He was so far gone. Insanely in love. Patrick would never let him live it down.
Raven lifted her head to glare at him. “You, O’Faolain, are a bad influence. Yesterday, not even twenty-four hours ago, I was as pure as the driven snow.”
Her disgruntled tone might have worked if her eyes weren’t sparkling.
“Now, look at me, naked in a pasture.” She did smile now. “I’m so telling my sisters. You know that, right?”
Swatting her ass before he lifted her up, separating himself, he said, “I expected nothing less. I’m surprised you didn’t wake them up already.”
“Ha! I told them I wouldn’t call until after we met with the artist, and I won’t. You, however, will have to find something tooccupy your time for at least thirty minutes while I give them all the details.”
“You guys are ridiculous, but since I now feel like they’re my sisters, I know when I’m beat. Let’s get dressed. It’s only another forty minutes to the address Rowan sent.” They pulled on their clothes, then headed out of the ruin.
As they rounded the corner, an older gentleman in a worn brown jacket and cap came walking down through the field adjacent to the path they’d driven, a Cocker Spaniel trotting at his feet. Bran and Raven waved as they walked on to their car.
Raven hissed under her breath as they reached the door. “If that poor man witnessed us making... having sss...screwingin public, so help me God, I will make you pay. Somehow, I will.”
Her face bright red, she got in the car and not so much slammed as shut the door with firm intent. Bran refrained from reminding her that the chance of meeting the man again were next to nil. Once he was settled in the driver’s seat, he looked over, attempting a serious demeanor. “Shall I confess to your sisters what we possibly did in front of that poor man, or do you want to?”
He watched Raven suck in air so quick to reply she nearly choked. “You are horrible. Horrible!” Then she bent over, laughing. They both laughed until tears leaked from their eyes. After a few starts and stops, she finally got out, “We shall never speak of this, Mr. O’Faolain. I was going to tell them about it but I’ve changed my mind.”
15
As Sam began most of his mornings, he thanked his father’s talent for turning a profit. Before the O’Faolains had shit all over his family and ruined his father’s name and Sam’s as well, come to that, his dad had invested— wisely.
Even after he lost his job, Thomas Delton had plenty of money to live the rest of his life comfortably.
The O’Faolain attorneys had only found two of his dad’s accounts. There were three more that the stupid twats never uncovered.
Sam could have stayed on at his private high school even though he hated most of his classmates. However, the teachers caught wind of his father’s supposed disgrace and made Sam’s life hell. His dad had been convinced that Hugh O’Faolain had spread the rumors. Hoping to run them out of town.
The students were indifferent, but he could feel the sneering looks from James, Bran, and Patrick burning into his back. Every Single Day. Fuck that. He had his father pull him from school, and he finished online.
His dad’s CPA license hadn’t been revoked because the O’Faolainsmagnanimouslydidn’t press charges. Dad admittedprivately to fraud, skimming money off the accounts he managed. It wasn’t true. His father told him he was forced into admitting guilt to keep his family from the embarrassment of court. He could still practice, but anyone who was anyone knew about Dad’s supposed theft. He wouldn’t work in Oklahoma again.
The spiderweb of accounts was his dad’s legacy. Thomas Delton was a numbers genius. Luckily for Sam, like father, like son ran true.
So, the ritual of thankfulness continued all these years later, honoring his father and mentor. “Thanks, Dad, for all the fucking money you left me. Turns out I’m damn good at investing too.” It always tickled his funny bone that the O’Faolains had killed his father,granted, in a roundabout way, and ruined the Delton name, but Samuel was a multi-millionaire regardless of their intent.
Thanks to his inherited wealth, Sam was able to devote his days to ‘working’ jobs that allowed him access to the preening assholes. And damn, if he hadn’t used the last few days of Bran’s absence to his advantage.
This evening, Sam was waiting on Josephine O’Connor’s table at a favorite Irish pub located in downtown Tulsa. She’d met up with two of the Byrne sisters for dinner and drinks, and more conveniently, a waiter at the pub experienced a bicycle accident earlier in the day and couldn’t make his shift.
As luck would have it, Sam was a trusted member on almost every freelance shift work app— and knowing the waiter might have an issue— he refreshed the open shifts every minute for hours until the injured waiter’s shift showed up. Sam accepted the job within seconds and was accepted.
So easy. Not as easy as loading remote access software to some of the laptops owned by a few of the exclusive members ofThose He Hated the Most, however. And hey, was it really his fault that the idiots left their electronics lying around?
Monitoring emails and messaging apps took an excruciating amount of his valuable time— but look at the payoff— three women of Sam’s interest had their heads together laughing, and he was their waiter. Bingo, motherfuckers.
“More water?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
I’ll take some, please.”
“I’m good right now.”
“All right, ladies. I’m Charlie, and I’ll be your waiter this evening. If you’re ready to order, I’ll take them now, or if you might prefer getting drinks from the bar first, I can grab those while you look over the appetizers.”
