For answer, he fished a crumpled Post-It note out of his pocket and held it up.
“Okay, then, go ahead and get logged in and configure your email and chat profile and stuff. I’ve got a couple of things I want to get done, then I’ll come back and walk you through the basics of managing a Wildforest property. All right?”
“Cool,” Eamonn said, sliding into the desk chair with a smoothly graceful movement that shouldn’t have made Nell shiver.
She needed more tea. Hell, she needed a Frosty Peach and some sweet potato fries.
How is it only Thursday? Sunday night seemed an eternity away.
Did it bother him that she didn’t recognize him at first glance? The question had troubled her a few times in the night. Presumably, he’d earned his place in the music world every bit as much as she’d earned hers in martial arts; she was familiar with the infuriating feeling of having one’s skill disregarded — she hated it when people assumed she was helpless just because she was female. If being recognized was inherent to being a rock star, then to go unrecognized…
Still, Nell refused to vary her routine for a new assistant, especially one who was so presumptuous with women and so sure of himself and his fame and sex appeal. She felt particularly glad that she hadn’t done something silly — like buy a new blouse or put on makeup — when Lila floated in, early for a miraculous first time ever, in a ruffled peach chiffon dress and smoky, sparkly eye makeup. “Hot date after work, Lila?” Nell asked, although she was pretty sure she knew the cause of Lila’s extra efforts.
Lila giggled. “Not unless Easy asks me out. Is he here yet?”
“No. Haven’t seen him.”
“Do me a favor and let me know when he comes in, ’kay? I want to be the one who brings him coffee.”
Nell snorted. “Sure, but you’ve got feathers for brains if you think that’s going to get you anywhere. The man probably has a dozen girlfriends.”
Eamonn didn’t turn up until after ten o’clock, eating a doughnut and drinking coffee from a Top Pot to-go cup. He propped himself against the open door of her office and said, “Morning, baby.”
Suppressing an eye-roll, Nell said mildly, “You have to stop calling me baby. Also, the office opens at nine.”
“Mm. I’m not good with mornings,” he said. “But I’ll try. Brought you a doughnut.”
He tossed a paper bag onto her desk and vanished into his office without another word. Through the thin walls, she could hear the squeak of his desk chair and the burbling start-up noises of his computer.
A doughnut. Nell hadn’t eaten one in — she couldn’t remember how long — it must have been years.
The paper bag was slightly warm and smelled amazing: a doughy, sugary smell that reminded her of fairgrounds and bakeries. She ripped the paper open, exposing the fried goodness within. A jelly doughnut, no less. Round, plump, covered in powdered sugar, with a tiny bit of raspberry filling dripping from a hole in the side.
I shouldn’t. But why would it be so wrong to eat the doughnut? It didn’t mean she’d owe Eamonn anything. It had been freely offered, without conditions; he hadn’t given her a chance to refuse it.
She lifted it to her mouth and bit into it, closing her eyes to better savor the combination of flavors. Damn, that’s good. She nearly moaned with the pleasure of tart raspberry jelly and sweet sugar on her tongue.
A soft chuckle made her open her eyes. Eamonn was leaning in her doorway again, grinning at her. He’d been watching her eat the doughnut. “You like it,” he said.
“Yeah.” Couldn’t very well deny it. “Thanks.”
“You’ve got jelly on your lip.”
“Oh.” She stuck out her tongue and licked the jelly up.
The way he looked at her mouth made her feel like she’d just stripped for him. “I want to be that doughnut, gorgeous,” he muttered.
“Get out of my office, pervert,” she told him, but without much fire. “And follow up with Champagne about their paper order. I need to put the order in by five.” Stick with business. Don’t even acknowledge that look. They’d have to work together for an unspecified amount of time, and anything less than total professionalism would be awkward as hell.
Nell felt angry and discombobulated all afternoon. It’s ridiculous. I’m an adult, a woman, a feminist, a martial artist. He’s a pervert — he hit on me at the pub in the women’s bathroom — and he uses the most inappropriate language. Accepting a doughnut from him felt like a low point in her personal account book.
Part of her wanted to put him on the ground and teach him some manners, some respect and appreciation for women. An angry, frustrated side of her flared up. Ordinarily, self-control and a disciplined outlook on life were things she took pride in: the ability to tap an opponent’s headgear with a precise kick that showcased her aim, the measured speed and strength she brought to self-defense drills — enough to be realistic as a defender and provide some resistance and force as an attacker without either partner actually getting injured. But now and then the anger flared up, particularly when a cocky teenage boy started showing off with her at training, trying to score points on a senior black belt, out to win rather than train and improve. This was especially true if she caught a sense that he thought he could beat her because she was female, that he didn’t think girls could hit hard or take hard hits. On a couple of occasions, and she was not proud of them, she’d lost her temper during training and tried to nail a sparring partner hard or put him into the mat during self-defense. She’d done it, too, swearing under her breath and jangling
