Maybe for a taste of her. . . .
Jenny was everything I wasn’t.
She was slender, didn’t dip her hand into the cookie jar at will—the woman had more willpower than I did hips, and my hips seemed to go on forever—and her face looked like it belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. Even her hair was enough to inspire envy. It was black and straight as a ruler.
Mine?
Bright red and curly like a bitch. I had to straighten it out every morning if I didn’t want to look like little orphan Annie.
I’d once read that curly-haired women straightened their hair for special events, and that straight-haired women curled theirs in turn, but I called bullshit.
Curly-haired women lived with their straightening irons surgically attached to their hands.
At least, I did.
My rat’s nest was like a ginger afro. Maybe Beyoncé could make that work, but I sure as hell didn’t have the bone structure.
“I think grown men would cry,” I told her drily, “if you asked them to.”
She pshawed, but there was a twinkle in her eye that I understood. . . . She agreed with me, knew it was true, but wasn’t going to admit it. With anyone else, she might have. She had an ego–that was for damn sure. But with me? I think she figured I was zero competition, so she felt no need to rub salt in the wound, too.
I plunked my elbows on the counter and stared around my domain as she bustled off and started clearing the tables. It was her last duty of the day, and my feet were aching so damn bad that I didn’t even have it in me to care.
This owning your own business shit?
It wasn’t easy.
Not saying I didn’t love it, but it was hard.
I slept like four hours a night, and when I wasn’t in bed, I was here. All the time.
Baking, cooking, serving, and smiling. Always smiling. Even if I was so sleep-deprived I could sob.
Jenny’s actually a life saver.
My mom used to be front of house before. . . .
I sucked down a breath.
I had to get used to thinking about it.
She wasn’t here anymore, but just avoiding all thoughts of her period wasn’t working for me. It was like I was purposely forgetting her, and, well, fuck that.
She’d always wanted to have a teashop. It had been her one true dream. Back in Ireland, when she was a little girl, her grandmother had owned one in Limerick. Mom had caught the bug and had wanted to have one here in the States. But not only was it too fucking expensive for a woman on her own, it was also impossible with my feckless father at her side.
I didn’t want to think about him either, though.
Why?
Because the feckless father who’d pretty much ruined my mother’s life, wasn’t the only father in my life. My biological dad hadn’t exactly cared about her happiness, but once he’d come to know about me, he’d tried. That was more than could be said for the man who’d lived with me throughout my early childhood.
“You look gloomy.”
Jenny’s statement had me blinking in surprise. She had a shit-ton of dishes piled in her arms, and I’d have worried for the expensive china if I hadn’t known she was an old pro at this shit. Just as I was.
We could probably earn a Guinness World Record on how many dishes we could take back and forth to the kitchen of Ellie’s Tea Rooms. I swear, I had guns because of all that hefting. My biceps were probably the firmest part of my body.
More’s the pity.
I’d have preferred an ass you could bounce dimes off of, but, when it boiled down to it, there was no way in this universe I could live without cake.
Just wasn’t going to happen.
My big butt wasn’t going anywhere until scientists could make zero calorie eclairs and pies.
“I’m not glum.”
“No? Then why are your eyes sad?”
Were they? I pursed my lips as I let the ‘sad eyes’ drift around the tea room. I wish I could say it was all forged on my own hard work, but it wasn’t. Not really.
“I was just thinking about Mom.”
“Oh, honey,” Jenny said sadly, and she carefully placed all the dishes on the counter, so she could round it and curve her arm around my waist. “It was only seven months ago. Of course, you were thinking of her.”
“I just—” I blew out a breath. “I don’t know if I’m doing what she’d want.”
“You can’t live for her choices, sweetness. You have to do what you think is right for you.”
I gnawed at my bottom lip again. “I-I know, but she was always there for me. A guiding light. With Fiona gone and her, too? I don’t really know what I’m doing with myself.”
This business wasn’t something that made me want to get up on a morning. It was my mom’s dream, her goal. Every decision I made, I tried to remember how she’d longed for a place like this, but it wasn’t my passion. It was hers, and I was trying to keep that dream alive while fretting over the fact my heart wasn’t in it.
“I think you’re doing a damn fine job. You have a very successful teashop. Your cakes are raved about. Have you visited our TripAdvisor page recently? Or our Yelp?” She squeaked. “I swear, you’re making this place a tourist hotspot. I don’t think Fiona or Michelle could be more proud of you if they tried.”
The baking shit, yeah, that was all on me, but the other stuff? The finances?
I’d caved in.
I’d caved where my mom had always refused in the past.
With the accident had come a lot of medical bills that I just hadn’t been able to afford. Without her help, I’d had to take on extra staff, and out of nowhere, my expenses had added up.
Mom had been so proud of this place, so ferociously gleeful that we’d done it by ourselves, and yet, here I was, financially free for the first time in my life, and I still felt like I was drowning because my freedom went entirely against her wishes.
“Is this to do with Acuig? I know they’re still pestering you.”
Jenny’s statement had me wincing. Acuig were the bottom feeders who wanted to snap up this building, demolish it, and then replace it with a skyscraper. Don’t get me wrong, the building was foul, but a lot of people lived here, and the minute it morphed into some exclusive condo, no one from around here would be able to afford to live in it.
It would become yuppy central.
I’d rejected all their offers to buy my tea room even though I didn’t want the damn thing, not really. Mostly I wanted to keep mom’s goals alive and kicking, but also, it pissed me off the way Acuig were changing Hell’s Kitchen. Ratcheting up prices, making it unaffordable for the everyday man and woman—the people I’d grown up with—and bringing a shit-ton of banker-wankers and 1%ers to the area.
So, maybe I’d watched Erin Brockovich a time or two as a kid and had a social conscience . . . Wasn’t the worst thing to possess, right?
“Aoife?” Jenny stated, making me look over at her. “Is Acuig pressuring you?”
I winced, realizing I hadn’t answered—Jenny was my friend, but she also worked here and relied on the paycheck. It wasn’t fair of me to keep her hanging like that. “They upped the sales price. I guess that isn’t helping,” I admitted, frowning down at my hands.
Unlike Jenny who had her nails manicured, mine were cut neatly and plain. I had no rings on my fingers, and wore no watch or bracelets because my wrists were usually deep in flour or sugar bags.
I spent most of my life right where I wanted it—behind the shopfront. That had slowly morphed where I was doing double the work to compensate for Mom’s loss.
Was it any wonder I was feeling a little out of my league?
I was coping without Fiona, grieving Mom, working without her, too, and then practically living in the kitchens here. I didn’t exactly have that much of a life. I had nothing cheerful on the horizon, either.
Well, nothing except for next Tuesday, and that wasn’t enough to turn my frown upside down.
The mon
ey was a temptation. I didn’t need to sell up and start working on my own goals, but that just loaded me down with more guilt and made me feel like a really shitty daughter.
Jenny squeezed me in a gentle hug. But as I turned to speak to her, the bell above the door rang as it opened. We both jerked in surprise—each of us apparently thinking the other had locked up when neither of us had—and turned to face the entrance.
On the brink of telling the client we were closed for the day, my mouth opened then shut.
Standing there, amid the frilly, lacy curtains, was the most masculine man I’d ever seen in my life.
And I meant that.
It was like a thousand aftershave models had morphed into one handsome creature that had just walked through my door.
At my side, I could feel Jenny’s ‘hot guy radar’ flare to life, and for once, I couldn’t damn well blame her.
This guy was . . . well, he was enough to make me choke on my words and splutter to a halt.
The tea room was all girly femininity. It was sophisticated enough to appeal to businesswomen with its mauve, taupe, and cream-toned hues, and the ethereal watercolors that decorated the walls. But the tablecloths were lacy, and the china dishes and cake stands we used were the height of Edwardian elegance. Moms brought their little girls here for their birthday, and high-powered executives spilled dirt on their lovers with their girlfriends over scones and clotted cream—breaking their diets as they discussed the boyfriends who had broken their hearts.
The man, whoever the hell he was, was dressed to impress in a navy suit with the finest pinstripe. It was close to a silver fleck, and I could see, even from this distance, that it was hand tailored. I’d seen custom tailoring before, and only a trained eye could get a suit cut so perfectly to this man’s form.
With wide shoulders that looked like they could take the weight of the world, a long, lean frame that was enhanced by strong muscles evident through the close fit of his pants and jacket, then the silkiness of his shirt which revealed delineated abs when his bright gold and scarlet tie flapped as he moved, the guy was hot.
With a capital H.
“How can we help, sir?” Jenny purred, and despite my own awe, I had to dip my chin to hide my smile.
Even if I wanted to throw my hat into this particular man’s game, there was no way he’d choose me over Jenny. Fuck, I’d screw her, and I wasn’t even a lesbian. Not even a teensy bit bi. I’d gone shopping with her enough to have seen her ass, and I promise you, it’s biteable.
So, nope. I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of this Adonis seeing me when Jenny was in the room.
Yet. . . .
When I’d controlled my smile, I looked over at the man, and his focus was on me.
My breath stuttered to a halt.
Why wasn’t his gaze glued to Jenny?
Why weren’t those ice-white blue eyes fixated on my best friend’s tits, which Jenny helpfully plumped up as she preened at my side?
For a second, I was so close to breaking out into a coughing fit, it was humiliating. Then, more humiliation struck in a quieter manner, but it was nevertheless rotten—I turned pink.
Now, you might think you know what a blush is. You might think you’ve even experienced it yourself a time or two. But I was a redhead. My skin made fresh milk look yellow, and even my fucking freckles were pale. Everything about me was like I’d been dunked into white wax.
But as the heat crawled over me, taking over my skin as the man looked at me without pause, I knew things had rarely been this dire.
See, with Jenny as a best friend, I was used to the attention going her way. I could hide in the background, hide in her shadow. I liked it there. I was comfortable there. Sometimes, on double dates, she’d drag me along, and even the guy supposed to be dating me would be gaping at Jenny. As pathetic as it was, I was so used to it, it didn’t bother me.
But now?
I just wasn’t used to being in the spotlight.
Especially not a man like this one’s spotlight.
When you’re a teenager, practicing with your mom’s blush for the first time, you always look like a tomato that’s been left out in the sun, right?
I was redder than that.
I could feel it. I could fucking feel the heat turning me tomato red.
When Jenny cleared her throat, I thanked God when it broke the man’s attention. He shot her a look, but it wasn’t admiring. It wasn’t even impressed.
If anything, it was irritated.
Okay, so now both Jenny and I were stunned.
Fuck that, we were floored.
Literally.
Our mouths were doing a pretty good fish impression as the man turned back to look at me.
Shit, was this some kind of joke?
Was it April 1st and I’d just gotten the dates mixed up again?
“Ms. Keegan?”
Oh fuck. His voice.
Oh. My. God.
That voice.
It was. . . .
I had to swallow.
Did men even talk like that?
It was low and husky and raspy and made me think of sex, not just mediocre sex, but the best sex. Toe-curling, nails-breaking-in-the-sheets sex. Sex so fucking good you couldn’t walk the next day. Sex so hot that it made my current core temperature look polar in comparison. Sex that I’d never been lucky to have before, so I pined for it in the worst way.
Jenny nudged me in the side when I just carried on gaping at the man. “Y-Yes. That’s me.” I cleared my throat, feeling nervous and stupid and flustered as I wiped my hands on my apron.
Sweet Jesus.
Was this man really looking for me while I was wearing a goddamn pinafore?
Even as practical as they were, I wanted to beg the patron saint of pinnies to remove it from me. To do something, anything, to make sure that this man didn’t see me in the red gingham check that I always wore to cover up stains.
And then I felt it.
Jenny’s hand.
Tugging at the knot.
I wanted to kiss her. Seriously. I wanted to give her a fucking raise! As I moved away from the counter and her side, the apron dropped to the floor as I headed for the man whose hand was now held out, ready for me to shake in greeting.
There are those moments in your life when you know you’ll never forget them. They can be happy or sad, annoying or exhilarating. This was one of them.
As I slipped my hand into his, I felt the electric shocks down to my core. Meeting his gaze wasn’t hard because I was stunned, and I needed to know if he’d felt that, too.
From the way those eyelids were shielding his icy-blue eyes, I figured he was just as surprised.
It was like a satisfied puma was watching me. One that was happy there was plump prey prancing around in front of him.
Shit.
Did I just describe myself as ‘plump prey?’
And like that, my house of cards came tumbling down because what the hell would this man want with me?
I was seeing things.
God, I was so stupid sometimes.
I cleared my throat for, like, the fourth damn time, and asked, “I’m Ms. Keegan. You are?”
His smile, when it appeared, was as charming as the rest of him. His teeth were white, but not creepy, reality-TV-star white. They were straight except for one of his canines, which tilted in slightly. In his perfect face, it was one flaw that I almost clung to. Because with that wide brow, the hair so dark it looked like black silk that was cut closely to his head with a faint peak at his forehead, the strong nose, and even stronger jaw, I needed something imperfect to focus on.
Then, I sucked down a breath and remembered what Fiona had told me once upon a time. When I’d been nervous about asking Jamie Winters to homecoming, she’d advised me in her soft Irish lilt, “Lass, that boy takes a dump just like you do. He uses the bathroom twice a day and undoubtedly leaves a puddle on the floor for his ma to clean up. I bet he’s puked a time or two as wel
l. Had diarrhea and the good Lord only knows what else. Just you think that the next time you see that boy and want to ask him out.”
Yeah. It was gross, but fuck, it had worked. Her advice had worked so well I hadn’t asked anyone out because I could only think of them using the damn toilet!
Still, looking at this Adonis, there was no imagining that.
Surely, gods didn’t use the bathroom.
Did they?
“The name’s Finn. Finn O’Grady.”
My eyes flared at the name.
No.
It couldn’t be.
Finn O’Grady?
No. It wasn’t a rare name, but it was a strong one. One that suited him, one that had always suited him.
I frowned up at him wondering, yet again, if this was a joke of some sort, but as he looked at me, really looked at me, I saw no recognition. Saw nothing on his features that revealed any ounce of awareness that I’d known him for years.
Well, okay, not known. But I’d known his mother. Our mothers had been best friends. And as I looked, I saw the same almond-shaped eyes Fiona had, the stubborn jaw, and that unmistakable butt-indent on his chin.
At the reminder of just how forgettable I was, my heart sank, and hurt whistled through me.
Then, I realized I was still holding his hand, and as he squeezed, the flush returned and I almost died of mortification.
Chapter Two
Finn
God, she was perfect.
And when I said perfect, I meant it.
I’d fucked a lot of women. Redheads, blondes, brunettes, even the rare thing that is a natural head of black hair. None of them, not a single one, lit up like Aoife Keegan.
Her cheeks were cherry red and in the light camisole she wore, a cheerful yellow, I could see how the blush went all the way down to the upper curve of her breasts.
She’d go that color, I knew, when she came.
And fuck, I wanted to see that.
I wanted to see that perfectly pale flesh turn bright pink under my ministrations.
Even as I looked at her, all shy and flustered, I wondered if she was a screamer in bed.
Some of the shyest often were.
Screw You: A Screwed Duet (Five Points, Hell's Kitchen Book 1) Page 2