Chapter 1 Amelia
AMELIA
IRELAND
I roll down the window and stare at the house. Open-mouthed. Like a child who just rocked up at FAO Schwarz for a play date during the holidays.
I snap some pictures on my cell phone to send to my mom.
And Carol. I love my best friend dearly, but she will literally hound me with messages if she doesn’t get a step-by-step report of my entire trip, real-time, not after the event.
Which is why my phone is red-hot from the endless photographs I’ve been taking during the car journey from Dublin Airport to my new job.
Is this really happening?
I’ve been saving for this trip for the last couple of years. There were times when I thought I might never get here, that it was simply one of those dreams that most people have. You know, like visiting Machu Picchu, or riding a gondola through Venice, or seeing the Taj Mahal in person.
Now that I’m really here, I can hardly believe it, even though I survived the seven-hour flight sitting next to a kid who grazed his way through so many packets of Swedish Fish that the flight attendant had to scrape him off the ceiling at one point.
I pinch the back of my hand and squeal silently.
Okay, so perhaps I squeal out loud because I can see the chauffer—my new boss sent a fucking chauffeur to the airport to pick me up—smiling to himself in the rearview mirror.
But how else am I supposed to react? This house is like something from a fairy tale.
“All it needs now are some turrets and a dragon prowling the rooftop.”
Yep. Said that out loud too.
My mom’s friend organized the housekeeper job for me when she found out that I was going to spend the winter in Ireland. She runs some kind of agency. Knows a lot of wealthy people. But this… I let out a low whistle.
Maybe the boss is an ogre. Or a vampire.
I could probably handle working for a vampire to be fair, seeing as I’ve been obsessed with them since Carol first introduced me to Buffy.
I check out the driver in the rearview again.
At least I kept these thoughts to myself.
But seriously, this isn’t a fairy tale, so the bubble will pop any moment now.
Even so, this is exactly the distraction I needed.
I didn’t hear from Ryan after our hook-up in the Wraith. Not that I expected or wanted to. Well, maybe I did expect it just a little bit. After what happened.
The condom he used broke. It was no big deal, I guess.
I’m using birth control, so it isn’t like history is going to repeat itself and my Irish one-night-stand has left me with a baby.
Carol insisted that I self-test at home for STIs and fast-track the results.
She said that she knew he was a player the instant she set eyes on him.
“I was surprised you fell for that Irish charm.” She gave me that look that said this was one of the many ways in which I’m weaker than she is. “Not exactly your type.”
“I don’t have a type.” I winced as I pricked my finger and drew a tiny bead of blood to add to the test.
The test results came back negative, as I knew they would.
That night, Ryan was true to his word. He fucked me all night, on almost every surface of his executive suite at the Wraith.
We stopped to get drinks from the mini bar occasionally.
We ordered room service at some point in the wee hours, pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, and fed each other, licking stringy melted cheese from our fingers.
We took a shower and fucked in the huge walk-in shower stall.
The sun was already heating up the sidewalks when he walked me home. He kissed me outside our apartment block. Then, he peered into my eyes and said, “I’ll never forget you, Amelia.”
I didn’t tell him that I would never forget him either. It sounded too cliché. Too cheesy. Before I could suggest maybe meeting up in Ireland, he turned around and walked away. And he didn’t look back.
So, here I am.
Physically, I’m fully recovered. Mentally, I’ve been scouring the Irish countryside for a glimpse of red hair and blue eyes, knowing that the chances of bumping into Ryan Connor while I’m here are slim to non-existent, at best.
He probably says the same thing to every girl he hooks up with. Like a calling card.
I’ll never forget you, Sarah, or Lily, or Matilda. Insert any female name you can think of.
Men are all about their egos. It must stoke up his self-esteem whenever he thinks of me replaying his parting comment in my head.
I suck in a deep breath, releasing it slowly while I lock Ryan Connor away in a small chest at the back of my mind. I’m in Ireland. I’m not going to waste this experience hoping to bump into him while I’m discovering my Irish roots.
The car rolls to a stop, and I climb out, legs quivering at the sight of my temporary home. While the driver hoists my luggage out of the trunk, I remind myself that I’ll be living here, but the owner expects me to take care of the place too.
Imagine the insurance claim if I accidentally burn it down because I don’t know how to use the oven. I have no clue how many rooms there are. What if the owner expects me to scrub the floors the old-fashioned way, on my hands and knees? Every room. Every day.
I’m still mentally bending the owner into the shape of a Disney villain with a pet snake wrapped around his neck when the enormous front door to the massive mansion opens, and my new boss steps out to greet me.
He isn’t an ogre. He can’t be a vampire either as he’s standing outside in daylight, although vampires have probably discovered a way to combat their aversion to sunshine in the twenty-first century.
And garlic. And potentially crosses too as the silver cross hanging from a chain around his neck glints as he approaches the car.
My thoughts are rambling, thankfully inside my head where they belong.
My heart is doing all kinds of weird Wednesday Addams style dance routines.
Because my mom’s friend conveniently forgot to give me the most important piece of information about this job. Declan Byrne is a goddamned silver fox.
“Amelia. I’m Declan Byrne.”
He walks right up to me and folds both my hands into his. He doesn’t shake them. It’s a hand-hug, because a real hug would be inappropriate between the boss and his new employee as an initial greeting. Especially when the driver sets my luggage down beside me and waits for further instructions.
“How was the flight?” Declan’s attention is all on me.
“Long.” It’s the first word that I utter, in person, to my new boss. Long. Not hi. Pleased to meet you. How are you? You know, the regular kind of greeting that regular people generally say without even thinking about it.
Now that I’m here, now that I’ve seen my boss in person, the bubbly personality that my mom’s friend sold to him when she got me the job has grown wings and taken flight back to the comfort of home.
He’ll be expecting me to wow him with stories of the city, the yellow taxi cabs, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, all the things that tourists want to hear about.
Chili dogs. Home Alone. Central Park. And I’m going to stand here like a lump of cheese and gape at him.
He smiles. “I would’ve sent the private jet for you, but it’s on standby for my son. I’m sorry, Amelia.”
Private. Fucking. Jet!
Holy hell!
It gets my brain cells working though. “No, it’s fine. It was very kind of you to send the car for me.”
“It’s the least I could do.” He guides me towards the house, his hand hovering near the small of my back but not quite touching, and I follow him on muscle memory and shaky legs.
The accent. It’s the same as Ryan’s, only softer, more worn in, like the edges have been rubbed smooth, leaving only the warm, buttery insides.
His dark hair has streaks of silver. I don’t need to guess his age—fifty-seven, it was included in the file my mom’s friend sent me—but he would easily pass for a man ten years younger.
A twenty-year age gap doesn’t sound anywhere near as bad as thirty.
And why am I even thinking about this? I haven’t entered the house yet and I’m already picturing this as so much more than an employer-housekeeper kind of arrangement.
It’s wrong on so many levels, I blink hard to bring the house back into focus.
On the plus side, it has taken my mind off Ryan Connors for a whole five minutes.
Declan stops inside the foyer which is large enough to hold a party in.
The walls are wood paneled, the floor is wood too, so highly polished, I can see my reflection when I peer down at my feet.
There’s a sweeping staircase on our left, the banisters also polished to within an inch of their life, the carpet deep burgundy.
It’s understated, classy, elegant, but if money had a smell, it would be this foyer.
“You must be tired. I’ll show you to your room, and you can freshen up before I give you a guided tour of the house.”
He gestures for me to follow him upstairs. Each step could easily accommodate four people without touching shoulders, so I keep a respectable distance between us, and steal some furtive glances at his profile.
Damn my new boss is hot!
I know that his wife died a long while ago, and he never remarried, but there was no mention in the file of another woman on the scene.
Not that it alters my position here one way or the other.
I’m simply curious. A guy this hot would have no shortage of women aching to go on a date with him, sexy underwear at the ready.
He keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, so by the time we reach the top of the stairs, I’m pretty sure that I would be able to pick him out of a police line-up by the scent of his cologne and his profile alone.
Something about him looks familiar. Like we’ve met before in a previous life.
But I can’t place him in my memories; I’ve never been great at remembering faces.
So, I just come out with it at the top of the stairs: “Have we met before?”
He faces me then, and time stands still, the house disappearing into the ether leaving the two of us behind in a transparent time blip.
“No, I would never forget… I’m sure I would remember.”
Just my imagination then.
I smile and pretend I’m living in a world where I didn’t just make things awkward between me and my new boss before I’ve even seen my room.
The upper level is as grand as the foyer.
The landing is wide enough to fit a sofa sideways.
It has the same burgundy carpet as the staircase, lights set flush with the ceiling, and abstract artwork on the walls with accents of that same dark red.
I wonder if Declan had any input on the interior design or if this was his wife’s taste.
I want to know more about her. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but it would give me an insight into the kind of man Declan Byrne is without crossing any boundaries.
I’ve known him for about ten minutes, and I’m already feeling self-conscious about spending too much time in his presence. Not because he scares me.
Quite the opposite.
“This guest room will be yours.” Declan opens a door and gives me space to enter first.
I feel his eyes on the back of my head as I step inside.
But I soon forget when I see the size of the bed which is slap-bang in the center of the room.
It’s huge. Like Wraith-executive-suite-huge.
With half-wooden posts, and a thick comforter in swirling peacock colors.
The walls are ivory, there’s a tall free-standing wardrobe, and another door that leads to an ensuite bathroom.
“I have my own bathroom?”
I turn around to face Declan who quickly looks away as if I caught him stealing something from my luggage, which hasn’t even been brought upstairs yet.
“I want you to be comfortable, Amelia.” He clears his throat. “I want this to feel like your home.”
“Thank you.”
He must know about my background, only daughter of a single mom, average grades, and college scholarship to study history—he wouldn’t have hired me without doing all the usual background checks.
But there’s nothing pretentious about him.
No aloofness. No ‘I’m the boss and you’re here to serve me’ kind of attitude.
He’s wearing pressed khaki pants and a polo shirt; he isn’t dressed to impress.
“Take your time. I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen whenever you’re ready. Turn left at the bottom of the stairs and keep going through the double doors.”
His eyes linger on me as if there’s a whole load more he wants to say. Then, he turns around and leaves me alone in my room.
I cross to the window and peer outside. The land seems to stretch as far as I can see.
From here, I can see the cool blue of the sea in the distance, white foam like frosting waves on the water’s surface.
There are stables. A barn. Cows munching grass in a nearby field that may or may not belong to Declan Byrne.
Something is still niggling away at me about his response on the stairs when I asked him if we’d met before, but I shove it away.
“Cannot, must not, fancy my boss!” I warn myself. “It’ll be a disaster waiting to happen.”
Smiling widely, I flop backwards onto the bed, arms and legs forming a starfish shape. I release a small, excited squeal before sitting up and snapping some pictures on my phone to send to my mom and Carol.