Page 5 of Hot Buttered Kisses

CHAPTER TWO

EAMON

Monday morning finally crawls around, and I don’t recognize myself. Fuck. I’m acting like a lovesick moron, but I can’t seem to help myself.

Dee spent the whole damn weekend pretending I didn't exist. I texted, I waited, and got nothing back but silence. That empty space where her replies should be just about drove me insane. At first, I told myself she just needed a little break. Who doesn't? Everybody goes dark sometimes. But then her one cryptic response to my last message pinged through, and it didn't do a damn thing to settle my nerves. If anything, it spun me up higher. Now, I know for certain she’s hiding something. I’d bet my bottom dollar that her request for a weekend off was anything but innocent. Fuck.

The possibilities go from bad to worse. One part of me thinks she had an interview for another job. That would be bad. In fact, it would be devastating. On the other hand, what if she went out of town with a man? The thought of that possibility twists into something sharp, something poisonous, something that digs at the inside of my skull. I haven’t gotten an hour of sleep since her last message.

Since it’s only a few hours before her shift starts, I decide to try my luck messaging her.

Me

What the fuck are you playing at, ignoring me all weekend?

I read it twice. Consider backspacing the expletive, decide against it. I hit send, then stare at the blinking cursor in our chat. Nothing. Not even the “typing” bubbles. She might as well have blocked me.

There’s a picture on my nightstand, propped against a black vase. It’s from Nathan’s Halloween party two years back. Everyone’s in costume except me. Deirdre’s in some ridiculous outfit—a fake blood-splattered white dress and a headband with a plastic axe through her skull. Her dark eyes are wild, mouth mid-shout, and in the moment the photo was taken, her arm was slung around my shoulders like we were friends or rivals or something in between. She smelled like vanilla and honeysuckle that night.

I run a finger over the edge of the photo as if it’ll provide answers. It doesn’t.

My phone vibrates, and I lunge for it, immediately hating myself for doing so. The response is short, even for Dee.

Deirdre

I was on vacation. OFF. Not on duty. How many ways do I have to say it?

I roll my head back and close my eyes, counting the seconds before replying. As my anger shoots through the roof, my cock hardens. Fucking hell, I need help. Her sass turns me the fuck on. I have protocols for this: slow your breathing, assess the situation, control your impulses. The only problem is, there’s no field manual for Deirdre Quinn. The woman is a walking IED. I take a deep breath and change tactics.

Me

Did something happen? Are you in trouble?

For a long moment, the dots flutter on and off, then she answers.

Deirdre

Stop being so melodramatic. You’re my boss. I was on vacation, and I chose not to answer your texts. Get over yourself. And stop texting me. I’m an hourly employee; therefore, I’ll only answer texts from you during my work hours.

It shouldn’t sting, but it does. I let the phone fall to my chest. The apartment’s quiet. I notice the hum of the refrigerator in the next room and the slight hiss of the central heat kicking on. I’ll never admit it out loud, but I’ve been obsessed with Deirdre Quinn since the second she stormed into my life wearing ripped jeans and a “Fight Me” graphic tee. She called me a “control freak” before she even learned my last name. Challenged me, outright, in front of Nathan and the rest of the staff over a delivery schedule I’d already spent a week optimizing. I should have shown her the door right then and there.

Instead, I fell head over heels in love with her.

And since that day, Deirdre Quinn has been in my head, under my skin, and embedded in my heart.

All attitude and sass, spitting fire one second, and then grinning like she knows the effect she has on me the next.

Most days, I can’t decide if I want to strangle her or bend her over my desk and fuck her until neither of us can remember our names.

The woman is a walking, talking malfunction of my self-control.

But I’m not a selfish prick. I know I’m not what she needs. She needs a man who’ll give her a house full of kids and a white picket fence. No matter how much it kills me, I keep my distance. I somehow managed to bury every possessive thought under a mountain of work, rules, and pretending I don’t see the way she licks her bottom lip when she’s concentrating.

What a fucking joke. After all this time, I don’t know why I’m suddenly having trouble keeping my feelings locked tight.

Sleep is pointless at this hour. I throw the covers off and pad barefoot down the hall. The apartment's too goddamn quiet. I don't bother with the lights. What's the use? My head’s buzzing like I’ve got a live wire under my skin. Something’s happening. I know it. And whatever it is, I’m not going to like it; I can tell already.

I’m supposed to be the guy who sees everything coming, right? Three steps ahead, always. Except with Dee. Never with Dee. She’s the exception. And that drives me insane.