Prologue

Whitley Whitt

See you next Tuesday.

“Thirty minutes,” I whisper under my breath. “Thirty more minutes and I will have a book in my hand. My ass will be firmly planted in lavender-scented bubbles, and I can forget this night ever happened.”

“What?” George asks, practically shouting over the heavy bass and cacophony of voices filling the crowded ballroom. Him and his dog are guests of the castle, at least for the next few weeks while they visit and tour Romania. His white suit bunches around his shoulders as he pushes his pug, Fifi, into a waiting server’s arms. The little rascal ran away earlier, and I’m glad he was found safe.

“I said it looks so nice!”

I paste a polite smile on my lips and drift my gaze across the party goers, making sure to avoid eye contact with anyone. I never know how much is too much at these sorts of things, and usually end up staring at people like a freak. The creepy castle is huge and there are so many rooms I don’t even attempt to keep up with them all—I just want to go read.

Twenty-nine minutes, man. I’ve got this.

My feet hurt, the soles of them throbbing up through my calves, while my back aches from carrying heavy trays to waiters throughout the day. I’m too tired for this. Why did I let George drag me from the kitchen?

If I didn’t need this job at this weird-as-fuck hotel, I would have scooted my ass away from here weeks ago when I realized what kind events the owners like to host.

The low bass of the music thumps through my body, making my legs jitter. I glance up at the ornate ceilings painted with cherubs, a spray of purple and blue lights casting them in unnatural colors for the grand opening that I know George had a hand in color coordinating.

“Come on, Whitley, just one drink. You need to let loose a little,” the diminutive man says once we reach one of the small tables, and I fold like a lawn chair.

George is seriously the sweetest man alive, so of course when he asked me to come help him with something, I didn’t hesitate. If I had known that his idea of help is downing vodka, I probably would have reconsidered. The hopeful expression on the white-haired man’s face is my doom.

“Maybe just some water?” I blurt out. Surely an hour won’t kill me after all.

He shimmies a bit, nudging me lightly while dancing in place. “Yesss, woman! You will have the best time. Everyone has been fed, and I know you were up at five this morning. Now here.”

A drink is pushed into my hand, and I’m unceremoniously shoved into a chair.

My stomach leaps into my chest and my pasted-on smile makes another appearance when I catch the eyes of the people around the table. Men. A lot of men . Belatedly, it registers that George is more interested in getting me laid than drunk.

I barely withhold a groan. Ugh, why did I tell him how long it’s been?

“You just sit your pretty little butt down and hydrate.” I notice George winking from the corner of my eye before I glance around the table, my face heating at the welcoming murmurs of everyone seated. “Meet my new friends.”

A brown-haired man with nice lips meets my gaze, and a tiny flame of desire sparks.

Oh. It’s been so long I can barely remember what dick looks like. Two years since my divorce and, in that time, I’ve only managed to hang onto two boyfriends long enough to make it to a bed, but neither lasted more than a few months.

George nudges my shoulder. I realize the guy’s mouth has been moving and I’ve missed what was said.

“I am so sorry.” I lean forward across the table. “I didn’t quite catch that. Can you please repeat it?”

I stuff down the unease from so many new faces, but before I can ask anyone their name, a hand encircles my arm and I’m pulled to my feet. My gaze clashes with Mr. O’Doyle’s, ma?tre d’ of the castle, who looks like he’s about ready to commit murder.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” he hisses near the side of my head where only I can hear, glaring at me. His nostrils flare and his irises are like glittering chips of blue ice.

“Hello, Mr. O’Doyle. Nice to see you too,” I say loudly, then I narrow my gaze. “What do you mean, what am I doing out here?”

My brows go up as I try to get a glimpse of the dining area just over his shoulder, expecting to see smoke or fire from somewhere with how upset he looks. The last time he looked this pissed, I left a cupcake outside his study to annoy him—one cupcake equals explosion, after all. The man despises cupcakes.

“Doyle, honey. She’s been on her feet all night and really deserves a drink,” George tells him over the music. “The dinner has been so nice. Hasn’t it, fellas?”

The other table occupants murmur in agreement, and Mr. O’Doyle scowls.

“Thank you, George. If I could borrow Miss Whitt for a moment?” he says in a strong British accent that I don’t have to fight to hear since I’m practically in his arms.

His face is so handsome. Compelling blue eyes, dark slashing brows, firm sensual lips, and a six-foot frame that would be made for me to climb, if the guy wasn’t the most arrogant asshole I’ve ever met.

Connor O’Doyle is one of those guys you see and can’t help but imagine beautiful babies with him, along with an oceanfront wedding and a mortgage. I do almost every day until he opens his mouth, and then my pretty fantasy home becomes an imaginary jail for imaginary manslaughter.

I stand there gawking like a fool as he takes the drink from my fingers and slams it down onto the table.

“What the hell?” I attempt to pull my arm away as I’m dragged across the ballroom floor. “Hey, let me go!”

The sharp turn of heads has me going mute. When resisting doesn’t get me anywhere, I sidle up alongside him, nodding at anyone who meets my eyes.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask in sing a song way, before giving Maria an awkward wave as we pass. Allan, the new castle manager, hired her and her boyfriend on as staff from the village and we’ve become friends of sorts because of all the time she spends in the kitchen with me and helping around the castle. This night is different for a lot of us, I guess.

The disco ball overhead reflects sparkling rays of light on the floor in front of us and lights up over Mr. O’Doyle’s gray suit and down his broad back. Fog crawls across the checkered, marble floor as we pass by the giant fireplace. It’s covered in cobwebs that spiral down into the grate to look like a massive funnel.

Pulling me through a side door and into the kitchen, he comes to an abrupt halt and lets me go.

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath as I catch myself on the countertop, making a grab for a utensil to use as a weapon.

His brow goes up. “What do you plan to do with that?” he says, stunning me and ruining the British accent for me forever in one fell swoop.

Why are all the hot guys dicks?

I look down at my hand, realizing my palm is biting into the metal of a whisk. Of course, I had to grab a whisk and not a knife. I would’ve even been happy with a fork so I could poke out one of his pretty blue eyes.

He laughs and I toss it away, trying to ignore what the sound does to my middle. Why am I attracted to this guy? He’s a freaking a-hole of the first order. He probably invented assholedom . O’Doyle Rules, apparently.

I plant my hands on my hips as I turn on him. “What is your problem?”

“You are,” he practically growls, taking a step closer. “What the hell are you doing drinking while on the job? Is this something that people do where you come from?” His chin goes up and the pretentious prick tone is back as his British accent fades.

Throwing my hands up in the air, I huff out, “Are you kidding me right now? More than half the waiters are drinking.” Then I gesture at the door. “All the guests have been fed, Mr. O’Doyle, meaning my responsibilities for this night are over. And what I do on my off hours is none of your business.”

I’m going to be cleaning the kitchen later to help Maria so she can get a night out with her boyfriend, Anton, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“I beg to differ as it impacts guest satisfaction,” he snaps with a glare.

Oh, he is pushing it. I wasn’t even drinking!

“Beg all you like, what I do is my business,” I sneer, folding my arms over my chest. Leaning back against the stainless-steel counters, I level him with a glare of my own. “And if you ever put your hands on me again, I will hurt you.”

The bastard grins and my brows go down.

“I’m not being funny, mate ,” I bite out to needle him.

He points a finger at me, obviously put out. “I asked you to stop making cupcakes, and you continue to litter them everywhere. It is direct insubordination, Miss Whitt.”

“First of all, the guests love the cupcakes,” I retort with a scoff. “Since I walked into this castle, you have disliked me and made that very clear. I’ve done nothing but my job and tried to be nice to you. I was not drinking at all, and I have not made any cupcakes today.” I wave a hand when his gaze flicks to the counter next to us, where a glass platter of untouched cupcakes sits. “Those are yesterday’s.”

He arches a brow, and I squirm under his scrutiny because we both know I haven’t been nice all the time. I’ve told him to go fuck himself more than a couple of times now, after all.

“Fine,” I sigh out. “I will admit, at first I kept making them just to annoy you.” My breath leaves me the next instant when he enters my space, sucking all the air from my lungs.

“Of course you did.” His voice turns rumbly and deep when his arms snake around my sides as he grabs the counter behind me. “Did you enjoy that?”

“Let me go,” I whisper, unsure of what’s happening, but my body seems to love it.

“No, I’m not sure I will,” he says while smirking, holding me easily.

It’s the smirk. He is trying my very last nerve. My feet hurt and I just want to sleep, but he thinks this is funny? And he is still in my space . I lose my temper.

“You’re damn right I enjoyed it! You have been nothing but rude, condescending, and have questioned my character since I walked through the door. You deserve the cupcakes,” I growl, my face inches from his. “I hope you?—”

“Why do you smell like this?” He groans, and I go still at the question, tensing when his hot breath touches my neck as he sniffs lightly at my ear.

He says it as if I smell weird, and suddenly I’m locked in the strangest conversation I’ve ever had in my life. Do I stink? I have to stop myself from sniffing the air.

“What do I smell like?” I blurt when his nose touches my earlobe and sends chills down my spine, making my nipples go hard.

His arms fall away from either side of me as he takes a step back, looking down at me with an odd expression crossing his features.

“What?” I ask again, when he doesn’t respond.

His eyes bounce over my face, and he wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“Ugh I have had it with you. You are seriously the biggest dick I have ever met.”

He laughs at that, and when I open my mouth to tell him exactly what I think, the jerk kisses me.

He kisses me... and I melt like the basic bitch I am. My knees go weak and my heart thunders in my ears. Oh my god, I haven’t been touched in so long—not like this.

He growls low and the sound sends shivers down my spine. My eyes are still open and his are a furious deep-cobalt blue.

He pulls away and one corner of his mouth comes up.

My palm flies up unconsciously, and I slap him right across his lightly bearded face.

Shock colors his expression, and his eyes widen even more when I reach up and yank the lapels of his suit, pulling him back to me. My lips open under his as I kiss him, this time with my eyes squeezed closed while I imagine he is mute. I fist the expensive fabric tighter to pull him closer, my nose full of warm, hot man.

Holy shit, he smells so good.

Strong hands clamp around to the small of my back before one lowers, gripping my ass firmly and causing my body to light up with shivers that race along my spine. An involuntary moan climbs my throat.

If he can do this with a kiss, I am way in over my head.

The slight scrape of his short beard and one low groan from him causes wetness to pool between my thighs. Oh no.

His smooth bottom lip presses against mine just right, halting my breath in my throat, and suddenly it’s as if there’s cord of desire looped between my nipples and snatch that he just yanked like a church bell. My thoughts skid to a stop. Oh my god, I want Mr. O’Doyle to fuck me—then again, it’s not like this is the first time this stupid thought has struck me.

“Dammit.” I pull away, my chest heaving as we stare at each other.

He looks even angrier than before, yet his brows furrow as if he doesn’t understand what just happened between us either. I wipe my mouth with a sleeve and his gaze goes dark.

“I assume we need no discussion on why this never happened,” he says, straightening his suit jacket, then he frowns down at me as if I’ve been kissing myself for the last five minutes.

Humiliation strums in my middle, and my stomach swirls with nausea from not eating. I should’ve eaten hours ago. And what am I doing arguing with this asshole and letting him kiss me? For weeks he’s been acting like I pissed in his cornflakes, and I have zero clue why.

My brow furrows with self-contempt, and I mentally berate myself for ever letting him near me and not slapping him with a sauce pan the first chance I got.

“Get out of my kitchen!”

My stomach churns and my hands shake with the need to distract myself, so I start collecting dishes from the counter and putting them into the sink. Why did I let him touch me? The hush of water sprays from the faucet, and I am still so acutely aware of him I hear his throat clear over the noise.

I look over my shoulder to find him leaning back against the bare wall on the opposite side of the room.

“I apologize,” he says, like he wasn’t sliding his tongue into my mouth not even a minute ago.

My shoulders go up and back. “For what? Nothing happened, remember?”

“For thinking kissing you would help calm you down just a tad. You need a good shag, and sorry to burst your bubble, but I am not the one to give it to you.” He winks and presses a spot on the wall, a wide grin on his face. The fireplace moves—because of course it does.

He’s the one who started it!

“You bastard .” I pick up the first thing that I can grab and hurl it at him, fuming as pink cupcake explodes on the wall.

“Whatever, see you next Tuesday, crazy woman,” he says, then steps through the opening, and the wall slides back into place as he escapes from the room.

Did he just call me a “C U Next Tuesday?”

“Motherfucker!” I screech at the empty kitchen, madder than I can ever remember.