Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 20816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
I've been crushing on Eamon for what feels like forever, and a girl can’t wait forever, right? When a dream job offer lands in my lap, I figure it's time to pack up my unrequited feelings and hit the Big Apple. Surprise. Surprise. The moment I announce my grand escape plan, Mr. Oblivious suddenly can't bear to let me go. Talk about timing! Now I'm caught between the city of my dreams and the man of my fantasies. Who knew giving notice could be so complicated?
Dee's always been there - dependable, beautiful, and completely off-limits. At least, that's what I told myself. Then the moment she mentions leaving for New York, my world tilts on its axis. Suddenly, I'm seeing Dee in a whole new light, and let me tell you, it's blinding. Now I'm on a mission to convince her to stay, armed with nothing but liquid courage from one too many Hot Buttered Rums and years of pent-up feelings. Will my eleventh-hour revelation be enough, or am I about to lose the best thing I never knew I had?
This holiday season, indulge in the Sugar & Spice series where romance brews with every sip. These steamy, holiday romances promise to ignite your passions while heating up your kindle. Whether it's spicy moments over hot buttered rum or hot chocolate, adorable elf kisses, or irresistible romances with peppermint lattes, each story will ignite your senses and make your heart glow this holiday season. These deliciously decadent stories will have you wishing the holiday season never ends
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
DEE
Working at Midnight Mischief has taught me many things, from recognizing when someone has had one too many to dealing with handsy assholes who don’t think the rules apply to them. The one thing I haven’t learned is how to get over my feelings for my boss. Fuck my life.
I wipe the sticky edge of the bar for the thousandth time tonight and watch the free show as Veronica, my ride-or-die, owns the room, while her husband is so obviously obsessed with her that I half expect him to start pissing territorial circles around her at any minute.
Meanwhile, the line is wrapped around the bar tonight. I tip a Red Bull and vodka into a glass and slide it toward a guy whose aftershave makes my eyes water. “Enjoy.” I walk away, ignoring his attempt at flirtation.
I toss the rag into the sink and pivot for the top-shelf whiskeys, but not before noticing Eamon Whelan by the entry, arms folded, eyes colder than the dry ice fog rolling across the dance floor. The club’s manager and Nathan Brennan’s right-hand man, Eamon radiates ex-military energy and the constant vibe that he could snap you in half without breaking a sweat.
His charcoal suit clings to his broad shoulders and tapers at his narrow waist like it was measured and stitched directly onto his body. The fabric catches the club lights—some expensive wool blend that probably costs more than six months of my rent. His dark hair is buzzed to military precision on the sides, longer on top, not a single strand daring to rebel against whatever product keeps it perfectly in place. When he turns his head, the muscles in his jaw flex beneath a five o'clock shadow that somehow looks deliberate rather than lazy. I'd call him intimidating if that word didn't feel like calling a hurricane "breezy."
I swear I can practically hear his Irish accent through the crowd, even when he’s not talking. Especially when he’s pissed. Which, let’s be honest, is ninety percent of the time I’m around him. It’s like my personal kink. Some girls want abs or sweet nothings whispered in their ears. Not me. I want Eamon with a scowl, jaw clenched, that low, rumbly Dublin burr sneaking in when he says my name.
Full-body shivers. Every. Damn. Time.
Sometimes I piss him off on purpose just to hear it. Like that time I reorganized the top shelf whiskeys alphabetically and almost gave him an aneurysm. Or when I wore my “F*ck the rules” cropped tee and pretended I didn’t know why he was glaring at my chest all night.
Zero regrets.
People either avoid looking at him or try too hard to impress him. I do neither. Instead, I let my gaze linger, almost daring him to acknowledge me. I get a single nod in return, which could mean anything from approval to warning, or possibly both, before he resumes his silent vigil, scanning the room for threats.
I pour myself a soda and settle behind the bar, letting my gaze stray back to Veronica and Nathan. They’re laughing over something on her phone, his hand tracing absent-minded circles on her knee. Seeing her now, so adored by the man she’s loved forever, makes something sharp curl behind my ribs. Not jealousy, exactly. This is more like a gnawing ache, a craving for the man I’ve been lusting after forever to suddenly notice me, too.
I reach for the glassware, getting my shit together behind the bar, when Eamon strolls up. He moves with a lazy intensity, like he’s got nowhere to be and all the time to get there. He leans in close, dropping his voice until it’s just for me. “Whiskey neat. Blue label.”
Cue the shivers racing up my spine. “Ever think about trying something new?” Like a night in my bed. Thank God, I manage to keep that last part in my mind only.
He doesn’t move a damn muscle, and I suddenly wonder if I did mutter that last part out loud. There’s the faintest twitch, then a smirk threatens to break through the lines around his mouth. “Not tonight.”
My heart races as I pour, careful not to spill or show how suddenly slippery my hands feel. There’s always been a charge between us, a static that gathers and sparks whenever we occupy the same orbit.
When I set the glass down, his hand closes over it, and my fingers brush his. The jolt is so real I almost pull back, but Eamon doesn’t react. He just looks me dead in the eye and lifts the glass in a small salute.
“Thanks, Sunshine,” he says, and that silly nickname sounds more intimate coming from his mouth than any of the endearments I’ve ever heard slurred at this bar.
“Anytime,” I say, way too fast, then busy myself with a sudden, pressing need to align the limes. I can feel him watching me even as he melts back into the crowd.