Chapter 12
I take the elevator down. My Uber is waiting at the curb.
The driver has music playing. He doesn’t try to make conversation and I’m glad. I need a minute.
The city is busy tonight. A man in a suit on the street talking on his phone as he walks reminds me of my disastrous phone call with Cash Maddox.
His veiled threats about my financial situation.
His offer that happens to be five million dollars short of what I need to survive, but that I might be forced to accept anyway or face bankruptcy.
Asshole.
But it’s not Cash Maddox’s fault that I’m in this mess. I’m probably going to face bankruptcy no matter what happens.
Unless his evil CFO agrees to my price, of course. Which somehow seems unlikely. The guy sounds like a piece of work.
But what if his CFO did agree to it?
Cash was willing to pay more. The CFO is his brother, surely Cash can persuade him.
What if they offer me the price I want?
What would I do then?
Accept it, of course.
And then what?
If I’m free to make any choice I want, what would I choose to do next?
It’s a good question. One I haven’t really allowed myself to think about very often, because I’ve always known I would take over my father’s business.
From day one. It was implied in every conversation we ever had.
It went hand in hand with being the only Ashton heir—and with living in the Ashton residence, which is all I ever really cared about.
Looking back on it now, I should have stood up for myself a little bit more. I should have thought more about what I actually wanted.
What do I want?
What would I do if I could do anything at all in the whole wide world?
Deep down, I know exactly what I’d do.
It’s almost embarrassing to admit to myself. My deeply-buried ideal life probably doesn’t sound modern or progressive or aspirational at all to a lot of people. But to me it’s the most aspirational life of all.
In my heart, what I really want to do is to have a whole bunch of babies and lavish my attention on them like my mother used to do to me, before our time together was cut so short.
She loved being a mother. She loved being my mother.
It’s what I want too, more than anything.
In this day and age it almost sounds archaic.
I genuinely respect the hell out of all the hard work feminists have done throughout the decades and I don’t mean to seem ungrateful.
Of course I’m grateful I’m a CEO—and not a terrible one, even though I’ve inherited a terrible situation.
I’m incredibly lucky to be where I am and to have all the opportunities I’ve had, especially since I’m young. I know that and I appreciate it.
But finance and investing have never been my passions. I’m good at reading spreadsheets because it’s the only thing my father and I ever bonded over. It’s the only thing we ever had in common, except for the sorrow of losing the one person we both loved most of all.
If it was up to me, I’d happily never look at a goddamn spreadsheet again in my life.
If I could live any life I wanted to…I’d get married to some charming, twinkly-eyed man who makes me laugh. Maybe even an Irish one. I’d have babies and I’d create a beautiful, loving home.
I can’t think of a single thing I don’t covet about the idea of it. I’d cook organic baby food and create the most nurturing environment to raise them in. I’d love those babies so much it almost hurts to think about.
Maybe I’d start a small interior design business on the side.
Maybe I could capitalize on my knack for making my living spaces comfortable and cozy, but in a stylish way.
Everyone who visits my apartment comments on it.
People have asked me if I hire out my time or if I’ve thought about starting an influencer account.
I’ve always said no, because I was always too busy studying and working.
It’s strange. This is actually the first time I’ve ever admitted to myself that I want a family more than anything else. Not a high-powered finance career. Not a flailing company that was someone else’s obsession, but never mine.
Either way, my dream will have to wait. Bankruptcy isn’t exactly the ideal foundation for the stable, happy home I want to give my future babies— if they’re meant to be, at some point in an uncertain, distant future.
Besides, you need a man for babies.
Or a sperm donor.
Or a spur-of-the-moment trip to Ireland, to have a one-night stand with a sparkly-eyed charmer with tousled hair who smells like fresh air and green grass.
Jesus. I need to calm down. Stress is spinning my thoughts in weird directions. My fantasies could be straight out of an Irish Spring commercial.
Get a grip, girl.
But it does remind me that I haven’t been back to Ireland since before my mother died.
This suddenly feels like a huge oversight.
I was only three years old when we went to meet my grandparents, who have since passed away, and my mother’s many cousins.
One thing I do remember is that my mother was so, so happy.
The Uber slows to a stop.
Shit. We’re here.
“Here you are, Miss Irish. I hope the date goes well.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Grace must have used my dating app alibi.
I can see the sign for Hopeless Romantic two doors down.
The Uber pulls away and I stand on the sidewalk for a few seconds, wondering if I actually want to go through with this.
Honestly, despite the Irish Spring commercial, the last thing I want to do right now is to make small talk with some random guy from the internet.
This whole thing feels like a mistake waiting to happen.
No doubt “Noah Steel” will turn out to be totally underwhelming compared to his picture. He’s probably some middle manager from New Jersey. Not that there’s anything wrong with middle managers from New Jersey, but the vision doesn’t really mesh with my Irish Spring fantasies.
Even if Noah Steel is half as attractive as his online picture, I’m not really in the mood for this. I’m stressed out and exhausted. I don’t know how Grace managed to talk me into it.
Part of me is very tempted to keep walking right past the restaurant and blow off this joke of a date. But Grace will murder me if I don’t at least meet him.
With a resigned sigh, I head toward the door.
Inside, the place is cute and nicely decorated. It’s busy.
The host greets me with a smile. “Welcome to Hopeless Romantic. Do you have a reservation?”
“Uh, yes. Under Lucky Irish.” I feel foolish even saying it.
But the host is excited. “Miss Irish! Welcome. Mr. Steel is already here. Please, follow me.”
God. My heart is beating like crazy.
Grace, I’m going to kill you for this.
I follow the host across the room, and I see a man stand up from his seat at a raised corner table. In the romantically-lit space, it’s already clear that Noah Steel is definitely as good-looking as his photo. Or even more so.
Much, much more so. Because he’s real.
He’s big. Taller than I was expecting. And built , I can’t help but notice.
He’s wearing a white button-down shirt with the top few buttons undone, showing off that same tanned, corded neck I was staring at through my phone only a few hours ago. The white of his shirt highlights the warmth of his cinnamon skin.
He looks almost out of place, like he’s not a New Yorker at all, but a rodeo hero from out west, somewhere with big skies and long, lazy days of summer sun.
I don’t know why I say that. He just looks… hotter than any New Yorker I’ve ever seen. Too beefed-up and healthy for a city-dweller.
His eyes, as I get closer—and my heart feels like it’s about to beat its way right out of my chest—are that same sky blue that they were in his photo.
They’re fixed on me intently. Sliding lower.
To my dress and all the many details its tight fit and short skirt reveals, before traveling back up to my face.
His gaze on my body makes me feel… warm.
Help.
His hair is a rich shade of brown with tints of red from the many golden lights in the room.
Holy hell, he’s gorgeous.
It’s the kind of over-the-top handsomeness that could almost be intimidating. This Adonis is my actual date? Why would someone like this need a dating app?
But then he smiles, and it’s so genuine that I can’t help kind of relaxing into this.
Those little crinkles around his eyes and his killer, endearing smile are outrageously…
attractive. And inviting. My very first impression—aside from that he’s hot AF—is that he’s trustworthy.
“You must be Lucky. I’m Noah. It’s nice to meet you. ”
His voice is smooth and deep with a lightly smoky rasp at the edges that causes the tiny hairs on my body rise. “You too,” I manage.
He offers me his hand. As I watch his eyes, I take it. It’s big and warm and almost unnervingly strong. He squeezes my hand and the light pressure sends a channel of molten awareness through my entire body. There’s a warm, fluttery pulse inside me that’s… oh my god.
His broad shoulders and muscular arms fill out his shirt to the point where it’s almost straining the thick cotton fabric.
Jesus. He must work out a lot.
He releases my hand and offers me a seat. “After you, Lucky Irish.”
I laugh lightly at our ridiculous names. “Thank you, Noah Steel.”
We sit in the cozy leather booth with its view of the restaurant and the street out the window down below us that I can only vaguely appreciate because I can barely pull my gaze away from my date enough to take it all in.
But the place’s name fits. It feels romantic.
And I’m suddenly very glad I didn’t keep walking.
“I hope you like champagne.” He takes the bottle out of an ice bucket that’s propped next to the table. “I took the liberty of ordering for us. Or we can order you something else if you prefer.”
“I like champagne.” I blink up at him. I’m kind of mesmerized by the color of his eyes. They could almost be described as duck-egg blue, with little shards of gold and darker blues, like rare, stolen jewels.
Noah Steel’s smile holds and it’s so beguiled, I’d almost say he’s as spellbound as I am. With a hot edge behind his blue gaze, still holding mine, my insides feel like they’ve turned into a molten, lava-like liquid that’s warming me with sublime…anticipation, maybe.
And with awe. Those almost-red tints in his hair and the little flicks of it behind his ears are charming me. If he’s a corporate type, he’s a little overdue for a haircut. It’s got a barely-there wave to it and it’s not quite but almost…tousled.
I wonder what he’d look like without that expensive-looking shirt on, in an outdoor shower in the countryside, those muscles all soaped up.
Would you stop with the Irish Spring commercial already?
But he could: he absolutely could have stepped straight out of one.
That warm, fluttery pulse in a very intimate place is gaining momentum. Oh my god, my panties are getting wet.
I’ve actually never in my life had dirty thoughts about a man, especially not one that’s real. But Noah Steel is just so freaking gorgeous, my body is reacting to him in crazy ways.
“So, are you actually Irish?” he drawls, pouring two glasses of champagne and handing me one.
“Yes. My mother was an O’Callahan from County Cork.” Why did I tell him that? I’m giving away real info and we’re supposed to be playing our roles here.
“My mother’s father was a Sullivan from Dublin.” He clinks his glass against mine.
Oh shit. The sincere smile and the blue eyes and the hair and the muscles and he’s got Irish in him?
This is a man I could fall in love with.