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 can do this job—definitely.
I want this job—maybe.
My phone buzzes in my bag like an angry hornet. I fumble it out and find three missed calls from Eamon.
And a text.
Tigger
Why aren’t you answering your fucking phone?
The bar is slammed, and Lorna ditched again. I fired her ass.
About fucking time. I told him to fire her months ago, but he ignored me. I mean, come on. How many times do I have to be right before he just listens? Lorna’s allergic to hard work, and I’m not even sure she can count higher than three. The only things she has going for her are her triple-D’s and her blood thirst to find a rich husband. But did Eamon listen to me? Nope.
My phone buzzes again. Another text.
Tigger
I can see you read my message. Answer.
God, I almost laugh out loud. I was looking for a reason to take the job at Velvet, and he just supplied it. It’s time for me to get over Eamon Whelan. Even if it means moving to New York City to do it.
Me
I’m on leave. NOT ON CALL. Don’t text me again until I return to work.
Tigger
You never complained about answering my messages on days off before.
Me
That was the old me. This is the new me.
Tigger
What changed?
Me
Everything.
Before he can send another message, I turn my phone off and shove it deep into my bag. No way am I letting that thing distract me right now. Jacob slides back in behind the bar, an envelope pinched between his fingers. He lays it on the counter and pushes it my way, but keeps his hand covering it. "Here's a detailed offer." His voice is steady, all business. I reach for the envelope. He doesn't let go, those big knuckles resting right on top. "Contingent on a clean background check." His eyes are fixed on mine, waiting for my answer.
“My background is clean.” I reach for the envelope and pop it open. The numbers on the offer letter make me want to scream. In a good way. This is more than quadruple my salary at Midnight Mischief. With paid vacation. And a relocation bonus that’s more than I have in my investment account.
Holy shitballs. My brain's just one long scream: say yes, say yes, say yes! But I hear myself say, “I’d like a few days to look this over.” The words shock me as much as they seem to shock him.
Jacob’s eyes narrow, that wolfish thing he does, but then his shoulders go loose, and he just shrugs. “That’s perfectly acceptable. My assistant will be in touch with you in a few days to see if you have any questions or concerns.”
I mumble a thank you. Now, I’m a trainwreck of nerves and questions, more tangled up than ever. Why didn’t I just say yes right then and there? Beats me. But I trust that jittery little voice in my gut—even if it’s making things complicated—and I’m not about to start ignoring it now.
By the time I drag my exhausted self back to the hotel after the Velvet interview, all I crave is oblivion. First, I want a scalding-hot, ten-minute shower, and then I’m going to pull on my fluffy bathrobe and dive into a pile of takeout sushi. Maybe if I lose myself in the burn and the salt, the world will make sense again.
CHAPTER TWO
EAMON
Monday morning finally crawls around, and I don’t recognize myself. Fuck. I’m acting like a lovesick moron, but I can’t seem to help myself.
Dee spent the whole damn weekend pretending I didn't exist. I texted, I waited, and got nothing back but silence. That empty space where her replies should be just about drove me insane. At first, I told myself she just needed a little break. Who doesn't? Everybody goes dark sometimes. But then her one cryptic response to my last message pinged through, and it didn't do a damn thing to settle my nerves. If anything, it spun me up higher. Now, I know for certain she’s hiding something. I’d bet my bottom dollar that her request for a weekend off was anything but innocent. Fuck.
The possibilities go from bad to worse. One part of me thinks she had an interview for another job. That would be bad. In fact, it would be devastating. On the other hand, what if she went out of town with a man? The thought of that possibility twists into something sharp, something poisonous, something that digs at the inside of my skull. I haven’t gotten an hour of sleep since her last message.
Since it’s only a few hours before her shift starts, I decide to try my luck messaging her.
Me
What the fuck are you playing at, ignoring me all weekend?
I read it twice. Consider backspacing the expletive, decide against it. I hit send, then stare at the blinking cursor in our chat. Nothing. Not even the “typing” bubbles. She might as well have blocked me.