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)
The rest of the shift passes in a blur of spilled drinks, bad decisions, and music that’s engineered to vibrate your fillings loose. After last call, I hustle through closing procedures, ready to head home and take care of the situation like I always do—pleasuring myself while fantasies of Eamon blast through my mind. I’ve spent years pretending I’m immune, that I’m above crushing on the boss’s right-hand man, but I’m losing control of the situation.
Soon, I’m going to have to do something about these inconvenient feelings. I’ve been slowly losing my mind over Eamon Whelan, and I’m starting to worry I’ll never recover unless I do something drastic. Like leaving Midnight Mischief.
The reality of it all stings—a sharp ache right down to my bones. But sitting here, I know I can’t just do nothing. So, I grab my laptop, hands moving before my brain can catch up, and start combing through job sites. It’s almost ridiculous how quickly I stumble upon a listing for my dream job, right in the heart of New York City. Am I really considering a move that big, that far?
I don’t give myself time to overthink it. Before I can list a million reasons why it’s impossible, I fill out the application and hit send. Now, there’s nothing left but to wait and see what comes next.
CHAPTER ONE
DEE
Over the next month, I watch my best friend happily settle into life with the man of her dreams while the green-eyed monster eats me alive. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled Roni and Nathan finally got together. But—and this is a BIG BUT—watching their relationship blast into the stratosphere has driven home just how lonely I am. And how much I want the man who makes my soul sing to notice me as more than a loyal employee.
So, when my phone vibrates during a dead patch in the bar, I expect a delivery delay or maybe a “I can’t make it for my shift” text. Instead, I get a pop-up notification: UNKNOWN CALLER, 212 area code. Manhattan. My heart thumps against my sternum.
I glance around the bar guiltily to make sure no one is watching.
“Hello?” My voice does a weird seesaw thing I instantly hate.
“Deirdre Quinn?” Male voice. Polished. Slight Brooklyn accent.
“This is she,” I say, trying for casual but landing somewhere between hoarse and asthmatic.
“Hello, Ms. Quinn, this is Jacob Amon, owner of Velvet. I received your application last week, and your references are… impressive. Do you have time for a quick chat?”
I nearly drop the phone. This really isn’t the time, but oh well. “Absolutely.”
“Splendid.” He says the word like he means it. “We’re looking for a bar manager, but also someone who can revive our cocktail program. A creative lead. I have sources who tell me you would be a perfect candidate.” I’m not sure who his sources are. I listen to him while glancing around to make sure Eamon isn’t lurking; the last thing I need is for him to overhear me pitching my way out of his employ. “If you’re free this coming weekend, I’d like to fly you in for an interview. Full expenses paid. Interested?”
“I’m very interested.” I bite my tongue to keep the giddy schoolgirl shriek inside my head.
“Great. My assistant will email your itinerary to you today. Plan for three days. If you’re a fit, I’d make you an offer before you return. Fair?”
“Sounds great. I’ll be there.” I hang up, and my hands are still buzzing, maybe from adrenaline, maybe from sheer terror.
Now, I have to come up with a reason for my sudden three-day vacation this coming weekend. Oof.
The rest of the shift is a blur as I work on autopilot while planning my deception.
The next afternoon, I corner Eamon in his office. I find my smoking hot boss hunched over the glow of his monitor, sleeves rolled up, forearms corded and scarred. His fingers never stop moving, not even when I knock. “Yeah?” Not even a glance my way.
I clear my throat and launch into the spiel I’ve been practicing since last night. “I need Friday, Saturday, and Sunday off. Personal days.”
He looks up and stares into my eyes with a blue, steely glare. “What’s up with the short notice?”
“I know, I’m sorry. It’s… uh, personal.” I fold my arms to keep from fidgeting. “And important.”
He squints at me, and I suddenly feel like a worm under a magnifying glass. “Could it wait a week or two?” His Irish accent seeps into the words.
“Not really.” I know I’m being vague, but the truth is a no-go, and I’m horrible at lying.
He stares at me for a full five seconds, weighing something in his head. “Fine, but I need you back by Monday.”
I nod and duck out before he can change his mind, nearly tripping over my own feet as I close the door. I don’t let myself think about how easy it was, or whether he’ll notice when I’m gone, or why his easy acceptance hurts this much.