CHARLES
Eamon kissed like a god—and I wasn’t being dramatic. The man’s mouth should come with a warning label because holy hell, I’d never been kissed like that in my life. It was the only reason I hadn’t thrown him out on his ass after that presumptuous comment about us having a “good time together.”
Kinda hard to argue when he claimed the kiss had made him forget who he was when it had done the exact same thing to me. My brain had completely short-circuited the second his tongue touched mine, and every rational thought had fled my head. The sexual tension between us was so thick I could’ve cut it with a knife, and my body had been more than ready to take things to their logical conclusion.
Hell, if he hadn’t opened his mouth and made that arrogant remark about us having a good time together, we might’ve very well ended up in bed. Or at least horizontal somewhere. Well, proverbially speaking, because let’s be honest—we probably wouldn’t have made it to an actual bed. I’d never had sex in my hallway, but after that kiss, Iwould absolutely have let Eamon fuck me six ways to Sunday against the wall. Hell, I’d been ready to climb him like a tree right there on my front porch with ninety-two-year-old Edna watching from her window.
Which was part of the reason I slapped him, truth be told. I’d been shocked at my own reaction to him. Sure, I liked sex, and I was no prude. But to respond like that to a mere kiss from a man who was clearly on the job and paid to protect me? That was an embarrassing level of desperate. I obviously needed to get laid. Badly. His cocky assumption about our “good time” was like a bucket of ice-cold water thrown directly in my face.
And now, here we were, standing in my entryway like two people who definitely hadn’t had their tongues down each other’s throats two minutes ago. The air between us felt charged and awkward, but we both needed to pretend everything was perfectly professional.
“Want me to give you the tour?” I asked as he closed the front door behind him, looking around curiously.
“Yeah, that’d be grand.”
Grand? What kind of expression was that?
“It’s small, but it’s mine,” I said, unable to keep the pride out of my voice. Even when everything had gone to hell in the fallout after Justin’s betrayal, my house had never been in danger. Thank fuck I’d followed my father’s advice and had kept business and personal separate. “Living slash dining slash family room is here.”
He looked around, taking in every detail with what seemed like genuine interest. I’d decorated it in soft shades of blue—powder-blue throw pillows, a slightly darker blue accent wall, navy-blue curtains that I’d found on sale at Target. The hardwood floors gleamed because I’dcleaned them two days ago. Thank god for small mercies. The dark-blue couch was a simple IKEA one that had taken me three hours and two nervous breakdowns to assemble, but it was comfortable and I loved it. It fit the space perfectly and didn’t make the room feel cramped.
The space was too small for a formal dining table—my entire downstairs was probably smaller than most people’s living rooms—so I’d opted for a cute white wooden drop-leaf table that folded flat against the wall when not in use. Which wasn’t often, considering I actually cooked real meals for myself most nights.
Right now, though, I cringed at the massive stack of disorganized papers scattered across its surface, the result of probably two months’ worth of procrastination on my finances, both personal and for Sweet Relief. Invoices, receipts, bank statements, tax forms—all mixed together in a chaotic pile that would give my accountant nightmares.
“I’m a little behind on paperwork,” I said.
Eamon shrugged. “You should see my desk. It’s a miracle I can usually find whatever I’m looking for.”
Whether that was true or not, it did make me feel better, and I appreciated that. “The kitchen is in here.”
Unlike the rest of the house, my kitchen was absolutely immaculate. This was my sanctuary, my happy place, and it showed. I used every square inch of available space to store all my baking equipment—and that was only what I used at home for personal projects, not the industrial-grade stuff I kept at Sweet Relief. Custom cabinets reached all the way to the ceiling, each one carefully organized with labeled containers for different flours, sugars, extracts, and spices. I had more vanilla varieties than most people had shoes.
I’d actually hired an interior designer—a splurge thathad required me to eat ramen for two months—to help optimize the limited space, and Sarah had been worth every penny. She’d somehow managed to squeeze a compact but functional kitchen island right in the center, complete with additional storage underneath and a butcher-block top that was perfect for kneading dough or rolling out pastry. The island was currently spotless, unlike my dining table, because I never let anything stay messy in here. This was where the magic happened, and it deserved to be treated with respect.
Eamon looked around. “It’s obvious where your heart lies.”
“I love baking and cooking. Always have.”
“What do your parents do?”
I automatically smiled at the thought of them. “They’re actually on vacation right now, cruising through Alaska, but my dad owns a car shop and my mom is a kindergarten teacher.”
Oh crap. Would I have to introduce Eamon to them? I hated the idea of lying to them. Thank god they’d be gone for another week.
“You’re close with them?”
I nodded. “And with my sister Suze. She lives in Vermont, so we don’t see each other often, but we talk all the time.”
“Older or younger?”
“Older. We’re Irish twins.”
“Twins?”
“When siblings are born within twelve months of each other? It’s called Irish twins.”
He snorted. “You guys really blame the Irish for everything, huh?”
