Proper Irish (Jaded Lily #1)

by Zeia Jameson

  Proper Irish

  Copyright © 2017 Zeia Jameson

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover Design by

  Alyssa Garcia

  www.uplifting-designs.com

  Editing by

  Bethany Pennypacker

  bethanyp345@gmail.com

  Formatting by

  Champagne Formats

  www.champagneformats.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Other Books

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  “Kerry, did you set up the meeting with the caterer?”

  Kerry whooshes by me, directing the three gentlemen carrying the tables into the ballroom.

  “Yes. We are meeting with Claude on Friday at eleven-thirty.”

  I make a note in my planner. “Great. And the florist?”

  Kerry nods to the men with the tables and looks upward in thought. “Saaatuurdaay morning. . .nine,” she says, picking the information out of her mental planner.

  I flip the page of my calendar and write “Julian, 9.” I don’t know how Kerry keeps all of that information stocked in her head. I can barely remember to eat a meal. If I didn’t have my planner, I’d probably forget to breathe. I flip through a few more pages to make sure I’m not missing anything. I look up at Kerry. “Thanks. Laurel said we could come by the hotel anytime tomorrow and go over the layout and program. Is one o’clock good for you?”

  “Anything you need, Stella. If it works for you, I’ll be there.”

  I nod and write “Laurel, 1” on tomorrow’s block. I sigh when I realize that I am booked with meetings and consultations tomorrow from seven o’clock in the morning until nine o’clock at night. I make a note in tomorrow’s block to wear comfortable shoes. I also write “Get Kerry gift.” I have no idea what, but she deserves something. I’d spin out of control if I didn’t have her as an assistant. I love my job, but it is demanding. I think a thought I’ve had often—I wish Rachel would hire more event coordinators.

  She only began this event planning business, As You Wish Events, three years ago, and I was extremely grateful that she gave me a job fresh from graduating college. But since we coordinated the Chatham Metro Police Department’s annual appreciation ball a year and a half ago, business has been nonstop. And I’ve been doing the brunt of the work. I was finally able to convince Rachel to hire Kerry three months ago. Kerry had saved my hide. I was on the brink of quitting.

  “Kerry, I’m heading out. I have to pick up the centerpieces. I can drop them off before I head home.”

  She waves her hand at me. “Bring them by in the morning, if that’s better for you. We won’t be able to set them up until the tablecloths and votives arrive, and those aren’t scheduled to be delivered until eight in the morning. Go home. Have a glass of wine. Relax. Sleep.”

  I exhale. I fucking love this woman.

  “All right. See you in the morning.” I turn on my heel and head down the long hallway of the 1887 Victorian home which will be the setting for tomorrow’s Girl Scouts of America awards ceremony. Normally, the event is held at the Juliette Gordon Low house. But an unexpected pipe leak and emergency repair gave cause for the president of the Girl Scouts to beg Rachel to put together a last minute venue. Rachel, being a Girl Scout in her childhood, and having the business savvy to know that pulling off an event like this could escalate the business into a new class of clientele, jumped at the opportunity without hesitation.

  I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pull it out and check the screen. Speak of the devil. Rachel.

  “Hey, Rach, what’s up?” I answer.

  “Stella, did you meet with Roger to discuss the color scheme for the Mayor’s Ball?”

  I roll my eyes. We’ve been over this. “Yes. We’re going with emerald, black, and white.”

  “Did you discuss other options with him, like I asked?”

  No.

  “Of course. But given that this is a St. Patrick’s Day ball, we thought the color scheme was appropriate.”

  “I don’t know, Stella. That’s what we did last year. I mean, green? It’s so . . . so . . .”

  “It’s so St. Patrick’s Day, Rach. It’s okay if we use emerald again. You go to a St. Patrick’s Day party, emerald is what you expect to see. I honestly think if we deviate, there may be mass hysteria. This city is kind of obsessed with St. Patrick’s Day, you know. I don’t feel this is the event to go rogue. It’s the mayor of Savannah. We don’t want to piss him off. Or his wife, for that matter.”

  In Savannah, Georgia, everyone is Irish on St. Paddy’s Day. There are heritage events and family-oriented functions. The parade is so prominent that its planning committee works year-round to make it perfect each year. And they do a fine job. However, to most, the seventeenth of March means a day filled with alcohol and debauchery with little to no repercussions. Tens of thousands travel from the far corners of the southeastern region of the United States to participate. The festivities rival those of other St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in larger cities like Boston and Chicago. It’s been referenced as the Irish Mardi Gras, which, while the phrase makes a point, sounds ridiculous.

  I used to enjoy celebrating, donning all green attire, perching myself somewhere on River Street with a Call-a-Cab drink from the popular bar, Wet Willie’s, people-watching for hours. Last year was the first year we’d coordinated the Mayor’s St. Patrick’s Day Ball. We did so well that now we have a standing booking scheduled for the Mayor’s Ball every year. Now, I dread the damn day. Planning an event of that magnitude has to be executed perfectly. A steep task for myself and Kerry alone.

  I wish Rachel would hire more coordinators.

  There I go again.

  Rachel sighs loudly into her phone. “Fine, but if they aren’t happy, it’s you I’ll blame. But”—she elongates the word—“if you pull this off without a hitch . . . this could mean big things for you,” she sings into the phone.

  I roll my eyes. I never take stock in anything she says. “Rachel, it’s going to be okay. Trust me. I have to head to Ladybug’s now before they close. Talk to you tomorrow?”

  “Okay. Ta-ta,” she says, her voice high-p
itched.

  I shake my head and toss my phone into my bag. “She’s on some planet we aren’t privy to.”

  Kerry tilts her head and points in my direction. “That’s for sure. But what are we going to do about it?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question, K. What to do indeed?”

  I shoulder my bag and give a quick good-bye wave to Kerry.

  If we don’t figure something out, Rachel is going to be the event-planning death of us.

  “Are you going to be able to carry all of those, love? That’s a handful.” Matilda, the owner of Ladybug’s Crafts, eyes me with concern as I attempt to manage my composure with arms full of crates and bags of centerpieces.

  I adjust my grip. “I’m fine. I don’t have far to go. I’m going straight home.”

  One of the perks of living downtown—I’m within walking distance of almost everything.

  “I can have them delivered, you know.”

  “I know, Tild, but I know you’ve been short-staffed since Laura went off to school. I don’t want to put you out, especially with this being such short notice. And, really, it’s okay. I’ll be home in no time. Thank you for getting these together so quickly.”

  I adjust again, hoisting the centerpieces onto my left hip.

  “Anytime, darling. Anytime.”

  I back my way out of the shop’s door and begin my trek to my apartment. Why I thought carrying all of this three blocks was going to be easy, I have no idea. I stop at a crosswalk and shift my grip again on the bottom crate. As the Walk sign counts down to zero, I consider if there is a better route to my condo. But I know there isn’t. This is the quickest and most direct way.

  The sign buzzes. As I take a step to cross the street, I hear a voice behind me.

  “Got quite a handful there, missy. Probably bit off a little more than you can chew?”

  In mid-step, I look over my shoulder to see who is speaking. A man, unlocking a door to a tattoo shop. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, and both arms are covered with ink. His accent, whatever it is, is thick, and I want to ask him to repeat himself. But as I complete my step, I misjudge the curb and my ankle twists. “Fuck,” I exclaim as I lose my balance and everything I’m holding goes crashing into the street. I hear a shattering of glass, and as I straighten myself upright, I look back to the man.

  He peers over his shoulder. “Told you so. Stupid girl.”

  I stand there flabbergasted at what has just happened. He remains in the doorway.

  “You aren’t going to even offer to help?” I snap at him. He faces the entrance of the shop, bows, and shakes his head. He then enters the shop, without saying a word, and closes the door behind him.

  “Son of a bitch. What a dick,” I mumble to myself. I have half a mind to storm in behind him and ask him what his problem is. But a horn beeps to my left, and an aggravated driver waves his hands at me to get my mess out of the road. I become flustered as I try to gather the crates and bags out of the street.

  “What happened, darling?” I hear Matilda’s voice behind me, and then she’s by my side, helping me collect the disaster. “I was just locking up when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw you fall. Are you all right?”

  “I misjudged the step from the curb to the street, and . . . there was a guy . . .”

  The car horn beeps again, and I want to scream. Why is everyone being a jerk today? Matilda and I finish gathering everything. “Come on, dear. Let’s go back to the store and get you fixed up. I’ll assess the damage and redo what’s broken. I’ll bring everything by in the morning, okay?”

  All I can do is nod. We head back in the direction of Ladybug’s, and as I pass by the tattoo shop, I peer inside to see the asshole at the counter, flipping through a book. I make a mental note to come back and let him know how unacceptable and unforgivable his behavior was.

  “You mean he completely threw you off balance and then walked away with a smile?” Kerry asks after I recount to her the absolute weirdest moment of my life. I nod while taking a sip out of my bottle of water.

  “Yep. And when I went back to the shop, it was all locked up.”

  We’re sitting in an empty banquet room at the Cotton Sail Hotel, waiting on Laurel, the hotel’s events manager, who is almost ten minutes late. She texted me, telling me she’s wrapping up another meeting, which affords me time to tell Kerry about the inked guy at the tattoo parlor.

  “What a dick. Do you think he works there? You should stalk the place until you see him there again. Then chew his ass out.”

  I shrug. “I’m kind of over it. I was furious and a little embarrassed yesterday, but fortunately Matilda heard the commotion after I fell and made everything right. I’m just glad I didn’t sprain my ankle.”

  “I’ll stalk the fucker, then,” Kerry whispers so as not to compromise her professional demeanor and risk being overheard. You never know when ears are listening. “I can’t have some douchebag risking your health. You’re irreplaceable.”

  I exhale and roll my eyes. “Thanks. But, really, it’s fine. It was just weird, is all.”

  Before we can say anything more on the topic, Laurel enters the room.

  “What’ll ya have, sweetness?” Morty asks as I plop onto a stool in front of the bar, stiff from exhaustion. I roll my head to stretch my neck muscles in an attempt to relax them. “Shot of Beam and a pint of Newcastle to start.”

  “That kind of day, huh?” Morty asks.

  “Afraid so. This St. Patrick’s Day ball is going to be the death of me. The mayor’s wife is an OCD micromanager. I don’t think I can do this again next year.”

  “I warned you it was a tall order,” Morty says. I nod and throw back the shot of bourbon.

  Morty is the proprietor of Wedge, a dive bar aptly named so because the tiny space is sandwiched in between a large, bustling low-country restaurant and a four-star hotel on Bay Street. After retiring from the police department five years ago, Morty bought out the space from its previous owner, who didn’t want the hassle of it anymore. Wedge is one of my favorite places in downtown Savannah because of its great drinks and bar food and also for the view of the river from the roof, which Morty lets me enjoy from time to time.

  “I know, but this year seems worse than last year. It’s almost like Mrs. MacNamara is trying to see what limits she can push with me. Last year was my trial run. I passed, and now she knows I’ll bend and never break.”

  “Let me tell ya, kiddo, Mrs. MacNamara’s bark is worse than her bite. Tell her to back off and she will. Show her you’ve got her reputation in your best interest. She’ll respect you for that and will ease off. I guarantee it.” He pulls a bottle out of the cooler, and when I don’t respond, he continues. “Where’s Kerry? You rarely go anywhere without her anymore.”

  “She’s on the way. Had to drop off some invoices.”

  “Right. I just assumed you two were permanently attached at the hip.”

  “Oh, leave her be. She’s my savior.”

  Morty begins to respond, but my focus leaves him when I hear that voice. The same voice that nearly killed me a few days ago. I had been so busy I had forgotten about that voice completely. It was unmistakable. Thick with accent.

  “I didn’t think so,” I hear him say.

  And suddenly the rage I had the day I tripped over the curb returns. I scan the room for the tatted jackass. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.

  I find him. He’s sitting at a round table with five other hard-core-looking guys. They are dressed in leather vests and bandannas, their exposed, muscular arms completely covered with ink. Except for my guy. My asshole, rather. He’s got tattoos, yes, but he’s wearing just a tightly fitted black T-shirt and jeans. He almost looks out of place. Almost.

  My stare must send him some type of vibe, because he looks in my direction and makes eye contact. He looks at me like I’m familiar to him but he can’t place me.

  How about I go make him remember.

  I stand, keeping my locked gaze
on him. Once he realizes I’m approaching him, he leans into his group of cronies and taps one of them on the arm. He smirks and says something, pointing to me. All of them, at once, look up or turn to look at me. They all smirk his same annoying smirk.

  I reach the table, with no clue what I’m going to say.

  “You look like you’re coming to start trouble,” he says, accent so thick it takes a minute for me to register what he says. And before I can respond, he adds, “Cat got your tongue now? What is your business here, woman? You’re interrupting our meeting.”

  The jerk didn’t even give me a chance to respond before he insulted me. The nerve!

  “My business is that you caused me to fall into the middle of the street and then didn’t have the decency to help me up.”

  He takes a moment to reflect. “Ah. I don’t quite recall it as such. I merely pointed out you were stupid for carrying so much shite around. I had nothing to do with ya falling.”

  What the f . . . ? Did he just call me stupid?

  “Who the fuck are you, you pig, to call me stupid? And what kind of mother raises a son to be so fucking rude?”

  His eyebrows raise and then he stands, slamming his fist onto the table. “Don’t you dare talk about me mam.”

  The room goes quiet. The gruff in his voice startles me a bit. I have nothing to say. Insult him more? Apologize? Wait. He caused me to fall. I furl my brow again and open my mouth to give him more flack, but a hand grabs my arm and spins me around. “Stella, let’s come back over this way,” Morty says, pulling me back toward the bar. “He’s not really someone you want to be pissing off.”

  The guy’s face is stone, and eventually I look away and relent back to the bar. I chug my beer, text Kerry of my whereabouts, and head home.

  The Girl Scouts ceremony went off without a hitch. Everything was perfect. The director, Gretchen, sang my and Kerry’s praises to Rachel. After the event, both Kerry and I were utterly exhausted. This was the fourth event in a row that we’d done completely on our own, without Rachel’s help or attendance. I was beginning to wonder what the hell she did all day. We got paid, though, so I couldn’t complain too much.