ASH CRAWFORD. SHE looks good. She always looks good. And she’s a sight for sore eyes. It’s been too long since we’ve been in the same room. I let her know it with the squeeze of my arms around her shoulders.
“Hey, stranger,” I murmur against her hair. Coconuts. She always smells like the tropics and it takes me back to spring break senior year. It wasn’t the beach, but Vegas. The best place in the world for a famous face to get lost in a crowd. She splurged on a Nobu Villa. Ten thousand square feet of unrestrained indulgence that came with its own pool and a goddamn butler.
“Where have you been?” she says, embracing my midsection. “I’ve needed you.”
I pull away to see her face and traces of the truth darkening her eyes. “Come in.” Taking her hand, I draw her into my office. “What’s going on?”
“I’m kidding. Kind of. I’ve missed you and Lucas. Why can’t you move the office to LA? It’d be so much easier to get together if we lived on the same coast.”
Sitting her ass on the couch, she crosses her legs and her elbow lands on the back to prop her head up. Her skintight skirt slides past her knee, stopping mid-thigh. But it’s not Ash’s legs I’m thinking of. I swallow the memory of Maisie reclined on that very piece of furniture and turn to the bourbon. It appears Ash could use a glass, and so could I. Now is not the time to ponder my assistant. This is Ash. Ash, who is overly generous with her friends. Drake and I most of all. We owe her. I owe her. She took a chance on me when signing on to become my first and only client after law school graduation. I would do anything for her.
Handing over a tumbler, I sit on the opposite end of the couch and watch her sip. She nods her appreciation and then tips back the entire glass in a long swallow.
“Another?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. Thanks though. It’s been one of those weeks—better yet, months.”
“You said that on the phone. And my recommendation was a vacation—to Fiji, not Manhattan.”
“I thought about it. The islands or to Charlotte’s ranch in California.”
I grunt my distaste. “Visiting your stepsister is not what I’d call relaxing.”
“Half-sister. And she’s reached out a couple of times, extending an olive branch I guess. It doesn’t matter though. I can’t go. I’ve got a couple of things on the burner and I need your help.”
Ash always has a deal pending. Everyone knows her. Everyone in the business wants her. She’s box-office bank.
“Fair enough,” I say. “I’ll always help you, Ash. You know that. But I’m going on record to say you’re working too hard. And this is coming from me, Workaholic Kavanagh.”
“Ha.” She laughs. “I’ve been calling you that since freshman year. All work and no play makes Jayce a dull boy,” she says in a chillingly accurate impression of Jack Nicholson’s original adaptation.
“It’s your favorite line from The Shining remake.”
She shudders. “Creepiest movie ever. The only good part was working with Bradley Cooper. He’s so stinking cute and nice too. You don’t come by that combo too often. But good God, I still have nightmares from the set.”
“Back-to-back films and their press junkets will keep you up at night. But aside from work, everything’s good?”
Ash studies the crystal tumbler held loosely in her hand as if she wishes it was full. I’m about to get up to bring the decanter over but she stops me when her gaze cuts to mine. Her eyes are the color of spring, the shade found after a hard rain when the grass is at its deepest green. “I’m fine. Really,” she says dropping her hand and the glass with it to her lap. “Your vacation idea is a good one, but I don’t want to go by myself.”
“What happened to Ronaldo?”
“Ronnie?” Her foot bobs. The stiletto hangs on by her toes, red bottom bouncing in time with her tempo. “Apparently he wasn’t that into me. After I gave him the blow job of his life, he asked if I could introduce him to Steven Spielberg. What he really wants is to sign on to the next Jurassic production and he thinks I can make that happen.”
I reach for her hand, first removing the glass from her grip so I can then offer a little comfort. Ash has trust issues, more than most. More than me. I at least have family, whereas Ash has a mother who at first managed her career and then focused on skimming her finances. “What can I do?” I ask with her fingers twined with mine.
Her head lands on the back of the couch and she stares as if fascinated by the white tray ceiling. “Get me a deal at The Wilson.”
“The off-Broadway playhouse?”
“That’s the one. I want to tell my story.”
“You finished the script two years ago. Why now?”
“I don’t know.” After pushing up and off the couch, she starts to pace. “I need a break from films, and LA. If I could be here just doing my thing, God.” She sighs. “I think it’s the change I need. And it’s a solo performance. It’ll be fun to get in front of a live audience and laugh at all the hilarious fucked-upness that’s happened to me. People will go crazy over the crap we pulled at Harvard.”
“It’s not all funny,” I remind her. Ash likes to make light of her life, but emancipation from her family at fifteen was tough shit to get through. So was living on her own in Hollywood at such a young age.
“It’ll be cathartic. And just think, I’ll be in Manhattan through the New Year with you and Lucas. For, like, a minute in time we can chill, because after that it’s back to a set. That’s the second thing I need you to work on for me.”
“You’re going under contract again?”
“I hope so. When I leave here I’m going to the plaza for a meeting with Harry Wentworth.”
I’m up and in her face in a second. “That’s not a good idea, Ash. He’s got a reputation. A bad one.”
Waving away my caution, she heads to the window to face the skyline. She’s perfection as the afternoon sun haloes her statuesque silhouette. Flawless for Hollywood and any part they want her to play. Perfect in a way that does nothing to stir my body. We’re just friends, as punctuated by the one and only time we drunkenly fumbled through a kiss. It was clear immediately we would never be anything but platonic.
“I’ve heard the rumors,” she says. “But I’ve worked with Harry multiple times, so I’m giving him the benefit of doubt. This is the role of a lifetime and his production company has the rights to the screenplay. I haven’t wanted anything this bad in ages. I’m a shoo-in and we both know it.”
“Let me go with you.”
“There’s no need. He’ll get his panties twisted if I bring in my lawyer before we’ve worked through the basics.”
“Take me as your friend then, your anybody. But don’t go to his room alone.”
She turns and gives me her full attention, eye to eye. “I appreciate your concern. I do, but Harry isn’t going to cross any boundaries. It’s fine. I’ll talk with him about it and then loop you in to negotiate the contract after we’ve come to initial terms.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to,” she says while walking toward me. “I’m telling you as my lawyer to get involved later. I’m asking you as my friend to believe I’ve got this. Don’t worry about me.”
I do and I will.
Harry Wentworth is bad news.
WHEN I TUG open the door to Kav’s, I’m late. It’s close to nine and dim lights greet me as I walk in. As per the opening last month, it’s packed and the buzz of the crowd competes with the band playing in the back. The bar, albeit loud and distracting, is as much of a comfort as my family. Something to do with mopping floors and washing dishes every day at my dad’s place long before I could drive. The smell of corned beef roasting in the kitchen, the clink of glasses, the people and jovial spirit relax me.
Tonight is no different. My shoulders ease as I manage to find a stool near the back. Near Lucas and Dee who I nod to, Otter, and various associates from the firm, near the wood floor cleared of tables, close to the pile of bodies
heaped together and swaying while the band fiddles through a rendition of “Molly Malone”. But my gaze lands on just one of those bodies. One luscious, ripe woman fitted in skintight leather pants and a jean shirt unbuttoned so low her cleavage is on display.
Tension tightens my shoulders when Keller approaches her from behind. Goddamn, Keller. If his hand lands anywhere near Maisie’s ass I may go insane. I’ll fire him. I swear to Christ I will fire him if he . . .
Crisis averted as he touches her on the shoulder to get her attention. I let out a long breath.
Still fuming at the near catastrophe, I manage a nod at the bartender. Flynn is a pain in my ass, but I love him and I love that he’s in Manhattan. Expanding the Kavanagh chain into the city was a great idea for the family financially and for myself. I get to have another brother in close proximity.
Rows of bottles line the mahogany shelves behind him. His brown hair is pulled into a messy knot on the back of his head, and he winks at the girl sitting next to me before turning his attention my way. “What’ll you have, brother?”
“Guinness.”
“Ah, one of those days, was it?” he asks while hooking a glass under the tap.
Flynn is convinced he can read people based on their drink selection. Bud Light is for the delinquent grown into an adult. Long Island iced tea is for the fucking crazy. Scotch is all business, a straightforward stress relief. Guinness leaves the complexity to the beer and out of life, and he’s right. Tonight, I’m all about simplicity. It’s my new goddamn motto.
“You could say that,” I mumble tipping my pint in his direction. Between Maisie and the contract, Ash, the Blume case, and Dad, my nerves are shot.
He wipes away the wet ring my glass left and sets a coaster with the bar’s logo down next to my phone. The cell Ash has not yet pinged to let me know she’s okay.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I sip to coat my dry throat, and then take a longer drag of the bitter brew. “How’s business?”
He raises his brow and looks around the packed crowd. “We’re up six percent since last month, but you know that.”
I nod because I do, but I want to make sure he’s paying attention to numbers too. A good manager always does. When we decided as a family it was time to expand and that Flynn was ready to take the lead, we trusted he had the business’s best interest at the forefront of his mind. He hasn’t let us down, already thinking about improvements to keep customers happy. Flynn may fuck as many women as he serves, but he’s good for business and with spuds. He has a section on the menu called Titillating Taters to prove it.
“I spoke to Danny Rivetzer about the place next door.” He eyes me sideways while taking an order from the guy squeezing in on my right side.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“He’s gotta get out from under the mortgage. He’d be willing to negotiate on price if we go in without a broker to save cost. You could take care of the contract.”
“It’s still a hell of a lot of money. Millions.”
“Yeah,” he says, producing a bottle from the cooler and taking cash for the till. “But you said it yourself, city real estate is where we need to invest. We could expand this place into a restaurant, bring in more pieces from Ireland for that authentic feel with a menu to match. Rent out the apartments above us. It’s a money-maker, Jayce.”
His enthusiasm is contagious but worrisome too. It’s all about finances. More money to come up with and another thing to consider on my list of many. Including Ash. Where’s my goddamn text? I pick up my phone to make sure I haven’t missed anything and just as I’m about to set it down a husky laugh interrupts my train of thought. The throaty sound I hear in my fucking dreams. As the band takes a break and her voice is heard over the drone of the crowd, I hang my head. I knew I would be hard—it would be hard to be in the same room with Maisie outside of work. I can’t stop thinking about her. About making her tremble beneath me.
I shift to look over my shoulder. Anger lifts my lip in a snarl meant for the man with his hand on her arm. When it slips to cradle the curve of her waist, I slam my glass down hard enough beer sloshes to the counter. Some douche whose barely there beard doesn’t connect with his mustache has his hands on my girl. The fuck? This can’t be happening.
She is not my anything. I bury my eyes in my palm. The darkness does little to quell the picture of Maisie’s full-watt smile so I squeeze my fingers and drag them up to grab my hair.
God sent her here to taunt me, and taunt me she does. Tossing her long hair over her shoulder. Smiling. Bending with a hearty laugh, her round ass is on display and every man standing in a twenty-foot vicinity drools over the sight.
“Has it finally fucking happened, then?” Flynn asks. When I glance his way, his eyes are on Maisie.
“You know her?”
He smirks, and I’m two seconds away from knocking that shit off his face. “What’s it to you?”
“With God as my witness, I will shove your nuts so far up your ass you won’t have a chance to propagate the Kavanagh name.” I finish the remainder of my beer in two long swallows as he gapes.
“You did it.”
“The fuck, Flynn? Just answer me.”
“You’re dipshit stupid over a girl.”
I groan and hang my head for two seconds before angling a hard gaze his way. “Do you know her or not?”
“I’ve seen her here a couple of times. She won’t give me the time of day, which makes sense now that I know where your dick has been.”
My stare intensifies into a threat on his life.
Hands up, he laughs. “Okay, I got it. She’s hot as fuck and all yours, brother.”
I watch her for thirty minutes. A half hour of Maisie-filled torture and three pints. A conversation with Lucas and Otter can’t drag my eyes away. It’s appalling. Dee joins Maisie, receiving a squeal and a high-five from the temptress herself and a handshake from the blond dipshit who has yet to let go of . . . who? She’s not my girl. This is Ms. Walker. My assistant. The woman invading my thoughts, night and day.
My chest aches. Angina or some shit. I’ve got to call my doctor because the pain spasms tenfold when Maisie turns her head in my direction.
Eye contact. For ten seconds, it’s full on. Enough time to replay my dick squeezing inside her tight heat. Long enough to remember the brief glimpse of vulnerability she expressed when I moved her under me. A minute to consider her virginity and wonder why she gave it to me? The moment I called her gorgeous and the brilliant smile that followed. Then I blink, and nothing changes.
I wait for her to saunter over, swaying her luscious hips as she does. She may have caught me looking, but this is her fault. Everything happening to me is her goddamn fault and I want to make her pay. I want to drag her out the door and bend her over in the alley until she admits the knife digging in my gut is her responsibility.
But she doesn’t walk my way. There is no pretense or flirtation in her gaze. She simply lifts her hand in a wave and returns her attention to her friends. She breathes life into those around her. Smiles, laughter—she moves to the music that’s started up again. She’s the life of the party. I stand, staring at Maisie from afar. A place that is less comfortable than it was yesterday. And why is that?
Because I want to be with her, laugh and tease pink into her cheeks.
Frustration fuels my feet forward and toward the back restrooms. I slip my cell into my back pocket and steer clear of Maisie. But her laughter reaches me and feeds my foul mood down the darkened hall before I slam through the door. Two sets of eyes swing my way, and I glare hard enough that they finish their business quickly so I can take care of mine in the relative privacy of a bar bathroom.
If the mirror above the sink is an accurate reflection, I look like shit. Dark half-moons under my eyes announce my lack of sleep. For the first time in a long while, I’m tired. I’m tired of the long list of shit that follows me from the firm, family finances, and worrying about Ash
and Dad. Exhaustion rattles my bones as if proof I’m sick of running from feelings.
Rubbing my temples, I head back to the dim light of the bar and stop short when my vision is filled by emerald-painted toenails peeking out of strappy stilettos. My eyes crawl up shapely legs, and decadent curves, and get stuck on Maisie’s tits. I bite my lip to hold in a groan.
“Hey.” She presses her body against the wall, a bright light surrounded by dark wood and pictures of Irish immigrants. There’s not much room in the small hallway so I step toward her as a patron maneuvers around us.
I shift until she has to tip her chin to keep eye contact. “Peach.” I let the word slip past my lips, casual but gruff.
“I shouldn’t have come back here. We can’t be seen together, I know. But I . . .” Her voice trails off as her eyes meet mine.
The world around us falls away, and I find myself inching closer, longing tickling my fingers to sink into her hips. “You what?”
“Wanted to see you.”
Every breath I take is filled with Maisie. Something sweet and innocent, but also full of sinful spice. The combination speaks not only to my cock, but to the odd rhythm of my heart. That’s clearly the problem I’m grappling with. For all my indignant ranting, it feels good to lay my eyes on her and to be this close. I bury my fists in my pockets and rock back on my heels, staggered by the truth. “I’m not objecting.”
Her eyes close for the briefest second, but it’s her sigh I feel like a weighted pressure in my chest.
“I’ve thought about you in a lot of places, but never here.” Her gaze darts to the galley-like bar, the ceiling open to ductwork and rafters, and then back to my face.
“Interesting,” I murmur. I feel more at home here than I do anywhere, even the office.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I selected the location and designed most of the interior; the parts I didn’t were done by my family. This pub belongs to us.”
“Kav’s,” she murmurs, nodding like it all makes sense.
“Yeah. Flynn shortened it for the city. The pub back home in Hamilton is Kavanagh’s.”
Breach of Contract (Kavanagh Family Romance Book 1) Page 9