He and Pat were great pals.”
    “So?”
    “So I’ve paid in full for this year. Two hundred euros an acre. And the contract is good for another ten years. At least.”
    “Oh. Right.” Megan took a step back. “I’ll have to check that with my solicitor.”
    Paudie shrugged. “Check away. Now, I have work to do, so if you’ll excuse me ... ” He started to walk around the back of the trailer.
    Megan trotted after him. “No, you don’t. You might have the right to the land on the other side of the fence, but I bet you don’t have any right to graze cattle in my garden.”
    He stopped dead. “What are you