“Not with Philomena Wright,” I said.
“What happened to ‘the client is always right?” she asked.
She slapped my denim-clad ass with the dirty rag in her hand and it made me quirk my eyebrow. I wasn’t opposed to mixing business with pleasure, but she was more than a pathetic one-night stand. Rachel was my trusted friend, both inside the business and outside of it.
When I was a little younger, I would’ve thought nothing of taking advantage of her good nature. I was the youngest of four children, and constantly reminded of their success. A twenty-five-year-old man living the bachelor life was getting old, and my parents never ceased to remind me of it. All the way from their perch in Ireland. But Boston was my home, and I was determined to invest in its future.
“I meant to ask how it went with the police. I know how you hate it when people invade your personal space. The break-in must have rattled you,” Rachel said as she wiped down the bar.
“They took my statement and the list of things that were stolen. The Boston police aren’t known for wearing kid gloves. They made it clear the possibility of getting my stuff back was going to be impossible. But I combed the local pawn shops and was able to find my class ring.”
I kissed it, remembering the day that I stood with my fellow classmates looking out at a sea of parents. It was shortly after my graduation that my parents decided to go back to Ireland. And after that fucking break-in, I felt more homesick than usual. Pining for a genuine Irish draft. Everything I served in my bars paled in comparison to the taste, and it made me spit in the ‘perfectionism’ of American beers. My thirst for my homeland had me purchasing an open-ended ticket to use at my discretion.
It was tucked away for that rainy day when I had to be surrounded by the lush countryside of Ireland.
“Fucking hell,” I said as I slid the tie from around my neck. “I give up.”
I tossed it onto the bar and Rachel gave me a scowl.
“You going to pick that up once you’re done? This isn’t your apartment, Liam.”
“Throw it away. Don’t know why I bought the damn thing in the first place.”
I kept in contact with some friends back home, especially after my parents brought our entire family to Boston. But it wasn’t the same as meeting them for drinks after a hard day working up a sweat. I was accustomed to getting my hands dirty, which was why I still found time in my busy schedule to tend bar in the original establishment my family had procured as part of their American legacy.
And Rachel was the golden ticket for Galway Bay.
Rachel was one of those lost souls looking for an ear to bend late one night three years ago. She came into the bar bitching about her boyfriend and became quite undignified after a few drinks. One thing led to another, and before I knew it she was slinging her own drinks behind the bar, helping me catch up with the rush. Drunk as a skunk.
I offered her a job on the spot.
I touched the scar underneath my lip and remembered how I had gotten it. She was a hot-blooded and passionate woman, which led to physical displays that made other men run for the exit. Rachel was strong-willed, strong-tempered, and able-bodied. Which made her an asset in the bar business. I learned to duck and cover with her displays of anger, but it was nothing my Irish temper couldn’t keep up with. If anything, she made me feel at home.
Like I was battling my own brothers in the ring during my teenage years.
Every time her anger flared and she had to kick out some drunk patron running his mouth, it reminded me of how she survived on the streets before I hired her. Reminded me of that fighting spirit that felt so much like home. She brought a little bit of my childhood into a bar overrun by immigrants and Americans who thought they understood those immigrants.
I was thankful for her continued presence in the bar after my father passed everything on to me.
“I’d ask what you’re thinking, but I think I already know. You know the invitation to come knocking on my door is always open,” Rachel said.
“Stop getting into my head.”
“Don’t blame me for knowing what goes on behind the veil of your eyes. You’re pretty much an open book, but don’t feel bad. Most men can’t hide their true intentions from me.”
I shot her a look as I buttoned-up my shirt and she walked away. Swaying those hips of hers and slinging that dirty rag over her shoulder while whistling an Irish tune.
A song that transported me back home.
I closed my eyes and saw the rolling hills of my homeland. Heard the laughter of my descendants. I opened my eyes and blinked into focus the clock ticking incessantly over the bar, my homesickness forced to the pit of my gut. I’d lost track of time doing inventory down in the basement. I had half an hour before my meeting with the ever-infamous Philomena Wright.
“I’m not sure how I feel about you lumping me into the same category with other men. I do need to go and make an appearance. I want to leave her with a lasting impression. Do you know how many real estate agents I’ve gone through in the past few months?” I asked.
“I lost count at ten. You’d think word of mouth would make you a pariah. These agents depend on that percentage you represent to feed their families. You get their hopes up, then dash them. And we both know that you can be unreasonable. Try a different tactic and perhaps listen to what this one has to say.”
“I tell them what I want, and they don’t deliver. Not my fault they can’t step up to the plate. I don’t know how much clearer I can be. Philomena Wright has a reputation I need. She promises something I hope she’ll be able to follow through on. I’m not going into this blind like I did the others. This time, I’ve learned from my mistakes and I’ve written down a prospectus that clearly defines what I’m looking for.”
I held the piece of paper between my fingers and watched Rachel snatch it out of my grip.
“I get having a master bedroom with a view of the city skyline. But you’re asking the impossible when you mention parking for two cars. Consider something standalone that you can put your own mark on. And make sure you close your eyes to see the potential. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Trust me. Many men make that mistake with me,” she said, giggling.
She moved her hands down over her frame, and all of the men that came into the bar that figured she was a good thing came barreling to my mind.
“I’m shocked we still have customers,” I said, chuckling.
“What can I say? The guys around here like it rough.”
And I knew what that felt like. I was a product of a hard-as-nails lifestyle, and my education didn’t go any further than high school. After I graduated, I went to work at the very place that I was standing in. My father’s pride and joy-- Galway Bay Bar-- was always going to be the centerpiece of my investments. The pinnacle of my family’s cemented reputation in the Boston area.
My business acumen came from watching my father and I learned the intricacies of owning a business at his hand. He was reluctant to bring me on board, but he felt I needed to learn the value of a dollar. So, he used what he had at his disposal and taught me everything he knew. I didn’t know how to express my feelings of appreciation back then, so instead of words, I backed up everything he taught me with actions.
Actions I intended on putting into motion now that my parents had gone back to Ireland to live out the rest of their days.
I looked around the bar, preparing my mind for the meeting at hand. Galway Bay was in desperate need of renovation. The chairs needed an update. The walls needed to be repainted. A new hand-carved bar needed to be commissioned. It was necessary to keep everything the way it was in honor of my father’s name, but that didn’t mean the place didn’t require upkeep.
There was, however, one thing I did change.
The food Galway Bay now served was courtesy of my secret weapon in the kitchen. Shamus was an Irish transplant, and his flair for the authentic Irish dishes had the place standing room only. His Shepherds Pie had the entire city raving from
the moment it touched their lips. And following that kind of act up with a pint and a big game on the projector television against the wall on a Saturday night that had our customers rowdy for more.
“The place doesn’t open for a couple of more hours. You’re the first person who taught me the benefit of delegating. I saw big things in your future and I decided to take you underneath my wing,” I said as I took Rachel’s hand.
“Be still my beating heart. There’s a reason why I haven’t given up on us,” she said jokingly. “You know, I measure other guys by what you’ve done for me out of the goodness of your heart.”
“Trust me. You’re just as good for this place as this place is for you,” I said.
I brought her hand to my lips to kiss and she fanned herself and playfully fluttered those eyelashes of hers. We had a playful relationship, but those moments with her reminded me of why she had her choice men to entertain in her bedroom. I was impressed by how selective she was and what extreme lengths she would go to in order to make them beg for her. She wanted to make them see she was worth every effort they put in.
I saw more fail than succeed, and it was always a treat to watch either way.
To say I wasn’t immune to her charms would be an understatement. There were moments of weakness when I felt the need for something familiar. The need for something passionate. Close. Intimate. And Rachel was close. Convenient. But I always kept my cool around her. She was the only confidant I had in my line of work after my parents left, and the last thing I needed to do was destroy that for one night of pointless passion.
Though my bed felt very empty as of late.
She handed back the piece of paper back to me before striding off to sweep up the floor. I grabbed my black leather jacket from the backroom and tossed it around my shoulders. I had a meeting to attend and a real estate agent to try out before I took my search for a new place into my own hands. So, I flagged down a taxi and climbed inside with a wicked little idea on how to keep Miss Wright guessing about my motives.
If there was anything I’d learned by being a businessman, it was that people got lazy when they got comfortable.
And something told me Philomena Wright was comfortable having the upper hand. Something she wouldn’t get from me.
Chapter Three
Philomena
“I know that look better than anyone. Somebody’s gotten on your last nerve. And I pity whoever feels they are required to have that sort of power over you,” Jasmine said.
The woman I had taken under my wing as my protégé stood in the doorway to my office. And I hated to admit it, but she was right. I hung up the phone and sighed, leaning back into my chair so I could stare up at the ceiling. Collect my thoughts. Give my heart rate time to cool down.
I had just finished an infuriating phone call with my new client minutes before I had to leave and meet the son of a bitch.
“I don’t like people dictating the terms of a meeting I set up. He had the nerve to call me at the last minute to change our venue,” I said.
“Where were the two of you supposed to meet?” she asked.
“One of his bars,” I said. “You know I enjoy seeing my clients in their natural habitats. It gives me a feel for who they are, so I can whittle properties down for them.”
“And now?”
“We’re apparently going to get an early dinner.”
“Which is not this man’s natural habitat.”
“It’s not even Irish food. It’s clear by the lilt in his voice that he’s a native. Or at least his parents are. That gives us a similar foundation. Immigrants from other countries. Why change the venue to a place that doesn’t suit either of us at all?”
“Think he’s trying to play games?”
“But to what end?” I asked.
I spun around in my chair and stared at the pictures behind me. The photographs I surrounded myself with were of family and friends as well as those satisfied clients with big smiles on their faces. It was my way of focusing myself and making me appear a little more approachable in my own office.
The biggest complaint I got was that I didn’t appear ‘approachable’.
Like I was supposed to smile kindly and talk with some dainty voice.
My window was open, and a slight breeze tickled my face. But It did nothing to bring down the temperature of my anger. I had to remember to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. Meditation was my form of relaxation to wash away the worries of the day. A good bubble bath had the same effect. Or a decent fuck. But I rarely had the chance to pamper myself either way.
So, counted breathing had to do most days.
Liam was trying to set the stage to have the final word, but he was in for a rude awakening. Pushing me into a corner was only going to make me come out swinging with everything in my arsenal. Men who were intimidated by me always tried to back me into corners. Throw me off my game. Put me in an uncomfortable position to somehow crack the façade of the woman that had caught their eye on a billboard poster sign.
But Mr. Walsh had another thing coming. Because I was an expert in game-changing.
My heartbeat slowly returned to normal and I started concocting a plan to turn the tables back in my favor. The restaurant he proposed was a place I was familiar with. A fancy place. Where people took others to impress them. What Liam didn’t know was that the owner owed me a favor.
And it seemed like a good time to collect.
“Philomena. I look at you and see a woman that knows who she is. What you did in the boardroom this morning took a pair of brass ones,” Jasmine said. “Don’t let some change of venue get you going. Not everyone is out to deflate your reputation.”
“You still live in the comfort of your bubble,” I said. “But when you’re sitting in my position one day—and you will be, trust me—you’ll find that men spend half their time working and half their time trying to bring down their competition. And they work overtime towards that latter goal if their competition has tits.”
“Then slap them across the face with your bank account. You’re richer than all those fucks out there.”
I shook my head as I stared at her from beyond my glasses.
“You never fail to lift my spirits. And you’re right. I’m not going to give this man the satisfaction of rattling my cage.”
“I’m what now?” Jasmine asked.
“You make me repeat it and you won’t like what I have say.”
“The Philomena Wright told me I was right. Can I put that on my resume?” she asked.
“Get out,” I said, grinning. “I have to make a phone call.”
I picked up the phone and called the restaurant as Jasmine leaned against the doorway. Good. She’d be right there to witness my professional machinations. It was easy to secure a table at the back, away from the scrutinizing eyes of others. It was easy to secure their best bottle of wine and to get him a genuine draft for his sipping pleasure. It was even easy enough to secure a private menu for only the two of us to order from. It was going to be an intimate dinner for two and would look like I was putting the moves on him.
I had to make him see that I was the one wearing the pants. That I was the one in charge. That he was coming to me for advice, not the other way around. Giving him an inch only meant he’d take a mile, and the one thing I hated more than laziness was a man thinking he could rule the roost.
But then, an idea struck me. A positively salacious idea for a man who enjoyed control like Mr. Walsh did. I decided to scrap the private menu and put our orders in. Both of them. Jasmine snickered from my doorway and shook her head as she bit down onto her bottom lip. Not consulting a man on food was the epitome of stripping him of his manhood. The chilled draft in an icy glass would take the sting out of leading him around by the nose, and all of this coming together would show him exactly who was in charge before he even sat down.
“You’re bad,” Jasmine said as I hung up the phone.
“And don’t you forget it,” I
said.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, now. This is a professional meeting. Don’t let that wine go to your head.”
“Get your brain out of the gutter,” I said as Jasmine swiveled her hips.
“Have you seen him? It’s hard not to have it there.”
I stood up and walked to the door, swinging my laptop bag over my shoulder.
“Holy shit. Warn a girl before you do something like that.”
“I have to go,” I said. “In this one instance, I don’t believe being fashionably late is necessary. Though I wish I had time to go home and change into something a little more comfortable.”
“Got a fun little secret going on underneath that leather skirt of yours?” she asked.
“Only a secret I share with Victoria,” I said with a grin. “But it’s the leather. Meant to make a statement in the meeting, but not very appropriate for a client.”
“Already panicking about your outfit. Are you sure this isn’t a date?”
I shot her a look before I shut my office door behind me and locked it.
“Well that was a fun little stare. It seems he’s brought the animal out in you. Which I understand wholly. I don’t know if I’d be able to keep my hands off a tasty dish like him,” Jasmine said as she walked alongside me. “He’s got this rough around the edges, manhandle-you-into-submission look that probably has every woman magnetized around him.”
She took the words right out of my mouth.
I wasn’t the kind of woman to enjoy the well-tailored suit. Every man could own a tailored suit. But the suit didn’t make the man. I appreciated a unique sense of style. One that was owned by the person instead of a style that forced someone into a box. It’s what bred confidence. Strength. Sensuousness.
A man owned by his clothes couldn’t be owned by me.
“This guy has no idea at what he’s gotten himself into. It would give me an immense amount of joy for you to keep your phone on during the meeting. It’s always fun to see you work your magic. I’ll settle for hearing about it, though. So, commit every detail to memory.”
Investment In Lust Page 2