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HE ALWAYS COMES in alone, and more often than not leaves with a different woman. The first few weeks I worked at O’Leary’s bar, a little subterranean speakeasy in Dublin’s finance district, just a stone’s throw from Trinity College, I simply watched him.
I don’t really know why, but I went out of my way not to serve him.
There was something about him that told me to steer clear. That warned me off.
At first I told myself that it was his easy arrogance—I don’t like anyone who has that air of complete self-confidence. I mistrust it.
But as the days trickled into weeks and I became more and more accustomed to it, I’m still keeping my distance.
Then I thought, maybe it’s his appearance? I mean, there’s hot and then there’s walking-on-the-surface-of-the-sun hot. This man is easily over six feet tall, muscled through his shoulders yet slim at his waist, with skin the colour of caramel, eyes that glow like the sky on a bright, starlit night, hair that’s thick and dark, and a square jaw that is always devoid of stubble, as though he insists on controlling every element of his life, even the hair on his face.
He wears suits. Always suits, and expensive ones, I’d guess, if the gleaming gold watch at his wrist and the hand-stitched leather shoes are any indication.
It’s been two months since I started working at O’Leary’s, two months since I first saw him, and in almost three weeks I’ll be leaving Ireland and moving on to the next stop in this ‘experience of a lifetime’ trip of mine. This tribute trip to mum—for mum, who never got a chance to do any of this.
It’s been one month since I first served him a drink.
He ordered a Desert Ray, the most expensive whiskey we have in stock—which is saying something, as this bar is seriously high-end. He ordered it neat, with an iced water back, and he spoke in a thick Irish brogue and looked at me as though we’d met before and were sharing an old secret joke. He looked at me in a way that made my blood heat up and my throat dry out, that made my heart pound so much harder than is wise, and I realised then why I’ve really been avoiding him.
This man is not just the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, he’s also the most sensually distracting human on the face of the planet, and I am definitely no match for him.
I have no skills in that department and even less experience. I’m a twenty-three-year-old virgin and one look from him makes me wonder what it would be like to be kissed by him. Held by him. To have him strip my clothes from my body and...
I can’t think like that while I’m at work.
One month since that first look that spoke of secrets shared and intrigues to enjoy, and I have just about learned to control my outward appearance of temptation, if not the cacophony of my pounding blood. The instincts are there, but not the indications of them.
I have learned that he is a lawyer—and a very good one too. He has his own firm and is renowned across Europe for the cases he wins.
I can see he’s wealthy, in that very rare way. A one percenter. When he pays for his drinks, he slides a crisp note from a folded selection of euros that would easily value in the thousands.
I gather that he is whip-smart, arrogant, and has a dry wit. He knows anyone worth knowing in Ireland. Politicians, celebrities, tycoons. And when he is drinking alone he reads the broadsheets on his tablet, one leg crossed over the other, his pose relaxed, mind absorbing all of the facts contained within the articles.
And I can only imagine that he is an incredibly skilled lover. He simply has to look at a woman to have her stroll to his table and take the seat opposite, to lean forward and smile, laugh at something he’s said, and then stand when he’s ready to leave, curve her body into his side and exit the bar with obvious plans for a night in his bed on her mind...
Yes, he must be quite something in bed, if experience translates to skill, which I suppose it doesn’t necessarily. And yet even just his smile is sensual and I know, in a way that makes no sense at all, that his body would be an absolute gift.
I have learned all these things about him in the last two months, and I still haven’t learned how to handle the growing certainty that I want him.
All of him.
For one night only.
In less than three weeks I’m leaving Ireland. Nothing is going to come between me and this trip—the date of my departure is set in stone. In just under three weeks I’m leaving Dublin, this pub, this man, this opportunity behind. The nights I have left to turn fantasy into reality are dwindling. It’s time to act.
His name, I have learned, is Michael Brophy, and I want him to be my first lover.
WHAT A FUCKING DAY.
I will never say I crave a drink—watching my father obliterate himself with alcohol and turn into the kind of man who wears cruelty like a skin and indulges violence as a habit has taught me a lesson I’ll never forget about liquor and its ability to remove any veneer of civility and control. But today, this day, I have been pushed almost to breaking point.
Both my secretaries called in sick and the temp I got sent could barely spell her own name, then the key witness in my case went missing and God knows, without him, the defence is almost impossible to make.
Not impossible, but a lot fucking harder.
How the hell didn’t I see this coming? It’s my job to be three steps ahead; I’m renowned for that.
Perhaps something of my day expresses itself in my bearing because when I approach the bar, the blonde waitress’s eyes widen and for a moment I am reminded of the ocean on the clearest day imaginable. They shimmer with shades of turquoise and aquamarine, slices of colour punctuated with a shimmering black pupil and surrounded with lashes so thick and long they are like feathers.
It’s just gone six and this place is at its busiest. Within two hours it will have thinned out, but for now there are people everywhere, lined up along the bar, leaning forward, waiting to catch the attention of one of the four staff members who circulate across the tiled floor.
Her eyes hold mine for a moment and then her gaze slides sideways, to a woman at my left.
‘What’ll it be, ma’am?’ Her Australian accent is like butter and my lips twist into a curl that I think might be described as disdainful. I don’t mean to be, only the way she ignores me has gone from amusing to annoying—particularly tonight when I really could murder a fucking Scotch.
The woman orders a cocktail and the blonde smiles in acceptance but her eyes jerk to me again and something like fascination flares inside me.
She’s young; I presume she’s a student at Trinity, working here to pay the fees.
She slices a lime, her fingers confident and deft as they squeeze it into a stainless steel container. She adds mint, then ice, a sugar liquid and finally alcohol, before placing the lid on and shaking the drink. She doesn’t look at me again, but it’s too purposeful, like she’s fighting herself to ignore me.
When the drink is mixed, she tips it into a cocktail glass, adds a straw and some garnish then delivers it to the woman. I think I vaguely recognise her—she might work in the same building as me. She’s attractive, with shining brown hair, pink lips and a dimple in her cheek when she smiles.
But it’s the blonde that has all my attention.
She finishes the transaction and then moves down the bar, away