Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 20816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 69(@300wpm)
I lose all sense of time. The world narrows to the taste of her mouth, the heat of her body, the tremor in her voice when she whispers my name. I drag her closer, desperate to taste every inch, but Dee’s palm lands flat on my chest.
“Wait,” she pants, eyes wild and pupils blown, but her grip is solid enough to pin me to the floor. The edge of her voice vibrates straight through my fucking bones. “We need to talk about this,” she breathes out, trembling. “But not with you drunk off your ass.”
She presses her forehead to mine, soft but unyielding. Every cell in my body riots. I want to rip my shirt off and slam her against the wall, but her stubbornness holds me in place.
“You can crash on my sofa.” She points to the small torture device that pretends to be a couch. “Once you get past your hangover, we’ll talk.”
She’s right about one thing—I need all my wits wide awake, sharp, and not dulled by liquor. Tomorrow morning, Ms. Deirdre Quinn isn’t going to know what hit her.
CHAPTER FIVE
DEE
My eyes pop open, and for a minute, I think maybe I dreamed the whole thing. Did Eamon really show up at my door and drunkenly confess he’s in love with me? I roll out of bed and make my way to the living room. Yep. There’s definitely a six-foot-six Irishman snoring like a bear, with his feet draped over the armrest of my secondhand sofa. One of his arms hangs down over the side, his fingers just brushing the wood floor.
Nope, last night definitely wasn’t a dream. Now, we’ll have to see if the light of day changes his mind.
I tiptoe into the kitchen, trying to avoid the minefield of moving boxes and bubble wrap. My heart races in my chest as I hit the button on my ancient coffeemaker and pray it survives another day. While it groans to life, I steal a glance at Eamon through the doorway.
He’s got one bare foot while the other is still laced into those ridiculous, shiny dress shoes he wears. His jaw is slack, and his five o’clock shadow has progressed to full-blown stubble. And yet, somehow, the sight makes my heart do a little stutter-step in my chest.
While the coffee brews, I have a full-blown internal debate about whether I should wake him up or let him sleep. I decide to go with the classic “let the bear sleep” approach, mostly because I’m not ready to face this without a whole lot of caffeine on board.
I’m pouring a second mug for myself when I get that weird prickly feeling on the back of my neck. I whirl around and nearly jump out of my skin because Eamon Whelan is standing right behind me. Not just lurking, but looming, all six-foot-six of him, shirtless and rumpled and somehow looking even more gorgeous than humanly possible. I swear to God, my brain short-circuits so hard I almost drop my favorite coffee mug on the floor.
He leans in, one eyebrow arched, blue eyes bright and way, way too awake for a man who drank half a distillery last night. “Do you have a cup for me?”
Okay, wow. I forgot how his voice does things to my insides. I clutch the mug to my chest like it’s a damn life raft.
“Sure,” I shoot back, trying to sound casual as I reach for my Tigger mug. I pour him a cup of coffee and hand him the mug. “How are you feeling?” He should have the mother of all hangovers, but he doesn’t seem to be hurting at all.
“Never better.” Eamon takes the mug, and his hand swallows mine, big and warm, just for a second. The contact is electric. I don’t know if it’s the caffeine or the massive, shirtless man currently crowding my kitchen, but my pulse goes from zero to pounding.
“I guess you don’t get hangovers like the rest of us.”
“Nope.” He smirks as he glances at the dancing tiger on the mug. “Cute.” He doesn’t bother with sugar or milk. Just tips the mug to his lips and takes a sip, watching me over the rim like he’s mentally undressing me one layer at a time. Honestly, it’s a miracle I don’t combust on the spot. “You live to fuck with me, don’t you?” he asks, voice gravel and silk, and I try really, really hard to keep my eyes locked on his face. Not his chest. Not the way every muscle flexes when he lifts the mug. Definitely not the way a little trail of hair disappears under the waistband of his slacks.
I nod, but it comes out more like a gulp. “I do.”
Eamon just grins. His eyes drop to my mouth and linger there like he’s replaying every filthy thought he’s ever had about me. “Why do you have me listed as Tigger in your contacts?” My eyes widen. I had no idea he knew that.