Declan O'Donnell had owned Crow Bar for a month, and he, in typical newbie fashion, welcomed Harper every time she stopped by to harass the staff and customers. The fact that his hipster boss enjoyed Harper's visits just made Dash resent her presence more.
Harper quirked an eyebrow. "I already got Declan. You're the only staff here who hasn't signed." She waved the pen in the air. "So what do you say? I'll even let you throw in a free pot shot at me as a thank you. I won't even argue."
Dash glared down at her. "If by signing this, it'll mean I won't have to see you coming in here to be a little mosquito in my ear ever again, yammering on about shit I don't care about, then fuck yes. I'll sign all the things. Please, god, save me from the red-haired menace of Dockside."
Right away, Dash knew he'd gone too far. He stared down at Harper and waited for the fallout. He saw her narrowed eyes soften slightly. Her nostrils flared. He'd hurt her feelings, and he'd have to apologize. But he would never. A Fitzgerald never apologized to a Ross.
In that half of a second that felt like a century, Dash watched her face change to conceal the hurt. She always had that sass chambered and ready.
"Typical Fitzgerald, thinking everything I do is about making your life miserable. Get a grip, and stop obsessing about me, why don't you?"
With that, Harper spun around and left, but not before collecting a couple more signatures on the way out.
Dash could have been wrong, but he could have sworn she almost sashayed her little ass for his benefit as she walked away.
As if that would ever, in a million years, do anything for him.
As if her tight backside in those too-tight ripped jeans made him want to look. Or touch. Or grab…or shred that denim to smithereens.
Or bend her over and tease her plump bottom until she cursed and begged for more.
Nope. Harper would never make him think about anything like that. No matter how hard she tried.
Harper was a Ross. He was a Fitzgerald. Who was he to let her try to crack through three, four generations of mutual loathing?
At least the headset was good for one thing. "Billy," he said. "Make sure Harper gets to her car safely when she leaves."
Chapter Two
Harper
Harper Ross planted her feet on the sidewalk, bracing herself against the stiff wind that swept in from the harbor. She rarely cared about composing the perfect selfie, but that day, everything was about to change.
Behind her in the frame towered the gothic structure that housed the Newcastle Dispatch, the face of its famous clock tower positioned just adjacent to Harper's head.
That building was her favorite in the entire city, and that day she would enter its revolving doors as an employee.
She must have looked every bit as hapless as she felt; after a few disappointing snaps, a young, professionally dressed woman about her age approached. "Need help with that selfie?"
Harper thanked the woman and handed over her phone. After she was satisfied with the result—an authentic smile and not too much glare—the woman informed her she was headed inside to work and asked if she wanted a complimentary coffee mug from the newspaper gift shop on the main floor.
Proudly and still barely able to believe she could legitimately say the words, Harper replied, "I work here, too! First day!"
The woman introduced herself as Ainsley Donovan. Harper's mouth fell open. "I read your stories all the time." She stuck out her hand in greeting. "I'm Harper Ross. Greg just hired me—"
Ainsley's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "The author of all those guest editorials? That Harper? Wow."
Harper couldn't tell if the reporter—her favorite reporter—appeared pleased, shocked, or put off by this news.
Flashing a smile, Harper said, "Weren't expecting them to offer me a job? I know, I don't have the same background necessarily, but I'm eager to learn."
Ainsley shook her head. "No, it's not that. I thought you'd be a man."
Harper didn't quite know what to say about that. "I guess my name could go either way. Sorry, does it matter?"
Ainsley motioned them toward the revolving doors. "In general? No. It's just…well. We don't have enough male reporters and photographers to maintain an adequate buddy system when we go out to cover stories, that's all. Anyway, doesn't matter now, does it?"
The seasoned reporter blew out a breath when they entered the lobby and looked Harper up and down. She seemed unimpressed by Harper's diminutive size. "Well, I've been assigned to give you the tour and orientation. Shall we?"
Floor by floor, Ainsley guided Harper through each department of the media conglomerate. The company also operated a major television network on the second floor and at least three radio stations in Newcastle.
But more exciting to Harper was the sixth floor: the archives. As Ainsley quickly explained how to access back issues of the Dispatch, Harper inhaled the scent of old paper and wood into her lungs. "This smells better than the distillery," she commented.
Ainsley narrowed her eyes in confusion while in the middle of explaining how to handle papers of a certain age properly. Harper had to clarify that Horace Ross Distillery was a family business into which she'd been born.
"Never heard of it, but I'll have to try it sometime. Anyway, on to pop your cherry. Hope you're not afraid of heights!"
Confused, Harper looked from Ainsley to the archivist, who sat at his desk scanning pages on the most oversized scanner that Harper had ever seen, ignoring them both.
"I…uh…" Harper rarely found herself at a loss for words, but Ainsley had such an odd assertiveness as she switched from one topic to the next.
Ainsley looked a tinge exasperated with Harper. "It's an initiation thing for all new reporters. Don't worry; it's not a gang thing. We're not going to make you kill anybody."
Harper cringed as
