10. Orgasms and the Perfect Latte
Chapter ten
Orgasms and the Perfect Latte
áINE
Thumbs up emoji? That means he supports me getting a job that uses my education, right?
It shouldn't matter.
It doesn't matter.
I'll do what I want.
But…
Gah!
I'm driving myself around the bend in a Formula 1 car without brakes. There is no but. His approval does not matter. I'm a grown woman. My choices are my own. My life is mine.
Sure. Your life is yours and that's why you're marrying a practical stranger. My inner voice's snark level is high but it's not wrong.
I don't have a choice about this marriage thing, not if I want to stay alive and raise my children in safety. So, why does marrying Kieran, literally tying my life to his, feel freer than working for Kenneth Shaughnessy?
It makes no rational sense, but I trust Kieran to keep us safe, not to harm me intentionally. That's not something I've been sure of in the Shaughnessy household.
Why am I so sure of Kieran's integrity? I have no concrete reason to trust him, but my instincts demand that I do. That trusting him is the only viable way forward. Maybe the fact he's been nothing but protective since he picked me up from work yesterday has something to do with it.
He didn't have to offer his protection to me and my girls. He sure as heck didn't have to be willing to sacrifice the rest of his life for it.
And still…
I'M MARRYING A MAN I MET YESTERDAY!
Forget a Formula 1 car, this is a souped-up Chevy in a drag race burning rubber down the path of my life.
Deep breaths.
In. Out. In. Out.
Text Allison.
Right. I need to quit my job that she fired me from, but we both know she didn't mean it.
áine: Due to the events of yesterday, my daughter needs me at home and I won't be returning to work.
There. That's the reminder she needs that me quitting is her son's fault. Which it is. His and his father's.
Deep breaths.
In. Out. In. Out.
A text notification makes my phone vibrate in my hand.
Expecting another text from Kieran, I'm shocked when I see the acronym I gave Allison in my contacts. WWMG stands for wicked-witch-mean-girl because one villainous title isn't enough for the Allisons of this world.
WWMG: You can have today off, but you will have to make alternate arrangements for her tomorrow.
áine: I am not returning to work.
I don't bother to ask her to send my final check anywhere because I have no doubt she's going to withhold my wages for the last two weeks. They pay me under the table which is the only reason I can afford to live on what I make working for them. I don't have to pay taxes on it.
WWMG: What do you mean you aren't returning? If you can't work Friday either, I'll need you to make the hours up over the weekend.
This woman couldn't catch a clue with a set of handcuffs and chloroform. As if I don't already work a lot of Saturdays. I refuse to work longer than half days on weekends though and they are supposed to be rare, but really? They're not.
If you don't count sleeping, I spend more time at the Shaughnessy house than I do my own apartment. Heck, maybe even if you do count the hours I sleep.
I hate working for her family. I hate cleaning their house and spending every minute I'm there on high alert, so Kenneth doesn't catch me alone. I despise their spoiled son who has called me the whore wife of a traitor to my face.
I hate all the choices that have been taken away from me over the past six years. I even hate how many choices Troy tried to take away from me.
I wouldn't have a degree if it weren't for my mom's help with the kids.
I'm scared and upset about my upcoming marriage to a stranger, even if he seems to have White Knight syndrome. We've kissed once. And holy heck it was hot, but what if that's the extent of our chemistry.
What if he's terrible to live with? What if he hates living with me and the girls. What happens when his hero complex wears off and he's faced with the realities of daily life with a wife and three daughters?
I let my fears and frustration erupt into all caps in my next text.
áine: I AM NOT COMING BACK TO YOUR HOUSE. EVER. YOU FIRED ME! REMEMBER?
WWMG: I misspoke as I'm sure you are aware. I was very upset you left me in the lurch with my dinner party. And my coffee klatch is coming over Saturday afternoon. The house needs an extra polish besides cleaning up from the dinner party.
áine: YOUR SON AND HIS FRIENDS HURT MY DAUGHTER. SHE IS MY PRIORITY. NOT YOUR STUPID DINNER PARTIES OR HOW CLEAN THE BANNISTER RAILING IS WHEN YOU HAVE YOUR COFFEE KLATCH OVER.
Before she can answer, I add another text to the thread.
áine: I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOUR SNOBBY FACE AGAIN OR HEAR YOUR ANNOYING VOICE.
áine: AND YOUR HUSBAND IS A PHILANDERING CREEP WHO TRIES TO GET IT ON WITH THE HELP.
Ulp.
I drop my phone to the bed like it caught fire.
My common sense sure did.
I don't think this is what Kieran meant when he said to quit over text. I'm supposed to be circumspect. If my tirade makes Kenneth suspect that Mick's onto his political games, I won't have to worry about marrying a stranger.
My mom will be planning my funeral.
Ignoring the buzzing of incoming messages, I faceplant my forehead into my palm. Mother Mary, Joseph and an Archangel! What was I thinking?
Biting my lip, I make myself look at the most recent messages on my phone.
WWMG: I don't know what has gotten into you, Anne. You cannot speak to me this way. I am your employer.
Not anymore, you're not, I growl under my breath and find my fingers sending another text without permission from my brain. Or at least that part of my brain that has kept me silent in the face of this woman's provocation for so long.
áine: My name is áine, not Anne. Get your head out of your backside. YOU ARE NO LONGER MY EMPLOYER. You never were in the eyes of the IRS.
áine: And just so you know, paying people under the table is not an excuse to pay so little.
áine: People like you are everything I aspire for my children never to be.
Only one sentence in all caps. I should be proud of my self-control and she should be grateful for it.
After all, I didn't say she was nothing but a pimple on the face of humanity like I could have.
Because she is. Her and her entire snooty family.
WWMG: I will discuss this with my husband. How dare you call him a philanderer? I will let him bring you to your senses.
With zero desire to answer that message, I click onto the thread with Kiearan.
Kieran: On my way up.
Oh. Oh! How can he be here already? How close was he when he started texting? He must have gotten coffee from the shop a block over.
Springing out of bed, I rush toward my dresser for a bra. I don't sleep in one, but no way will my sleep tee hide the swaying of my heavy boobs, much less my nipples if they get hard around him like they did yesterday.
My hand is literally on the drawer I need when I hear the first quiet knock.
Crap! I don't want him to wake up the girls.
I'll just…just…I'll answer the door and leave him in the living room while I come back to mine and get dressed.
Right. It's a plan.
Not a great plan, but better than waking everyone else up with a louder knock if he thinks I don't hear him.
I rush to the door, deftly avoiding the creaking floorboard outside my mom's door and practically sliding across the carpet in my fuzzy socks in my hurry.
Unlocking the door as quickly and quietly as possible, I swing it open.
Kieran is standing a couple feet back from the door for a perfect vantage to identify him if I'd bothered to look through the peephole.
Maybe I'm just reading into it and he's not that considerate, but who wouldn't want to believe the stranger she's going to marry is at least a little thoughtful? Coffee for the whole family is more than a little thoughtful, right?
Troy was an indulgent dad, but he wouldn't have thought to bring me, much less our daughters, drinks from a coffee shop. Or anywhere else.
He didn't do takeout, but preferred going to restaurants. Not always easy with little ones, but he never seemed to get that. And when we ate out, we were always dressed to impress, me and the girls as much of an accessory as his Rolex.
Pushing aside the not so charitable thoughts, I step back and put my finger to my lips. "Shh. I don't want to wake mom and the girls yet."
Kieran steps past me, his big body making my ovaries wake up faster than my brain. Everything inside me zings into full awareness and there go my traitorous nipples. If I look down, I have no doubt I'll see the hard tips pressing against the thin fabric of my sleep tee.
But keeping my focus on his face, I hope Kieran will do the same and won't notice the way my body goes into instant hussy mode around him.
"Take those into the kitchen," I whisper, indicating the travel tray with four drinks balanced on top of a flat bakery box.
There's another drink carrier, this one with a handle and two drinks, dangling from his right hand.
If I were trying to carry all that, I'd end up with coffee all over the floor. I'd manage to save the pastry box though. Coffee might be the elixir of life, but pastries are pastries. Yum!
Despite my plan, I follow Kieran into the kitchen after I shut and lock the door. He's going to need help setting everything down, right?
Only, he deftly places the cup carrier dangling from his right hand onto the table before placing the pastry box down beside it and lifting the other drinks off the top and setting them on the counter.
Huh. "I don't think I could do that without spilling at least one drink," I admit, my voice a little above the whisper I used in the living room.
The walls in these apartments aren't bad and unless you're standing right outside the swinging door to the kitchen, you can't hear what's going on inside it. Mom and I always move into the kitchen for a cuppa after the girls go to bed if we want to talk about something without little ears hearing.
Kieran hands me a large cardboard cup. The heat only goes up two-thirds of the way and when I take off the lid, I see it's full to the brim with foam.