by Sienna Blake
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Three Irish Brothers:
A Reverse Harem Romance
A Quick & Dirty Novel
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Sienna Blake
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Three Irish Brothers: a novel / by Sienna Blake. – 1st Ed.
First Edition: August 2018
Published by SB Publishing
Copyright 2018 Sienna Blake
Cover art copyright 2017 Giorgia Foroncelli: [email protected]. All Rights Reserved Sienna Blake. Stock images: shutterstock
Proofreading services by Proof Positive: http://proofpositivepro.com.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Contents
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Three Irish Brothers
Savannah
Aiden
Savannah
Savannah
Savannah
Savannah
Savannah
Fionn
Savannah
Killian
Aiden
Killian
Savannah
Killian
Savannah
Killian
Savannah
Savannah
Killian
Aiden
Fionn
Savannah
Savannah
Savannah
Killian
Fionn
Savannah
Savannah
Savannah
Savannah
Fionn
Savannah
Killian
Savannah
Savannah
Savannah
Savannah
Savannah
Savannah
Killian
Epilogue: Savannah
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Dear Readers
Excerpt of Professor’s Kiss
Excerpt of Royally Screwed
Books by Sienna Blake
Acknowledgements
About Sienna
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Three Irish Brothers
A Quick & Dirty Novel
I used to think I was one of the lucky ones.
But at twenty-six, I’ve left my “perfect” life in New York behind—my perfect fiancé, my stylish friends, my high-flying marketing career—and moved to Ireland.
Truthfully, my perfect fiancé is now my ex after I walked in on him face-deep in my best friend’s p***y.
And my career? It’s over. Because that cheating ex-fiancé of mine…he owns the company I worked for.
I know. I know. Don’t screw your boss. Trust me, I’m never making that mistake again.
On my way to the remote Irish farm I’m now working on, my car hits a ditch. I’m rescued by the three sexiest men I’ve ever seen.
The three Irish O’Callaghan brothers.
Broad shoulders, strong arms, accents that make me wet just to hear them.
I want them. All of them.
I know they all want me.
Plot twist…
Turns out they’re my new bosses.
Warning: This is a sexy yet emotional reverse-harem romance, a full-length, standalone novel at 50k words. Three sexy Irish brothers who want nothing more than to please their special woman. All at the same time.
Sienna’s Quick & Dirty series consists of standalone novels which are hotter, dirtier and quicker than her other novels.
Savannah
Sometimes I wonder how I got so damn lucky.
“…and then he kneeled down in the sand,” I say, recounting the story for yet the thousandth time, “and begged me to be his wife.”
I turn my left hand to let the light catch on the 3-karat princess-cut diamond solitaire white gold engagement ring, mesmerized at the way it glimmers like rainbows off the diamond.
It’s like a symbol of my life, I think with relish.
“Jesus, Savannah, you’re going to need a mini-crane just to hold your hand up,” says Avery, my personal assistant, as she watches me admiring my newest piece of ice-wear.
She’s leaning so far over the divide between our desks I’m afraid she’s going to fall.
“I know,” I say with a sigh. “Theo has the most amazing taste in jewelry.”
I almost lie without flinching. Almost.
I discreetly scan the area around me, at the faces of other girls in the digital marketing team of Prescott Agency. They’re all listening in.
None of them have noticed my lie.
They don’t need to know that the original engagement ring was the most hideous pear-cut yellow diamond set in chunky rose gold. I mean rose gold. Who wears that except for senior citizens? Thankfully, Theo let me exchange the ring for a new one as soon as we got back to New York from the Bahamas.
His questionable taste in jewelry is the one flaw in Theodore’s perfection.
Well…if I were to nitpick, there is the way he grins at himself in the mirror in the morning. He practically takes longer than I do getting ready.
And the way he corrects my English sometimes. Annoying.
And when we make love, it almost seems like he’s running a race with me and I often don’t get to fin—
No, no, I correct myself. Theodore is perfect.
His taste in jewelry is his one flaw.
“Talking about me, ladies?” A masculine voice breaks through my thoughts.
Avery swings around in her chair.
Standing there in all his Armani-suited glory is Theodore Henry Willian Prescott.
One of New York’s hottest CEOs under thirty-five. Perfectly square jaw, cheekbones of a god and sandy-blonde hair pushed back off his strong forehead. Owner of Prescott Agency, one of the oldest and most prestigious marketing and public relation agencies in New York, handed down to him from his father, who retired six months ago after a mild stroke.
And he’s mine.
“How’s the most beautiful girl in the world?” he asks, his brilliant blue eyes on mine.
His sickly-sweet words have Avery sighing along with half the girls in the marketing team.
I stand and the smile I give him is triumphant. “Guess who just closed the Merrion Resorts deal this morning?”
Theo’s face breaks out into a grin. “Congratulations, babe.”
He pulls me into a hug and I accept it with a gracious sigh.
I kick ass at my job. And I’m not even bragging. Haters might say that I gained my position as Senior Executive in the Digital Marketing team of Prescott Agency by sleeping with the boss—who, by the way was not the boss when I started sleeping with him—but that’s not true.
I earned this job. With blood, sweat and tears.
Okay, fine. More like sass, talent and my huge network of contacts, but still.
When Theo and I pull back I can feel the eyes of the entire marketing team on us, loving us, envying us, wanting to be us. Can you say hashtag-couplegoals?
“What did you come down here for? It’s not like you to come down into the bullpen
where the real work happens,” I tease him, brushing down his lapels.
He doesn’t smile at my joke.
I falter for a mere second before I force my smile wider. “Is there a business reason for this visit or did you just miss me too much?”
“I just wanted to stop by to say that I can’t have lunch with you today.”
“Oh.” I pout but only half-heartedly.
Theo and I have a running lunch date every day unless something comes up. It’s been that way since he convinced me to have lunch with him one year ago. It was the most perfect lunch date in the history of lunch dates. We’ve been an item since.
“Don’t pout, babe, it’ll give you wrinkles.” Theo bops my nose with his finger. “I have a last-minute business meeting I have to run off to.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, trying to ignore his quip about wrinkles. I’m twenty-six, for God’s sake. I don’t smoke, eat well, always wear sunscreen. I don’t have a single line on my face, so where did that come from? “We’re still on for the celebratory drinks with my bridesmaids tonight, right?”
His flinch only lasts a split second before it’s replaced with his trademark lopsided smile. “Of course, babe.”
I don’t know why he’s flinching. My bridesmaids are the best girls ever: my two great friends, Genevieve Stone and Olivia Rotterdam, and my maid of honor, Cecily “C.C.” Platt. My BFF since we entered the same Little Miss New York beauty pageant at the age of ten. I won, of course.
C.C. is the Nicole to my Paris. The Kourtney to my Kim.
The four of us are practically the New York IT girls, turning heads wherever we go. All from good families, all with beauty, taste and class.
I frown at Theo. “Did you forget?”
“Of course not.” Theo leans in and presses a kiss on my lips. Soft, chaste. Perfect. Just like our lives together will be.
When he pulls away I’ve forgotten that flash of…something that marred his face earlier.
“You enjoy the rest of your day, future Mrs. Savannah Prescott,” he says as he releases me with a wink.
Mrs. Savannah Prescott. That does have a ring to it.
I watch Theo stride away, admiring the confidence in his walk and the way his Armani slacks are perfectly tailored to him. Then I sink back into my chair wondering whether life can get any better.
“Oh, Savannah,” Avery says to me with a sigh, “you have the perfect life.”
I grin and hold up the coffee cup from my desk. “Cheers to that.”
“Savannah, excuse me, but I—” One of the interns chooses that moment to stumble, falling right against my arm, knocking my coffee mug. Coffee spills all over my white silk blouse and houndstooth skirt.
I gasp. Thank goodness the coffee in the cup is lukewarm and not fresh.
“Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit, I’m sorry,” the intern, whose name I can’t remember, repeats as he stands there like a fool, his hands tugging at his hair.
I stare down at the brown soggy Pollock painting across my lap, wetness soaking through to my skin, and I’m unable to move.
Avery launches out of her chair, grabbing a box of tissues and shoving the intern out of the way. She begins to pat me down, trying to soak up the coffee. “Not the blouse. Anything but the blouse! Maybe if you go to the bathroom and—”
“It’s no use, Avery,” I say. “It’s ruined.”
The skirt I could get dry-cleaned, but there is no way in New York Fashion Week that I’m getting a coffee stain out of white silk. Not even Harry Potter and all his magic could manage that.
Avery’s patting slows, her face falling. “But…Chanel!” she cries in a forlorn wail.
“I know, Avery.” I pat the back of her hand. “R.I.P. Chanel.”
Avery makes the sign of the cross with a hand, still clutching coffee-soaked tissues.
“I’ll have to head home and get changed,” I say.
It’s almost lunchtime anyway and the penthouse apartment Theo and I share is only nine minutes away by cab.
Lucky, huh?
That’s the thing about luck. You never know when it’s going to turn.
Exactly thirteen minutes later I’m walking through the front door of the penthouse apartment that Theo and I share on the Upper East side. I moved in after only three months of dating him, which everyone said I was crazy to do. But when you know, you know. Am I right?
I have no idea that my blissful, glittering life is about to be torn apart.
The first sign that something is wrong is when I hear a female groaning long and loud like she’s in pain.
I freeze. That sounds close. Really close. Like, in my damn apartment close.
I open my mouth to call out. But the voice comes again. “God, yes, that feels good.”
The voice sounds familiar. And it’s coming from… I creep farther into my apartment, careful not to make a noise.
It’s coming from behind my bedroom door. I sneak up to it and press my ear to the Burberry-blue painted wood panel.
“Oh, yeah. Right there, baby. Right fucking there.”
Seriously. What. The. Fuck?
I press down the polished chrome handle and throw open the door.
There in our bed is my best friend forever, Cecily Platt, naked except for a pair of heels on the ends of her twig legs stuck up in the air. I’d recognize the top of her overly-highlighted blonde head and those stuck-on, too-tanned, fake coconut breasts anywhere.
And there, with his face between her legs is my fiancé. Theodore Henry Willian Prescott.
The first thing I think is, those are my favorite fucking Louboutins that bitch has on. I knew she borrowed them without asking, the liar.
The second thing I think is, business meeting, my fucking ass.
Actually, I think I say this second thing out loud because the two of their heads snap towards me.
A gasp leaves her sticky pink painted mouth. His face floods with guilt and he lets out a curse.
Instinctively I spin on my heel and flee. I don’t know where I’m going, I just know I have to get out of here.
Dear God, I don’t know if I will ever be able to wipe that image from my mind. Or scrub the sound of her moaning out of my ears.
“Savannah, wait!” Theo calls from behind me.
I ignore him and burst out the penthouse door into the small entry hall and stab the elevator button. Hurry. Hurry.
Ding. It opens. Thankfully it’s empty.
Just in time, too, because I hear the door behind me catch. Theo grabs my arm before I can get into the elevator and spins me to face him.
“Just wait a second,” he says, huffing, his fake-tanned, fully-waxed, gym-built chest heaving.
“Let go of me.”
“No.”
“You’re still naked.”
“I just want to explain—”
“You still have her cunt juice smeared on your fucking lips, Theo,” I scream.
He winces. He hates the word cunt. Which I why I used it. He wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand, probably the first and only time in his fucking life he will ever wipe his mouth with anything less than the finest linen napkin.
He gives me a puppy-dog look. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“Then. Why?” I grind out.
“She came on to me,” was his weak response.
Fuck him.
Fuck her.
Fuck all of this.
“Come on, Savannah, be reasonable. Everyone gets cold feet before a wedding. Everyone has one last fling.”
One. Last. Fling?
“I have never nor would I ever cheat on you.”
He lets out a sigh. “If you want to slap me, slap me. You’ll feel better and we can move on from this. I love you. I want to marry you. She was just sex.”
Theo finally releases my arm. He holds out his hands, turns his cheek and closes his eyes.
Slap him? Yeah, right.
I punch the asshole straight in the face as hard as I can.
Aid
en
People think that because I can’t talk, I somehow can’t listen, either. You’d be surprised at what people say around me all the time. The secrets they let loose. The arguments they have like I’m not even there.
Like right now.
“Where the hell have you been?” my eldest brother, Killian demands of Fionn, the middle brother. “The cows have been braying since dawn.”
Fionn has just stumbled into the farmhouse, trying to be inconspicuous and failing miserably. Killian was waiting for him like a concerned parent.
He has reasons to be concerned. It’s just past seven in the morning and Fionn has not been to bed. It’s only Thursday.
“You are not my keeper, brother,” Fionn slurs. “And the damn cows can wait a few hours to be milked.”
“That’s a bruise on your cheek. And your knuckles are busted up. You’ve been fighting again. Jesus Christ, Fionn.”
Fionn slides his hands behind his back and scowls. “The asshole deserved it.”
“Sure he did.” Killian’s nose crinkles up. “You smell like whiskey and pussy.”
Fionn snorts. “As if you’d know what pussy smells like. You never go out and have any fun. The ladies of Kerry County want a taste of the O’Callaghan brothers. I’m the only one man enough to give them what they want.”
“Because you’re too busy having enough fucking fun for both of us. Someone has to take responsibility. To figure out how to keep this—” Killian cuts himself off.
I know what he was going to say, what he was going to let slip. I know because I’ve woken up late at night, padded through the farmhouse and found Killian pouring over stacks of bills under a dim side lamp, rocking back and forth in his chair, mumbling to himself, “How am I going to pay this? How the fuck am I going to pay this?” then sending whispered sorries up to our dead parents in Heaven.
I know that we’re in trouble. That this farm is in trouble. But Killian won’t tell Fionn.
He should.