Twist (Beekman Hills #2)
Chapter 1
“Are you an angel from heaven?”
“No. Satan let me out in costume today.”
Adelaide
People suck. I mean, not all people, but having to meet with them and listen to their “creative ideas” on what they want on their websites is the least favorite part of my job.
God, and having to meet with them out in public? Where there are people? I am not Ariel. I do not want to be where the people are. It takes everything I have in me not to roll my eyes. I need to be professional and land this job.
I creep down Main Street, cursing the plows for not doing any kind of a decent job of clearing the snow from the roads.
Maybe my anger is misplaced because Mother Nature should have checked with me before dumping a foot of snow overnight.
The four and a half years I’ve spent here in New York for college have done nothing to put me at ease while driving in the snow.
It snowed in Kansas City, but nothing like it does here.
The snow grabs at my tires, pushing my car toward the one other car on the road, coming from the opposite direction.
Shit, shit, shit, shit.
The car swerves across the road, cutting in front of me just as my tires catch, and I barely get things under control. I seethe every curse I can think of at the snow, the plows, the universe, and the asshole who almost hit me and made me miss my turn. And, now, I’m going to be late.
Twenty minutes later, after turning around, getting stuck in stupid one-way streets, and finally getting back to Main, I gingerly pull into the parking lot of McBride’s.
This is my first time actually going to the Irish pub in the almost four and a half years I’ve been in New York.
With the millions of stories I’d heard throughout college about the pub and the whorish Irish guys working here, I’d have been fine with not coming at all.
With my messenger bag slung across my body, I shove my hands into my pockets and hurry to the door.
I should know better; I really should. Just as I start to stomp the snow off my boots, my bag shifts and pulls me off-balance.
Arms wheeling through the air, hands reaching for anything to stop the madness, I lose it.
Bust ass and end up flat on my back in the snow bank to the left of the door.
Late.
Cold.
Ass covered in snow.
I’m so not getting this job. The wind whips my magenta-and-pale-pink hair up into a twirl of gourmet cotton-candy mess.
I haul myself up and dust the snow off my black leggings, cringing when a chunk of snow finds its way into my boot.
I don’t have time for this. I should be home, cozy in my apartment, with some coffee and a blankie.
Small favors, but my glasses stayed on, and my computer is okay. Carefully, I get myself together, inhaling deeply and slapping what I hope is more smile than grimace on my face, and step into the pub.
The door slams shut behind me on a gust of wind, and all heads turn to face me. I clear my throat and approach the tall, dark-haired guy, pretty sure he’s the photographer whose website I’m supposed to be building. “Mr. Kearney?”
“I am. Please, call me Aidan. Are you Miss Huntington?”
He reaches out to shake my hand, so I grit my teeth and firmly clasp his.
Yeah, I don’t like touching strangers either.
They can have all kinds of germs. Like, how do you know if a person just picked their nose right before shaking your hand?
His hand feels smooth and clean, so I hope for the best. Maybe I can discreetly grab my hand sanitizer as I unpack my computer.
“Adelaide,” I tell him, following suit. “Great, so what are you looking for with your website?”
I really want to just get this started and done, so I can go home and hang out with Eric. He’s the best roommate I could have ever asked for after living in the dorms for the first couple of years of school.
Aidan pauses and rests his hand on the back of the chair across from me. “Erm, I don’t know really. I thought, with you being the expert, I’d let you guide me.”
More small favors. Maybe this won’t suck.
“Can I get you something to drink? A pint maybe?”
I stare at him for a second, not quite sure what to say. Is it professional to drink while working? Not that it matters. I don’t really drink.
“I’ll just have some coffee, I think. Thanks.”
“You’re sure?” His voice is deep, the accent a little more pronounced than when we spoke on the phone.
I nod and watch as he makes his way to the bar.
He grabs a tall glass of dark beer for himself and a steaming mug of coffee for me. “Do you take anything with it? Some sugar? Creamer?”
“Fuck’s sake, I’m sure she doesn’t need any sugar. She looks sweet and lovely to me.” The bartender comes out of the back room with a basket of French fries, a cheesy smile stretched across his face. “She radiates sunshine and sweetness.”
Dear God and sweet baby Jesus, help me have the strength not to roll my eyes. Please, please—
Obviously, those little prayers just did nothing for me. Aidan and the older guy sitting at the bar each bark out a loud laugh. And there goes my attempt to be professional.
“Just creamer, thanks,” I tell Aidan.
Scowling, I turn back to my computer and pull my hair up into a messy bun, securing it with a couple of pens.
The feet screech against the floor as I shift my chair in.
I pull my feet up and wiggle around until I’m sitting crisscrossed on the hard wooden seat.
I tuck a third pen between my lips and start typing, pulling up the site template.
It would be great if he just gave me creative license, but we’ll see.
People say that shit all the time and then change every last detail on their sites.
“And look at how she folds herself up so neatly on that chair. She’s sweet and bendy, like Twizzlers.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see this guy leaning forward over the bar, dousing his fries in vinegar, a wide grin practically splitting his face.
Is he serious?
Aidan’s jaw twitches as he stares past me. There are only the four of us in here, but the silence is deafening.
“Finn,” he grits out before mumbling, “Christ,” under his breath. “Adelaide, I’m sorry. He thinks he’s pretty slick, but—”
“Please don’t hold this against me,” I manage to say quietly before turning in my seat to look at this guy, Finn.
“Twizzlers can leave some nasty whip marks, given the right velocity. Maybe you should watch yourself.” Facing forward again, I push my glasses back up my nose and ask Aidan, “Are we ready to do this?”
Eyes wide, Aidan is working really hard to contain himself, but the older gentleman sitting at the bar barks out a deep belly laugh. Cheeks red above his full beard, he says something to the bartender in not English—maybe Irish? And the dude frowns and goes back to washing glasses or something.
“Sorry. Francie—he’s the owner—just told Finn he’s not going to be able to charm his way into your good graces. He thinks…well, I told you already.” Aidan waves his hand and drinks down about a third of his beer. “What have we got then?” He scoots over and peers at my screen.
We work for a bit, and I think I’m getting a pretty good idea of what he wants for his site. It’s all good until the air shifts, and I square my shoulders, the skin prickling along the back of my neck.
“Thought you might like a little warming up.” Leaning heavily on the back of my chair, Finn refills my coffee cup. But he lingers, crowding me.
Don’t react. He’s just looking for a reaction.
And, when I think it’s safe, I release the breath I’m holding.
He lets loose with another comment. “Personally, I think you’re smoking hot. You’ve got me burning up.”
He seriously thinks he’s good at this.
I pull a strained breath in through my nose, hard enough to wiggle my septum ring I neatly tucked up—again, trying for that professional vibe. “You’re burning up?”
“I am,” he purrs. “Think you can help me?”
I twist my lips, assessing him. He’s tall and lean. Just starting to put on some muscle. He looks like he’s close to my age with an artfully tousled mop of dark-red curls. He’s cute, but for the love of God…
“I’m not a doctor, but generally, antibiotics are a good idea to nip that shit in the bud. Some of those”—I dismissively flap my hand toward his pants—“diseases can be cleared up pretty quickly, from what I’ve heard.”