‘What have I told you about that mouth?’
‘I’m on my lunch break,’ he protests, picking the last square of toast balanced on a tea plate on his chest.
‘Remind me why I keep you around again?’
‘Because you couldn’t find your way out of a lunch sack without me. And also because I know where the bodies are buried.’ He kicks his feet down from his desk. ‘Come on, what’s put that smile on your face? You went out for coffee looking about as happy as a bastard on Father’s Day. And anyway, where’s my Frappuccino?’
His words piss on my mood immediately, reminding me why I was in a foul mood when I left.
‘Who in the hell schedules a business dinner on a Friday night?’
‘Ah, there’s my little ray of sunshine. Didn’t we already establish someone hoping to get you relaxed enough to screw up? Just drunk enough, just sloppy enough, to promise them something you don’t want to deliver. Whether it be a signed contract or a night in your bed.’
‘Joe’s not my type,’ I grumble. ‘Beer bellies don’t do it for me.’
Joe Shelby is in construction, the same as me. I pass a decent amount of work his way.Mainly subcontracted.I’m currently trying to buy a disused convent from the local archdiocese, and the sly fucker thinks I haven’t realised he’s trying to get into bed with me.Figuratively, at least.Not so figurative is his daughter, Amelia’s, interest. But I only have time for one female in my life, and that’s my own child, so neither of those scenarios interest me. But in business, you’ve got to play it canny.
‘The daughter, though? She’s hot.’
‘Aye, hot like a stolen car. And just as much trouble.’
‘I’d still do her.’
‘And that, right there, is why I’m the boss and you’re the PA.’
‘Boss or not, I’d still go for a piece of that.’
‘And I wouldn’t screw her with your dick, so let’s call it a difference of opinion and move the fuck on.’
‘You’re the boss.’ Flynn picks the iPad up from his desk. ‘And I am the lowly serf. So you’ve got the conference call in fifteen, and the plans for the Barclay job are on your desk. The architect for Ullridge is waiting on a callback and... ’
Flynn’s voice suddenly becomes background noise, the afternoon’s demands no longer of importance as I notice a tiny coffee stain on the cuff of my white shirt. I can’t resist examining it, my mind roaming back to the pretty girl in the coffee shop.
I wonder if she reallydoesporn?
It’s late in the evening when the cab drops me home. It’s been a long day, and I’m in a bastard of a mood, but it’s my own fault. I should’ve said no to dinner.A dinner that dragged more hours into my workday.But truthfully, where work is concerned, I find it hard to draw the line. I suppose it’s a healthy kind of fear that keeps me powering along, but it’s also tiring. While I might now wear a tailored suit to work rather than a hard hat and steel toe-capped boots, my days are no less taxing. The difference is, these days, the things that drive me aren’t the basics of an existence; food in my belly or a roof over my head. I won’t ever need to worry about where my next meal is coming from, or how I’ll pay my bills.
Yet I’m still jogging on that treadmill.
Like tonight. I could’ve said no—should’ve said no. And now, I’m pretty pissed off that work has once again eaten into my me time. I know,me timesounds a bit gay, but Friday nights are the only time I get to myself.
I spend my days working my arse off—five days a week, often fourteen-hour days. Outside of that, I’m all about Sorcha, my little girl.
The life of a single parent is absolutely rewarding but sometimes hard.
I’m lucky I have Agnes, Sorcha’s pseudo granny, to help. Though I pay her well to head up our home, she’s really more like family. She’s more of a mother to me than my own ever was and loves Sorcha with the fierceness of any grandmother tied to a child through blood. You might say that little girl is the central hub from which the spokes of both of our lives turn.
There’s nothing like bringing a child into the world to set your priorities straight, I think as I close the front door with a quietclick. And nothing more compelling than being the sole person responsible for that life. As a parent, you’d chop off your right arm for your little one if that was the only path. Forfeit your life for the sake of theirs.
I walk through the darkened house until I reach the kitchen where I pour myself a generous couple of fingers of whisky, before taking the stairs to the first floor at a swift pace.
I’m tired; the bone-aching kind. But it’s another kind of bone I’m concentrating on now. After I’d closed my office door this afternoon, I went straight to my computer to Google the names of women-centric porn companies with bases in the London area... because I couldn’t remember the hot girl’s name or who she worked for. I remember it had something to do with bad girls, but of course, I’d remember that. Because bad girls used to be a favourite of mine, B.D. that is.Before divorce.
I remember her face as clear as day. Deep blue eyes and discomforted pink cheeks. The way she twisted the strands of her long, dark hair between her pale fingers. And that soft, American accent. But as I was pondering some of her very obvious charms... her name came back to me in a blinding flash.
Paisley.
Who calls their kid that? May as well have called her herringbone, or polka dot, or something equally as ridiculous.
