Page 19 of Dublin Beast

They wouldn’t.

There’s always a way to gain access to new sources. I just have to think of the angle that’ll get me there.

The steady pounding of my sneakers on the track of the treadmill keeps me in the zone. There’s a rhythm to it. A soothing repetition of something rote that occupies my body and frees my mind.

It sharpens the chaos of my problem-solving skills.

Today went totally sideways and I need to regroup.

Who the hell was that guy?

I close my eyes, but that’s a mistake because now I’m picturing him. The fury in those emerald eyes. The tension in those broad shoulders. The way his muscled frame exploded in the fight—a storm breaking loose, wild and unstoppable, his body a weapon honed by an instinct to protect the damsel in distress.

Not that I needed his help.

I had everything under control until he burst onto the scene and ruined everything.

I can still feel his grip on my arm, firm but not bruising, despite him escorting me away from the fight and into the alley like a ball of rage and muscle. His fingers were calloused—working hands—not soft office hands.

The idea of him working in an office is laughable. I can’t picture it. He’s more likely a construction foreman or a high-priced bodyguard or something.

The sheer size of him… and the way his voice curled around his words, deep and rough, edged with that thick Irish brogue… He is next-level hot and is likely used to women melting into panting puddles at his feet.

Other women, that is. Women who don’t have a job to do, who can afford to be distracted by a six-foot-five wall of pure masculine perfection.

The heave of his chest as we argued about him following me had my body zinging with electricity. That man is raw power barely contained. He’s trouble.

Dangerous. Angry. Aggressive.

I felt it when I touched his heaving chest—I felthim.

The air between us snapped tight. It was electric… or maybe combustible. Like one wrong move between us could ignite something I wouldn’t be able to control.

I hate not being in control.

My heart shudders in my chest and I curse myself for letting my hormones get the better of me. Yes, he’s a perfect specimen of a man, but I refuse to let hormones dictate my life.

There was a lot of adrenaline pumping in the moment. I’m quite sure I wouldn’t have given him a second glance if he hadn’t just overturned my world.

I laugh at myself. Okay, I totally would’ve given him a once over—any hot-blooded female would—but I if not for the adrenaline of the moment, I wouldn’t be replaying our interaction on a constant mental loop.

The fact remains, his interference ruined my plans.

I push the stop button on the treadmill as that reality sucker punches me in the gut. I’m back to square one.

As the track slows to a stop, I get off, grab my towel, and start walking off my workout. My legs feel like jelly, but it’s a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that means I’ve pushed myself and am stronger for it.

That doesn’t mean I’m any less salty about my day.

The frustration of losing my chance with Jamie and his boss hits me right in the gut. I double over and stretch out my hamstrings, grabbing my ankles and touching my forehead to first one knee and then the next.

Fact: Hot Irish Guy likely nullified this attempt to get sucked into whatever trouble found Chantal, Macie, and likely Zhara.

I straighten and swing my right arm across my body, securing it at the elbow to stretch out my shoulder. As my breathing slows and my muscles settle, I think about what I learned during the chaos of the fight.

The driver called Jamie’s boss,‘Mr. Mason’. When I searched the name plus Liverpool, I got a dozen news articles about several members of the Mason crime family. There’s a dynasty of criminals who have their fingers in everything from drugs to extortion to embezzlement.

Allegedly, of course.

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