Loving the Irish (The O’Briens #2)

Chapter 1

1

brADY

W hen my phone rings, I wipe my oil-stained hands on a rag. Even before looking at the display, I already know who it is. She's calling. Just like almost every day for the past week.

Because I'm a goddamn masochist, I answer and immediately want to stone myself for it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, baby."

"What do you want, Mindy?"

Her voice has a submissive, coaxing tone as she says, "I want you, baby, you know that."

Funny, I think to myself, when she broke up with me back then, her voice sounded completely different. Not weak at all, quite the opposite. It was hard and cold. And somehow I preferred it that way.

"I told you I need to think."

"But for how long? I know you love me. Give me one more chance."

I run my hand over my ten-day beard. "I don't know. I'm just not convinced you want to come back for the right reasons."

"But I left my husband for you," she coos in a tone that triggers a throbbing behind my forehead. I used to think her voice was sexy, but now it just gives me a headache.

"It's been almost nine years since we were together."

"That's an important decision, I couldn't make it lightly."

She doesn't hesitate for a second. The answer comes like a shot.

"Can't you be honest for once?"

"I am being honest," she answers indignantly. "I still love you, never stopped loving you."

"Weird way of showing it."

"Let's talk about it in person. I'll come to you, we'll talk, get to know each other again, and then we'll decide. How does that sound?"

"Why are you pushing so hard?"

She sighs softly. A sound she always made in bed that shoots straight to my cock. Sex with her was always great, just everything else... Fuck. What should I do?

My brother Finn would set me straight right now, tell me there's absolutely no reason to give her another chance, that she's not worth it. My cousin Orla would put it less nicely and say she's a manipulative cow who has some ulterior motive for her about-face.

And if it were about one of them, my opinion would be the same. No question. But they don't know how it felt with Mindy. How perfect it was until it wasn't anymore. She was my first real love, and you just don't forget that.

"I miss you."

It's words like these that make my resolve waver. Again, I rub my face. "I miss you too."

Fuck, I didn't want to say that, even if it's true. I used to miss her constantly. There's a hole in my heart that was still in the shape of her.

I can practically see Finn's incredulous—and slightly disgusted—face, hear his words: Dude, really? Such fucking cheesy crap!

But yeah. Love is a bit cheesy, isn't it?

Triumph resonates in her voice as she says, "Let me come to you. It was always so good between us."

"I need to think about it."

"Come on, baby. I know you want me too."

"I need to figure that out first."

A purr sounds. "Should I ask your cock what it thinks?"

And now her voice suddenly sounds super sexy again, not annoying at all. Plus, it actually shoots straight to my cock, making my tight boxers even tighter. Slightly irritated, I adjust myself so it doesn't get any ideas.

"Mindy..."

"Are you imagining me kneeling in front of you? Opening your pants? Grabbing your cock? Licking it?"

"Fuck," escapes me. I look around to see if any colleague can spot my hard-on. Thank goodness the coveralls are loose-fitting.

"I always loved sucking your cock. And if I remember correctly, you loved it too."

"I'm a guy. Of course I love having my cock in a mouth."

She laughs. Bright and at the same time a little smoky, seductive. "So there are no bad blowjobs?"

"No, just different degrees of good."

"I bet you're hard."

She's definitely won that bet.

"Hmm."

"I'll come Friday night. Send me your address."

My cock twitches as if it's never heard such a brilliant suggestion. I surrender. "Okay."

"You won't regret it, baby."

Yes, I will.

After a brief goodbye, she ends the call and I stare at the display. Fuck, what have I gotten myself into? When my cock is involved, logical thinking doesn't stand a chance. And obviously, she knows exactly which buttons to push with me.

I stare at the culprit, wondering if I should quickly jerk off, when an unfamiliar but clearly female voice asks behind me: "Excuse me, I have an appointment."

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can't face a customer with a hard-on.

"Hello?" she asks when I make no move to turn around. Could a colleague possibly show up? But a quick glance shows me they're all busy.

She taps me on the shoulder. "Excuse me!"

I look up briefly, send a quick prayer heavenward before turning around, hoping the coveralls really hang loosely enough.

"Yes, how can I help?" I say before taking a look at her, my gaze initially passing over her. She's short. How could she tap me on the shoulder? As I lower my gaze, a cheeky face looks back at me before she lets her eyes wander over my body and lingers a moment on my cock. Damn. Can she see my boner?

MALLORY

I bite my lip when I see that the man in front of me is aroused. No idea why that's the case. Is it a car fetish? I mean, a Ferrari is sexy, but getting a hard-on from it? A bit strange.

When my gaze returns to his face, he's clearly embarrassed, which somehow gives me a mischievous pleasure.

"How can I help you?"

He strives for professionalism, although I think that's obsolete since the sight is pure sin. Not just the decent package he has in his pants, but everything else too. The muscles visible beneath his coveralls. The face. Striking, masculine, but somehow also good-looking enough that I could imagine him walking the runways in Milan and New York. Except for a scar that runs through one eyebrow to his temple. It's faded and doesn't detract from his good looks—quite the opposite. It makes him more interesting.

"I have an appointment," I repeat. I point to the open gate of the workshop where my boss's Lamborghini is parked. "That one's due for inspection."

Mr. Sexy nods. "Let me just check..."

He walks, a bit bow-legged I notice, to a desk. Grinning, I follow him. He flips through a calendar. "Ms. Callahan?"

"That's right."

"Okay. Leave the keys here. I'll call you when it's ready."

"It needs to be finished today."

He rubs his face. "Hmm, that's not going to work."

"No, you don't understand. My boss absolutely wants it back today. That was the agreement."

He looks at the calendar again. "Do you know who you made the appointment with? I don't see any note here that it's urgent."

"His name was Mario."

Mr. Sexy nods. "One moment." Then he takes a few steps into the hall. "Mario!"

"Yeah?" calls a man who's currently bent over the engine of another car. It's a Mercedes that somehow looks mundane next to all the Italian sports cars.

"Can you come here a minute?"

Mario comes over to us and starts smiling when he sees me. "Ms. Callahan! Good to see you." He extends his hand.

"Mario, did you promise that we would finish today?" asks Mr. Sexy.

"Yes, of course. For Mr. Lopez, we'll make it happen."

I smile gratefully at Mario. "You know how he is."

He grins. "Indeed. Don't worry, the car will be ready by five this afternoon."

"Thank you, thank you so much."

I cast one more glance at Mr. Sexy before saying goodbye. Let them sort it out between themselves. I don't care how they do it, just that it gets done. Because they're not the ones who'll get their heads ripped off if they don't manage it. That would be me.

I walk a bit down the street while waiting for the Uber I just ordered. A glance at my watch shows I'm running late. Unfortunately, my schedule is always thrown together at the last minute, which is why I'm constantly running behind. And why I'm constantly at risk of annoying my boss. Though that's not quite right. Juan Lopez couldn't care less whether I do something wrong or right. He'll rip my head off either way, every single day.

I sigh. Maybe this isn't really the right job for me. But despite all the unpleasantness, it pays well and offers a real opportunity. A good reference from Juan Lopez would open all doors for me. I just need to survive two years, then things will look very good for my future. Unfortunately, I've only done five months.

That leaves another year and a half. Rounded down. To make it less scary.

When the car arrives, I get in, pull my phone out of my pocket, and begin answering the emails that have come in during the last hour.

I work for a tech startup – though, can you still call it a startup after such a long time? – in Silicon Valley. Fifteen years ago, Juan started a company with his buddies Roberto and Diego in his parents' garage. He sometimes jokes, when he ever jokes, that they actually wanted to name it Pear, but that would have been too close to Apple. So he doesn't really make jokes. Because he can't. Anyway, they manufacture computer chips that are found in every new computer, whether it's Microsoft, Apple, or any other brand. They've made themselves indispensable, but at the same time vulnerable, because the bigger competition is naturally not thrilled that some random immigrant guys are getting a piece of the pie.

It's not the typical Silicon Valley story either. We all know that Bill Gates or Steve Jobs made history with their companies. But when you look at the history of successful tech founders, they come from wealthy families, received the best education, and grew up in environments where they were nurtured and challenged.

Juan and his colleagues don't fit that image at all. They really are children of immigrants who couldn't boast any of the advantages that successful innovators have. And yet they managed to build a company that can now compete with the big players. That's impressive.

But fame goes to some people's heads.

And some people are plagued by paranoia that everyone wants to bring them down.

With Juan, it's both. Success has gone to his head, and he'll defend it against the world, against the evil people who envy his success. A crude mixture that doesn't make him an easy boss to work for.

When I arrive at the office, Shelley calls out to me from the reception desk: "He's on the warpath."

I roll my eyes because basically she could tell me that every day and it would always be true.

"Mallory!" he shouts when he sees me through the glass wall of his office.

I put my handbag in the drawer of my desk before going to him. "Your car will be ready at five. Will you pick it up yourself?"

"No. Bring it to my house. Do you have the documents ready for the meeting?"

"On my desk."

"And did you explain to that press lady what I want from the interview?"

"Of course."

"What am I wearing?"

I point to the garment bag I've hung on his shelf. "It's all there. I've booked a stylist in case you want your hair done."

He runs his hand through his hair. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"Just in case."

"I don't want that."

"Fine. He's coming anyway, in case you change your mind."

"I won't."

"Great." I look at him expectantly.

"Did you tell my wife I'll be home late today?"

"Of course."

"Was she mad?"

"Well, you are missing your son's theater performance."

He rubs his face. "He's still so little he won't miss me." Juan looks at me a bit sheepishly. "Did you reserve the table?"

"I did. At seven thirty as requested."

"A more secluded one?"

Juan has a wife and two children. And a mistress who's half his age. I don't want to be the moral police; it's his business, not mine. But I wish he wouldn't drag me into it. Unfortunately, he has me organize this part of his life just like every other. The fact that I don't have to tie his shoes is really the extent of it.

"The same as always."

He nods at me and I go back to my desk, continue answering emails, forward the most important ones to him, go through his correspondence, then prepare the conference room, before he tells me twenty minutes before the interview that he wants the stylist after all. Every damn time. And because I know this, the stylist is naturally waiting on standby.

The interview takes place in one of the conference rooms. The television crew has already set up all the cameras. The two armchairs I had brought in have also arrived, as well as the bouquet of flowers to make the rather sterile room look more friendly.

"Can I do anything else for you?" I ask as I enter the room. I look around. Refreshments are available and everything looks good.

The reporter, Debbi Rogers, one of the most successful journalists in the area, smiles at me. "No, everything is perfect. Thank you. Is Mr. Lopez ready?"

"He'll be with you in five minutes."

"Perfect. Thank you."

I smile at her before hurrying back to his office to urge him along. Because he has absolutely no sense of punctuality.

"Juan, we need to go."

"This doesn't sit right," he whines in front of the mirror.

Inwardly, I roll my eyes before stepping in front of him and fixing his tie. "Better now?"

As always, he just nods instead of thanking me. I mean, why would he do that ?

We walk quickly back to the interview. He gets a quick powder touch-up before they start.

As much of a jerk as he can be, he's also very charming when he wants to be. And right now he wants to be. The heartbreaking story of the poor boy who was never given anything always works. Even on me, although I've heard it three million times in the last five months.

"And that's why we're launching a new project in cooperation with the Palo Alto school district. Every school in the district will be equipped with new computers from us."

A generous offer. But not one that comes from the goodness of his heart; it's a hard-nosed business decision to save on taxes.

After the interview, we head to the other conference room that I prepared while Juan freshens up and changes into his other clothes. He hates suits, but they're part of the job.

Shelley calls to say the caterer has arrived, so I meet him at the elevator.

This meeting is important. It's a strategy discussion with a smaller company that JRD wants to collaborate with. JRD obviously stands for Juan, Roberto, and Diego. Actually, they want to buy them out, but they haven't revealed this plan yet.

Is it a jerk move? Of course, but did anyone think you could keep your hands clean in the business world?

Shelley calls me again because our guests have arrived. I welcome them. They're friendly and kind of sweet. Unsophisticated, a bit naive. I'd like to tell them that as guppies, they should definitely not swim with sharks, but that would cost me my job, and I've somehow gotten used to having food on the table every night.

"Juan, Roberto, and Diego will be here shortly. Can I get you anything else?" I ask after providing them with drinks. They shake their heads, so I hurry to Juan.

"The meeting can start," I inform him before seeing that Roberto and Diego are also in Juan's office. "Sorry."

Roberto smiles kindly at me. "It's fine. Thanks for letting us know."

"We want to let them stew a bit," Diego adds with a wolfish grin and a glance at my legs.

I can't understand why Roberto is friends with Juan and Diego. He's nice where they are not. But probably every company needs a good soul.

I withdraw, sit at my desk, and wait until the three decide it's time to head to their meeting. When they do, I grab the stack of papers I've prepared, take my tablet as well as notepad and pen to be ready for any eventuality.

The meeting is a disaster. Oh, don't get me wrong, Juan and Diego are aggressive and merciless and quickly have the two guys right where they want them. But for the two guppies, it's a disaster, a real bloodbath, and it hurts to watch.

When I escort them to the elevator afterward, they look like they've been hit by a train. I say goodbye as warmly and kindly as possible, as if trying to make up for what the sharks just did. It's a bit strange that they've suffered under others' aggressive behavior in recent years, but are now doing the same to others. Shouldn't they be more sensitive?

Back at my desk, Juan calls me into his office again. "Book a hotel room and tell my wife that I had to attend an urgent business meeting."

I hate this. Really. These aren't the kinds of appointments I should be arranging.

"Of course."

"Rocio is a bit upset. Get her a gift. A bracelet or something like that."

"In the usual price range?"

"Yes." He taps his pen on the desk. "And get something nice for my wife too. But not as expensive."

"With pleasure."

"Is everything else prepared?"

"Of course. Should I bring the car to the hotel for you?"

"That would be better. How do I get to the restaurant?"

"At seven o'clock, a car with a driver will be waiting. He'll also take you to the hotel afterward."

He nods. My signal that I'm dismissed.

I call the hotel where he likes to meet his mistress, arrange for champagne and small delicacies that Rocio loves to be waiting for them, before calling the jeweler to announce that I'll be stopping by shortly and asking him to put together a selection of bracelets and earrings.

I check the time.

Oh, time for Mr. Sexy.

"Juan, I'm going to pick up the car now and take it to the hotel. I'll pick up the jewelry on the way. I'll leave Rocio's in the hotel room and put your wife's in the glove compartment. Or would you prefer I give it to you tomorrow?"

"Glove compartment. I'll be having breakfast with the family."

"So I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Aren't you coming back in?"

"Um, I thought since you're leaving at seven..."

"How long will it take to handle this? You're definitely coming back in."

"Okay. See you soon then."

I call an Uber, and on the way, I call his wife to inform her of the changed plans. I never would have said about myself that I'm a good liar. The last five months have taught me a lot. Unfortunately.