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)
There’s a picture on my nightstand, propped against a black vase. It’s from Nathan’s Halloween party two years back. Everyone’s in costume except me. Deirdre’s in some ridiculous outfit—a fake blood-splattered white dress and a headband with a plastic axe through her skull. Her dark eyes are wild, mouth mid-shout, and in the moment the photo was taken, her arm was slung around my shoulders like we were friends or rivals or something in between. She smelled like vanilla and honeysuckle that night.
I run a finger over the edge of the photo as if it’ll provide answers. It doesn’t.
My phone vibrates, and I lunge for it, immediately hating myself for doing so. The response is short, even for Dee.
Deirdre
I was on vacation. OFF. Not on duty. How many ways do I have to say it?
I roll my head back and close my eyes, counting the seconds before replying. As my anger shoots through the roof, my cock hardens. Fucking hell, I need help. Her sass turns me the fuck on. I have protocols for this: slow your breathing, assess the situation, control your impulses. The only problem is, there’s no field manual for Deirdre Quinn. The woman is a walking IED. I take a deep breath and change tactics.
Me
Did something happen? Are you in trouble?
For a long moment, the dots flutter on and off, then she answers.
Deirdre
Stop being so melodramatic. You’re my boss. I was on vacation, and I chose not to answer your texts. Get over yourself. And stop texting me. I’m an hourly employee; therefore, I’ll only answer texts from you during my work hours.
It shouldn’t sting, but it does. I let the phone fall to my chest. The apartment’s quiet. I notice the hum of the refrigerator in the next room and the slight hiss of the central heat kicking on. I’ll never admit it out loud, but I’ve been obsessed with Deirdre Quinn since the second she stormed into my life wearing ripped jeans and a “Fight Me” graphic tee. She called me a “control freak” before she even learned my last name. Challenged me, outright, in front of Nathan and the rest of the staff over a delivery schedule I’d already spent a week optimizing. I should have shown her the door right then and there.
Instead, I fell head over heels in love with her.
And since that day, Deirdre Quinn has been in my head, under my skin, and embedded in my heart.
All attitude and sass, spitting fire one second, and then grinning like she knows the effect she has on me the next.
Most days, I can’t decide if I want to strangle her or bend her over my desk and fuck her until neither of us can remember our names.
The woman is a walking, talking malfunction of my self-control.
But I’m not a selfish prick. I know I’m not what she needs. She needs a man who’ll give her a house full of kids and a white picket fence. No matter how much it kills me, I keep my distance. I somehow managed to bury every possessive thought under a mountain of work, rules, and pretending I don’t see the way she licks her bottom lip when she’s concentrating.
What a fucking joke. After all this time, I don’t know why I’m suddenly having trouble keeping my feelings locked tight.
Sleep is pointless at this hour. I throw the covers off and pad barefoot down the hall. The apartment's too goddamn quiet. I don't bother with the lights. What's the use? My head’s buzzing like I’ve got a live wire under my skin. Something’s happening. I know it. And whatever it is, I’m not going to like it; I can tell already.
I’m supposed to be the guy who sees everything coming, right? Three steps ahead, always. Except with Dee. Never with Dee. She’s the exception. And that drives me insane.
I’m two hours early for my next shift. The club isn’t even open yet, but that doesn’t stop me from storming in like I own the place. Technically, Nathan owns it, but it’s been my personal fiefdom ever since he realized I could organize his chaos better than he could himself.
I do a circuit. Top to bottom, wall to wall. Every bottle’s in its spot, every stool turned up, every inch of floor shining like a mirror. If I said I wasn’t hoping to spot a certain caramel-haired troublemaker lurking where she doesn’t belong, I’d be lying through my teeth. But the only thing keeping me company is the steady thump of my own goddamn heart. At least I have time to get my head together before the staff rolls in.
Except… yeah, not happening. I’m stuck replaying those goddamn text messages in my head. Over and over, like I’m some high school idiot with his first crush.
I jam my hands into my pockets and pace the edge of the dance floor. I’m supposed to be the calm one. The absolute granite center of the club. Instead, I can’t get Deirdre Quinn out of my head. I want to drag her into my office and pin her to the fucking wall until she tells me what’s going on.