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“Two weeks, Rob. We have two fucking weeks.” I shook my head. “We’re fucking cursed. Right from the start.”
“Christ Almighty, we’re not cursed!”
“I feel we are, Rob. None of this has been easy. First, Da had his accident. The second pot still continues to have problems. Our finances are about to be audited, and that could cast doubt on me - on all of us! And now my whisky is ruined.” I inhaled sharply. “Sabotage.”
“Stu, what? Sabotage? Christ, it’s not a curse or sabotage - it’s business! Nothing is easy. And Da had his fair share of issues before ye took over.” Rob shifted on his feet. “Most of which could have been avoided. Look, we’ll get through this. McAlisters have been doing so for 285 years.”
“Let’s hope the twelve-year-old is enough to impress the rep.” I inhaled deeply. “And get the old man’s twenty-five-year bottle from George. We’ll use that too.”
“We’ll be okay,” Robert’s voice was low and soothing. “Tonight will go well.”
“All I know is my whisky tasted fantastic before we bottled the samples for tonight.” I ran my fingers through my hair again. “When we get home, I want tae find out who did this. Heads will fucking roll.”
Chapter Two
Amanda
My rental duplex was quiet. Both flatmates were out, and from the bottom of the stairs, I could see their door handles had hair scrunchies over them; the universal symbol for ‘Do Not Disturb: I’m bonking a bloke in my room’. But neither had arrived home yet with their chosen man of the moment.
I hung up my coat. Next door, the Croatian family were still up, TV blaring. The university students across the road were having a party; an impressive effort backing up from New Year’s a week ago.
I could have been bonking a bloke tonight as well. Butterflies took flight in my stomach and an ache tingled between my legs.
Great, I was horny and would have to listen to my flatmates having sex later through our thin walls.
Why was I so turned on by the Beast? Wasn’t even sure I liked him. He was rude, grouchy and… and… too bloody good-looking for his own good - and mine.
Plus, he was strong. Those chest muscles. I was certain he had an eight pack under that shirt. And he had smelled so good; musky with hints of spiced orange peel, and whisky on his breath.
Crikey! I knew that smell: Christmas pudding, exactly like Mum made every year, but in a manly kind of way. I never knew Christmas pudding could be manly, until tonight. I had barely stopped myself from grabbing his shirt and licking him.
“Good grief, Amanda,” I admonished myself. “You’re not a ‘licking the stranger’ kind of girl.”
But I’d wanted to. Very much.
And his fingers on my skin. I leant back against the wall and sighed. It hadn’t been just a touch; the stroke of his hand was a caress.
And I’d caught a glimpse of what he was packing in his pants. I pressed my cold hands to my cheeks. Settle down, woman!
I hadn’t even got his name. Just his nickname: the Beast. I groaned and kicked off my heels.
I’d wanted him.
Stay, please. For the promise of pleasure.
I glanced at my phone. Nine in the evening, London time, meant six in the morning Ballydoon time.
Home by nine on a Sunday night to iron work clothes for work, get enough sleep before getting up early for work, and then leave for work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. My thumb hovered over the group chat app, to send my family a message to see if anyone was keen for a quick conversation, but I turned off my phone with a sigh.
Ironing and group chat could have been good, casual sex. And it had been a while since I’d had decent pleasure with a man.
“He wasn’t your type anyway.” I tucked my phone away, picked up my heels and headed upstairs to my bedroom.
“Reliable, dependable Amanda,” I mumbled, shrugging out of my cocktail dress.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. I hadn’t worn a bra tonight and opted for a tiny G-string, so I didn’t have to worry about visible underwear lines. I was no supermodel: had some cellulite (who didn’t?), faint scars on my knees from scraping on rocks and knocking about the farm, and a mole on the back of my left thigh. My breasts were neither small or big. But who really looked like a supermodel anyway, right?
I’d liked my outfit a lot. I didn’t usually wear G-strings. I’d bought it on a whim. Deciding not to wear a bra had been a whim too. I’d loved how the dress felt on my skin, how not wearing much underwear felt so sexy, too. And the Beast obviously liked what he saw.
