Heartstrings by Ivy Fairbanks: A Spicy Second-Chance Romance in Galway

Cielo “Lo” Valdez is headed toward a bright future in medicine after beating leukemia, focused on finishing med school and keeping life steady. Aidan O’Toole is the globe-trotting musician who blew up after writing the song Lo inspired — and who chose fame over their relationship two years ago. When they both land in County Galway for a weekend wedding — she as maid of honor, he as best man — old sparks and old hurts resurface. Between hen-party mischief, a stranded boat, and the pressure of Aidan’s demanding label, the two are forced to confront whether their song ended or is just waiting for a new verse. Expect warm Irish scenery, authentic emotional stakes around Lo’s health anxiety, and plenty of wedding hijinks that keep the pace lively.

My Review

I loved how Ivy Fairbanks balances messy, laugh-out-loud wedding chaos with real emotional weight—Lo’s resilience and Aidan’s remorse feel earned. Their chemistry hits fast and true, and Galway’s coastal charm makes every reunion and quiet moment feel vivid. If you want a spicy second-chance romance that actually leans into the work of trust, this one delivers.

What won me over were the smaller moments: late-night confessions in rain-damp alleys, the awkwardness of pretending everything’s fine in front of friends, and the way the author lets the supporting cast steal a scene without ever overshadowing the leads. The book moves at a breezy clip but pauses when it needs to, giving Lo’s health worries and Aidan’s career pressures room to breathe. I found myself turning pages for the next tender beat—and then smiling when Fairbanks landed it.

You’ll close this one grinning and a little teary—this book makes you believe old songs can become fresh again.

You can get a copy of Heartstrings by Ivy Fairbanks on Amazon or Bookshop.

If this has you intrigued, read an excerpt from HEARTSTRINGS below.

Chapter 1 Excerpt

AIDAN

September

“You’re listening to Today’s Top Forty live from London. This morning, we are joined in the studio by breakout Irish singer-songwriter Aidan O’Toole. You might know him from the summer smash ‘Come Here to Me,’ which hit number three on the Irish charts and number twenty on UK Billboard. Welcome to the show, Aidan.”

Adjusting my headphones, I lean close to the mic. “Thanks for having me. I’ve been a longtime fan.”

“Please tell our listeners a bit about yourself. You were raised in County Cork, adopted by Galway.”

“Yes! I’m sure they’re happy to claim you,” her co-host interjects with a hand on my arm. Her cheeks pinken when I flash a smile.

“I live here in London now. Galway is where my family is, though, and I’m heading back there for a month. Leaving London tomorrow, actually.”

“We hate to see you go . . .”

Don’t worry, I think, it won’t be permanent.

“Let’s talk about Heaven-Bound,” the main host says. “It’s been nominated for the RTÉ Choice Music Prize.”

“And well-deserved! It’s so heartfelt.”

“Thank you. It still hasn’t sunk in, really, but it’s such an honor.”

I adjust the collar of the designer button-down the label’s stylist asked me to wear today. Being dressed by someone else makes me feel like a paper doll.

“On the album, there’s an arc of hope, of ecstasy, of loss,” the host opines. “Honestly, I can’t listen to that last song without getting a little lump in my throat.”

“Tell me about it!” the other host jumps in. “The first time I listened, I ruined the eye makeup I was trying to apply because I couldn’t stop crying but I didn’t want to turn it off. Which gave me flashbacks of my Sufjan Stevens phase.”

They share a quick chuckle.

“You’re too kind,” I say. “To even be mentioned in the same breath as an artist like Sufjan . . .”

“Really, it captured heartbreak so vividly,” the first one adds. “And now the whole music world wants to know, who is this Irishman and who did he write these songs about.”

“Yes, are they all about the same muse? The songs seem too personal to simply be about character archetypes. You write about the different facets of love so well.”

“I fall in love all the time,” I lie. “I’ve fallen in love hundreds of times. Lyrics come easier when I have the right inspiration.”

In the past, I’d fall fast, although admittedly, never deep. Not until Cielo. She made me realize those passing fascinations and lust hadn’t been love at all. Two years after our separation, I still catch myself looking for glimmers of her in strangers. Sometimes I even realize I’ve been subconsciously scanning the front row, seeking her smoky hazel eyes so I can sing directly to her.

I haven’t been truly in love with anyone before or since Lo.

“Your lyrics have been described as ‘poignantly provocative.’ How does it feel to hear that about your songwriting?” The interviewer keeps a straight face, but she’s slowly crossing her legs while she stares at me.

“It’s certainly flattering.” Regardless of how the journalists and DJs goad me, I’ve no literary degree, and no interest in academically dissecting the sexual themes of my own songs during an interview. The music speaks for itself.

“Well, I’m sure your latest muse is very lucky.”

I fidget with the spiral cord of the headphones. We’re broadcasting live across the UK right now, and they want to bring up my ex-girlfriend, approaching the taboo subject deliberately because that’s what listeners theorize about.

“I appreciate that, but I’m afraid a lad’s got to keep some things to himself,” I answer with a wink.

According to my manager, Martin, keeping tight-lipped will add to my “mystique.” The label wants me to cultivate a slightly edgy image. More important, without details on my past relationship, fans can imagine themselves in my songs. A woman all but worshipped by a man, but the two destined to permanently part ways before the last reprise. In some songs, he is a warrior fighting for her. A fool. A lover. In my latest single, he is a marionette, strings pulled in every direction until he is drawn and quartered. But in every song, she is a goddess. Every woman, Martin argues, wants to be loved like that. Loved so hard that her memory alone will drive a man to rip himself apart.

And that’s what I’ve done for the past year while touring for Heaven-Bound. Night after night, city after city: I tear myself open for an audience and enjoy a collective catharsis as we share in that emotion four minutes at a time. And I wonder if Cielo is listening.

*

“Christ! You’re pure style,” I say when Fionn answers the front door of our parents’ house wearing a Fair Isle jumper in red and white, Cork’s colors, with Gaelic footballs knit across his chest. He refuses to adopt the Galway jersey.

“Why are you knocking? It’s weird and you’ll offend Mam.”

Although I bought this house, I’ve never lived here. Entering without knocking wouldn’t feel right. Everyone else insists it’s weirder that I don’t simply let myself in through the back door.

“What is that abomination you’re wearing?” I ask.

“Mam has gotten into patterns lately.”

Garish but well-made knitwear is nothing compared to our seventeen-year-old sister’s hobby of ventriloquism. Nine months ago when I’d last visited, Marie brought out two horrific dummies while my da silently begged me not to say anything negative. Their wooden grins made my skin crawl. So of course, Fionn and Marie teamed up to place them in unexpected spots during my visit. I nearly soiled myself stumbling to the bathroom on Christmas morning half-asleep, only to come face-to-face with the soulless eyes of one perched on the toilet. Marie, with her angelic smile that has Mam and Da fooled, was the mastermind behind that prank.

My family’s new place is two stories tall and a short walk from a waterfront park. A far cry from the peeling paint and leaking roof of the cottage I was raised in back in Cork, and an even larger departure from the dodgy council flat my family had squeezed into when they first moved to Galway to be closer to Marie’s specialist. After signing with the record label two years ago, one of my first orders of personal business was moving my parents out of that moldering flat. Even after selling our old house and with Da working two jobs, they could barely afford to rent in Galway, with Mam staying home to care for Marie. I’d put my musical ambitions on the back burner then, in favor of a more stable job as a solicitor so I could help out. It feels good to provide for my family.

Mam wordlessly wraps her arms tight around me and gives me a good shake.

Still in his work clothes from the warehouse where he drives a forklift, Da rises from the battered old recliner he’s had since I was a boy and claps me on the back. “Good to have you home.”

“Aye. Missed you, Da.”

Marie bolts down the stairs, prompting Ma to shout, “No running!”

She tackles me with surprising strength for a teenage girl.

“Well then. Nice to see you, too.” I muss her pixie cut and take a step back to observe the subtle changes since I was here for Christmas. She’d started the new year by chopping seven inches of hair, pleased that it was finally long enough to donate to a wig-making charity. “The jumper’s lovely, too.”

Bright purple knitwear adorned with clowns and elephants swallows up her torso. Marie lost interest in elephants back in third grade and has never shown an affinity for the circus. “Oh, just you wait.”

“I’ve got a surprise for you!” Mam says. “Fionn, will you be a dear and go fetch your brother’s gift from my room?”

The sparkle in Marie’s eyes makes me uneasy as Fionn ascends the stairs and returns with a box. Mam eagerly gestures for me to open it. Music notes, harps, and guitars undulate in alternating stripes across the handmade jumper. It’s the most hideous garment I’ve ever seen—except for Marie’s.

“I made one for everyone,” Mam says proudly.

“What about Da?” Fionn asks. “He didn’t get a jumper.”

“Ach! You’re absolutely right. James, I’ll get started on one for you straightaway.”

Da shakes his head at Fionn. Marie bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh.

“Look at this! It’s lovely.” I lift my jumper out of the box. If I make eye contact with Fionn, he’s going to lose it and hurt Mam’s feelings. She obviously spent loads of time on each one.

“I thought you could wear it onstage. You won’t find quality like this on those high streets in London.” She tugs at the Thom Browne cardigan the label’s stylist sent to my flat a week ago. Other than surprise at its price tag, I don’t have any strong feelings about it. “They couldn’t even be bothered to put stripes on both arms.”

Fionn laughs then stifles it with a cough. Da shoots him a death glare.

“Thank you, Mam.” I slip off the cardigan and pull the jumper over my head. It fits well, and the craftsmanship is impeccable, but I’ve never owned a piece of clothing so ugly. “I love it.”

Herding us in front of the fireplace, Mam raises her phone. “Now, I want a photo of all of you in your matching jumpers!”

Excerpted from Heartstrings by Ivy Fairbanks. Copyright © 2025 Ivy Fairbanks. Excerpted by permission of G.P. Putnam’s Sons. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Ready for More?

If Lo and Aidan’s tangled second chance sounds like your kind of read, grab your copy of Heartstrings and settle in for a sweet, spicy trip to Galway. Come back and tell me in the comments: which wedding disaster would you forgive if it meant getting your person back?

You can get a copy of Heartstrings by Ivy Fairbanks on Amazon or Bookshop.