I mean, come on. I loved Hell’s Kitchen. It was home. But fuck. Where she was? What kind of Senator would put his fancy piece in that?
My jaw clenched as I studied the Senator’s and Aoife’s smiling faces as they left the hotel. Separately, of course. But whatever they’d been doing together, it sure put a Cheshire Cat grin on their chops–that was for fucking sure. Jimmy being a dumbass, hadn’t put the two together, had just remarked on the ‘coincidence,’ but I was no fool.
How did I know they were together in the hotel?
Jimmy had been trailing Aoife for four months—told you I was obsessive—and every third Tuesday, come rain or shine, this little routine had jumped out, and when Jimmy had picked up on the fact Davidson had been there each and every time, I’d gotten my hands dirty, bribed one of the hotel maids myself—and fuck, that had been hard. Turned out that place made even the maids sign NDA agreements, but everyone had a price—and I’d found out that my little obsession shared a suite with the old prick.
My fingers curled into fists as I stared at her. Butter wouldn’t fucking melt. She was the epitome of innocence. Like a redheaded angel. Could she really be lifting her skirts for that old fucker? Just so she could own a teashop?
Something didn’t make sense, and fuck, if that didn’t intrigue me all the more.
Aoife Keegan had snared one of the biggest, nastiest sharks in Manhattan.
She just didn’t know it yet.
***
Aoife
“We need more scones for tomorrow. I keep telling you four dozen isn’t enough.”
Lifting a hand at my waitress and friend, Jenny, I mumbled, “I know, I know.”
“If you know, then why the hell don’t you listen?” Jenny complained, making me grin.
“Because I’m the one who has to make them? Making half that again is just . . .” I sighed.
I loved my job.
I did.
I adored baking—my butt and hips attested to that fact—and making a career out of my passion was something every twenty-something hoped for. Especially in one of the most expensive cities in the world. But sheesh. There was only so much one person could do, and this was still, essentially, a one-woman-band.
With the threat of Acuig Corp looming over me, I didn’t feel safe hiring extra staff. I’d held them off for close to six months now. Six months of them trying to tempt me to leave, to sell up. They’d raised their prices to ten percent above market value, whereas with everyone else in the building, they’d just offered what the apartments were truly worth. Considering this place wasn’t the nicest in the block, that wasn’t much.
Most people hadn’t held out because, hell, why wouldn’t they want to live elsewhere?
Those who were landlords hadn’t felt any issue in tossing their tenants out on the street. The tenants grumbled, but when did they ever have any rights, anyway?
For myself, this was where my mom and I had worked to—
I brought that thought to a shuddering halt.
Mom was dead now.
I had to remember that. This was on me, not her.
My throat thickened with tears as I turned to Jenny and murmured, “I’ll try better tomorrow.”
The words had her frowning at me. “Babe, you know I’m not the boss here, right?”
Lips curving, I whispered, “I know. But you’re so scary.”
She snickered then peered down at herself. “Yeah, I bet I’d make grown men cry.”
Maybe for a taste of her. . . .
Jenny was everything I wasn’t.
She was slender, didn’t dip her hand into the cookie jar at will—the woman had more willpower than I did hips, and my hips seemed to go on forever—and her face looked like it belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine. Even her hair was enough to inspire envy. It was black and straight as a ruler.
Mine?
Bright red and curly like a bitch. I had to straighten it out every morning if I didn’t want to look like little orphan Annie.
I’d once read that curly-haired women straightened their hair for special events, and that straight-haired women curled theirs in turn, but I called bullshit.
Curly-haired women lived with their straightening irons surgically attached to their hands.
At least, I did.
My rat’s nest was like a ginger afro. Maybe Beyoncé could make that work, but I sure as hell didn’t have the bone structure.
“I think grown men would cry,” I told her dryly, “if you asked them to.”
She pshawed, but there was a twinkle in her eye that I understood. . . . She agreed with me, knew it was true, but wasn’t going to admit it. With anyone else, she might have. She had an ego–that was for damn sure. But with me? I think she figured I was zero competition, so she felt no need to rub salt in the wound, too.
I plunked my elbows on the counter and stared around my domain as she bustled off and started clearing the tables. It was her last duty of the day, and my feet were aching so damn bad that I didn’t even have it in me to care.
This owning your own business shit?
It wasn’t easy.
Not saying I didn’t love it, but it was hard.
I slept like four hours a night, and when I wasn’t in bed, I was here. All the time.
Baking, cooking, serving, and smiling. Always smiling. Even if I was so sleep-deprived I could sob.
Jenny’s actually a life saver.
My mom used to be front of house before. . . .
I sucked down a breath.
I had to get used to thinking about it.
She wasn’t here anymore, but just avoiding all thoughts of her period wasn’t working for me. It was like I was purposely forgetting her, and, well, fuck that.
She’d always wanted to have a teashop. It had been her one true dream. Back in Ireland, when she was a little girl, her grandmother had owned one in Limerick. Mom had caught the bug and had wanted to have one here in the States. But not only was it too fucking expensive for a woman on her own, it was also impossible with my feckless father at her side.
I didn’t want to think about him either, though.
Why?
Because the feckless father who’d pretty much ruined my mother’s life, wasn’t the only father in my life. My biological dad hadn’t exactly cared about her happiness, but once he’d come to know about me, he’d tried. That was more than could be said for the man who’d lived with me throughout my early childhood.
“You look gloomy.”
Jenny’s statement had me blinking in surprise. She had a ton of dishes piled in her arms, and I’d have worried for the expensive china if I hadn’t known she was an old pro at this shit. Just as I was.
We could probably earn a Guinness World Record on how many dishes we could take back and forth to the kitchen of Ellie’s Tea Rooms. I swear, I had guns because of all that hefting. My biceps were probably the firmest part of my body.
More’s the pity.
I’d have preferred an ass you could bounce dimes off of, but, when it boiled down to it, there was no way in this universe I could live without cake.
Just wasn’t going to happen.
My big butt wasn’t going anywhere until scientists could make zero calorie eclairs and pies.
“I’m not glum.”