Page 5 of Nathan

I shrug. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. I’ll pick myself up and start looking for another job in the morning.”

Elva’s cocked eyebrow gives me a clear message that tells me this isn’t over, but at least she lets it drop for now.

I drink three Long Island Iced Teas that I really can’t afford, but the alcohol cools the fire brewing inside my belly. After calling it a night, Elva and I wander outside. Once I settle her in a taxi—my sister is traveling in the opposite direction from me—I glance left and right, hoping to spot another cab soon. While I wait, my gaze catches a familiar figure on the other side of the street—someone I’d recognize in a heartbeat, considering I spend far too much time studying him.

Nate O’Reilly.

He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, probably an attempt at a disguise, but I’d know that over-confident swagger anywhere. He’s with a couple of friends who are laughing as they walk down the street without a care in the world.

It’s evident he hasn’t given me or the trouble he got me into a second thought. Burning rage hisses through me, demanding freedom. My hands form into white-knuckled fists. What a bastard! Gorgeous, yes. My secret obsession, absolutely, but still a bastard. How dare he strut about enjoying himself when he got me fired. He needs a lesson, and I’m going to give it to him…with both barrels. What else do I have to lose? The three cocktails I drank have given me courage I wouldn’t have if sober. May as well take advantage of my inebriation.

I make my way across the road. “Hey, you!” I yell as he and his friends are about to enter a club.

A car comes out of nowhere, blaring its horn at the crazy woman in the middle of the highway, and I flip off the driver as the car swerves around me. His arm comes out of the window, and he returns the gesture.

Nate and his two friends turn around. Nate gives me an arrogant stare, followed by a good old-fashioned eye sweep. When he doesn’t see anything that catches his interest, he shoves one of his friends on the shoulder, directing him inside the club, which is one of those fancy places that only allow VIPs to enter. If he gets inside, I’ll lose my chance.

“Nathan O’Reilly, stop right there.” I read an interview once where he mentioned that he never uses his full name, preferring the shortened version. I figure calling him by his given name might make him pay attention, if only for a few seconds.

Nate pauses, barely looking at me this time before gesturing dismissively. “Sorry, sweetheart, no autographs tonight.”

His friends snigger and step into the club. Nate follows. I put my hands on my hips. Fine. If he wants a public humiliation, I’m happy to oblige.

I sprint the rest of the way across the street and storm into the club after them. I haven’t gotten very far when a huge guy puts out his arm, stopping me from going any farther.

“Can I help you, miss?”

I set my shoulders. If I don’t act quick, I’ll lose my chance, so I go for it.

“Nate O’Reilly, you complete bastard!” I yell at his back. “You fucking got me fired today!”

Nate freezes, one foot in front of the other, before he slowly pivots, and recognition sparks in those magnetic eyes of his.

“You’re Bernard’s PA,” he says.

My anger scores a fiery trail through my veins. I’m going to kill him. “Not anymore, thanks to you,” I hiss.

Nate frowns, scuffing a hand over his chin. He gestures to the bouncer to let me through, and I only take two steps when Nate seizes my elbow and propels me into the club.

Chapter 4

Nate

I maneuver Bernard’s pint-sized PA—I still can’t remember her fucking name—toward the VIP area, and security pull back the velvet ropes as I approach. I give my friends the nod that I want a few minutes alone to find out what the hell is going on and why she’s balling me out in public. Two bouncers move in front of the rope as we pass through. They won’t let anyone past unless I give the go-ahead.

I let go of… of… oh, for fuck’s sake. “What’s your name?”

She glares at me and plants her hands on her hips. “I’ve worked for Bernard Sullivan for six months, during which time you must have been to the office on at least fifteen separate occasions, and you don’t know my goddamn name?”

I clamp my hands over my ears when she screams the last part. “All right, sweetheart, no need to pierce an eardrum.”

She jabs a finger in my face. “My name is Dex, you complete and total ass, and you got me fired from my job. A job I fucking need. Not that you’d know anything about that, Mr. Moneybags. Well, think on this. Not all of us drink out of gold-plated goblets and eat caviar and lobster for breakfast. Some of us live hand to fucking mouth. And now, because of you… I’m screwed!”

I take a step back and make a calming motion with my hands. “One thing at a time, sweetheart. Firstly, what kind of a name is Dex for a girl?”

Her dove-gray eyes widen. “Are you trying to be a jackass on purpose, or does it just come naturally?”

My lips twitch. This one is a little fireball. It’s been a while—too long—since anyone called me out on my shit. Apart from my brothers, obviously. One of the reasons I keep my distance. Not the main reason, of course. Regardless, I’m enjoying the experience. Dex’s wrath is making me hard.

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