5
1296 Words
One becomes four. We drift around the hotel’s ground level, surrounded by overpriced, high-end stores, in pursuit of the entrance.
Orla is going in and out of stores we have no business being in, and I wish I could put her on a leash.
It takes me a moment or two to realize what the buzzing noise is. The stolen cocktail glass clinks noisily against the toiletries from the hotel bathroom as I struggle to locate my phone under all the crap in my bag. I finally find it under the soaps and fish it out.
I press connect on the unknown number.
“Clodagh?” a deep American voice drawls down the line. “It’s Marcus.”
My heart goes from resting to racing. “Yes?”
“Good news,” he booms. “You’re good to go. You start Monday.”
Abruptly, I stop still in the throngs of people, nearly dropping the phone. How much have I drunk? “I… passed the vetting?”
I look around for Orla, but she’s wandered into another shop. Typical.
He chuckles softly down the line. “Weren’t you expecting to?”
“Uh.” I expel a strange gargle. I’m not even sure it came from my mouth.
“We’ll need you to move in on Sunday.” Marcus either chooses to ignore my shock or isn’t fazed by it. He sounds like he’s walking. “Mr. Quinn will meet you on Sunday afternoon.”
“Right,” I breathe, staring dazed into the window of a luxury lingerie store. I force a casual tone even though my heart does the bongo against my chest. “Send me the details. I’m delighted.”
“Excellent. Don’t mess this up, Clodagh. You won’t be able to stay in New York if you do.” The words hang in the air as an ominous warning. “Mr. Quinn’s driver, Sam, will pick you up.”
Something isn’t right. Is it possible for the police to make mistakes? Doubtful. Is Quinn’s vetting really lenient? Again, I doubt it.
My sixth sense says that something’s wrong, but as Marcus ends the call, I bury that thought deep down under my delight. I can’t stop the goofy grin from taking over my face.
I’m staying.
I’m staying in Manhattan.
I need to hug someone. Where the hell did Orla go? Shoppers and hotel guests mill around, but Orla is nowhere in sight.
My hands tremble as I dial her number. “Orla! Get your ass back here.”
She begins to speak, but I cut her off. “I’m staying, Orla. I’m actually staying! I passed vetting.”
The screech down the line must be heard by everyone within ten meters. She says, “you’re kidding,” five times, and I repeat, “I’m not.”
“On my way! I went to the loo when you were on your phone. I thought you were talking to your gran, and you know how she likes to chat.”
The call goes dead. A long beat passes before I realize I’m frozen, holding my phone midair against my ear and grinning like a lunatic at a mannequin in the shop window. I think she smiles back.
I might be delirious.
She’s wearing emerald-green underwear with embroidered lace that would complement my red hair perfectly. The matching choker around her neck makes it the sexiest damn lingerie I’ve ever seen.
Invisible cords pull me toward it. Maybe I’ll save up and buy it now that I’m staying.
Orla comes up beside me and I grab her arm. “I’d look sexy as f**k in that. Don’t ya think? I might buy it to celebrate.”
Except when I turn, it’s not Orla’s arm.
It’s muscular, hard, and wrapped in nice-feeling material.
A broad chest in a blue shirt and vest looms over me. I look up… up farther… and am met with an angry stare, as arctic eyes blaze into mine.
Wow.
“Holy s**t!” I shriek. “I mean…”
He glares down at where I’ve grasped his forearm and detaches himself with a grunt.
My breath catches in my throat, and I look away, flustered.
I…
He’s…
Just f**k.
Glass smashing snaps me out of my daze.
I hop back in surprise, away from the little shards of glass littered around me. My bag has slipped off my shoulder, spilling the contents across the floor, one of which was the fancy cocktail glass I had taken from the bar as a ‘souvenir’. Now, it lies broken in a thousand pieces.
Ah, karma.
“f**k,” I hiss, staring in horror as the little soaps roll around the guy’s feet in different directions before settling. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were my friend.”
My cheeks feel like I’ve been sunbathing in Death Valley. I can’t look at the man.
I asked him whether he thought I’d look sexy AF in underwear.
I need to get the soaps back in my bag before anyone notices I’ve depleted half the supplies in the hotel bathroom.
I squat down to grab them from among the broken glass, trying to decide how I will deal with the glass. My hands aren’t communicating with my brain. I’m doing a juggling act with soaps and manage to shove some of them into my bag.
“Step away. You’ll hurt yourself,” the shadow above me says gruffly. It’s a low, gravelly American baritone that sends unexpected shivers through me. It must take an enormous pair of balls to pump out that much testosterone.
Looking up, I see icy eyes flaring down at me with annoyance, and my stomach drops so low, I’m afraid it will fall out of my ass for the second time today.
He’s quite a bit older than me. Strong masculine features. Thick, wavy, dark-brown hair. The icy blues, angular jaw, and prominent nose make him look ruthless. A vest and shirt combo that my v****a approves of.
Holy f*****g potatoes. The guy is gorgeous.
His gaze sweeps over the disaster on the floor, and his eyebrows draw together. He couldn’t look less impressed if I stormed in wearing a mask and robbed the reception desk.
Even through the glare, I can’t stop gawking.
He looks down at me for a moment longer before nodding to someone behind me. I crane my neck to see a burly security guard walking toward us, speaking into an earpiece.
“It’s only soap,” I huff as our eyes lock again. Somehow, his stare manages to be hot and cold at the same time.
My gaze drops. I’m eye level with his c**k. I bet it’s as large and threatening as the rest of him.
“Get off your damn knees, girl,” the guy growls.
Girl?
“Ma’am, do you need assistance?” another voice says from behind me. The security guard. His expression tells me that assistance is an escort out of the hotel.
Two cleaners scuttle over.
“I’m so sorry,” I rasp to the cleaner bending down to sweep up the shattered glass.
Mortified, I steal a fleeting glance at the arrogant, god-like man. He’s already striding off with a stunningly beautiful brunette dressed like the First Lady on his arm.
She’s almost tall enough to look him in the eye, and he must be six-three or six-four. She makes gliding in stilettos and a tight dress look effortless. She’s not penguin-waddling.
A perfect match for him.
I’m irrationally jealous for a fleeting second as he puts his hand on her lower back and leads her toward the entrance.
Then, unease grows in the pit of my stomach.
I’ve seen those eyes before.
Was that… Killian f*****g Quinn?
- Writer
