3. Connor O’Doyle

Chapter 3

Connor O’Doyle

Sweet dreams are made of these.

Breasts bounce and sway above me, the beautiful swaying flesh of a woman with dark hair flying behind her.

I thrust my cock deeper inside of the temptress, going along for the ride while the question of how I got into this situation niggles at my brain. I ignore the thought when she slides down on my dick the next moment, moaning with pleasure. Large berry-colored nipples beg for my attention, jumping in front of me and making me groan in ecstasy. I pull one into my mouth, eliciting a cry from my lover as her body quakes and shudders above me. She’s close.

Thick thighs seize around me the next instant when I angle my cock to rub her center, forcing my head against her G-spot. Once more and she comes undone. She tilts her head to look at me, and I finally get a clear look at the woman’s face.

Horror washes over me the next instant as she smiles wickedly, and her tight cunt squeezes my cock. No no no!

“Where were you?” Her mouth moves weirdly, her voice coming out strange and high-pitched. What the fuck ? “Where were you?” she asks again, working down on my dick.

One more tight plunge inside her and I lose all sense.

I come awake, gasping for breath with panic thundering in my chest. What the hell?

Minutes later, I step out of the shower, calm just out of reach because my subconscious has ruined my day. I just had a wet dream about a woman who sends revulsion rolling through me. The images of Whitley undone and quaking on my cock replay in my mind, making me stiffen once more.

“Bollocks.”

What the hell is happening? I fucked two women just a month ago, but I can’t even recall either of their faces. Not with her stench permeating the castle. I thought the smell was some trick two weeks ago, since I could practically see the pheromones coming off her in waves. Now, her scent is different, softer somehow, but the need is still there, as strong as ever. Fuck.

My overall annoyance increases when I reach my closet and see it in disarray. I will need to move finding a suitable cleaning crew for the supernatural up my to-do list, but I can almost hear Vlad whining at the suggestion.

I wrap a towel around my waist as I fume and take in the rest of the room. My gaze travels over the ornate headboard of my bed, the leather ottoman that I paid a ransom for, and the walls that are painted a deep navy, offsetting the cream-colored ceiling and carpet. A drawer still sits open on the large dresser, the same one I left open when I made the mad dash to grab my shit before hurrying to save Vlad from the vet clinic. My lips curl up into a small smile at the memory as I close it, only to turn down once again at the sounds of someone speaking in the hallway.

The entire wing should be vacant except for this suite.

Laughter echoes and I immediately recognize that annoying voice. I shuffle toward the door while gripping the edge of my towel. What in the fuck is she doing in this wing?

Swinging my door wide, I stomp toward her, and I get a little thrill at the gasp she emits. Whitley drops her phone to her side as her amber eyes go wide. My nostrils flare when she blinks, before her gaze levels to my waist and her jaw drops. The last thing I need is this woman staring at my dick.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I growl.

Her gaze hardens as she clamps her mouth shut, making my cock jump to attention. This was a mistake.

“Why are you not in the kitchen?” I ask, wishing I had put on clothing.

Her jaw drops again.

“Are you trying to catch flies with that thing or what?” I gesture at her mouth, waiting for her to explode.

“I swear, you are the biggest asshole I have ever met,” Whitley bites out.

“Yes. We’ve established what you think.”

I shake my head, then turn on my heel. I need to get dressed before she notices the predicament that’s currently unfolding under my towel.

“I’m just the biggest asshole ever,” I say, tossing the words over my shoulder in the best feminine voice I can muster. Laughter pulls at the corners of my eyes at the outrage darkening her features. “You need new lines, sweet cheeks.”

“Don’t call me that, you misogynistic asshat.”

I chuckle, feeling her irate gaze burning into my back. “Oooh, better. I like it.”

“Fuck you.” Her voice is harsh and bitter, but it’s the challenge in her tone that has me stopping in my tracks.

It trails up my spine, echoing at the base of my skull.

Decision made, I stride back to her, enjoying how her eyes widen the closer I get, the determined look on her face falling to uncertainty. My nostrils flare again, and I can practically smell the dislike on her. Her god-awful scent is full of spice and sweet.

I push into her space, enjoying the way she tries to stare me down.

“Fuck you back,” I sneer.

I want to take the words back when her eyes dilate, and that same telltale scent between her legs increases and fills the air.

Her expression turns uncertain as I give up trying to stop my body’s response to her. The fact that Whitley, the only woman I have ever disliked on sight, is now making my dick hard means someone somewhere is taking the piss. It’s the only explanation.

“I . . .” she starts, her eyelashes blinking rapidly.

My cock aches as I glare, wondering what madness has claimed me that I would react this way to her. How is she doing this to me?

I curse my dreams from the night before. Jekyll’s concoction can’t arrive soon enough.

I drop all pretenses and step back. “What are you doing in my wing, Whitley?”

“Your wing?” she scoffs, looking pointedly back in the direction she came from. Her eyes brighten when they land back on me, and a sense of warning niggles in the back of my mind when her lips lift into a slow smile. “I live here.”

“Are you daft?” I ask her.

“Oh yeah, buddy.” She cocks her hip, and a look of pure hatred twists her face. “I would suggest, O’Doyle Rules , that you have a talk with your favorite hotel manager. He can fill you in on current events and what happened while you were away.”

“Do not call me that.”

I bristle at the way she thinks she can tell me what to do. Just who the hell does she think she is? From the very start of her tenure here she has tried to boss me around and I have had enough.

It’s also ridiculous that Allan would let her stay in this area. He was directed that no one is allowed in the north or the east wings, mine and Vlad’s apartments. But it is odd that she’s been moved here—to my wing of all places. She probably suggested it just to get under my skin because she was born to irritate me.

“If it’s important I’m sure he will take it upon himself to tell me what happened. Do you not have anything better to do than cause gossip, Miss Whitt?”

Red blooms in her cheeks and satisfaction rolls over me for a brief second until her expression changes. A strange fake smile that says she’s trying too hard.

“I’m so sorry. I’m only trying to help.” She flutters her eyelashes at me, acting all coy. “I am on my way to the kitchen. Can I get you anything?”

The woman is a terror. She smiles so sweetly, but I can sense the rage and feel the hate coming off her.

“I only want to provide the best service I can while I’m here,” she continues.

Her tongue peeks out, slashing at her pouty red lips as she pushes a stray hair behind her delicate ear. Damn her, it makes my pulse quicken.

My brow furrows because the words are sincere and send lust tripping down my spine. Bloody hell. I may need to find a willing woman soon if this is the effect she is having on me because there is no way she meant those words how they sounded—at least not how they sounded to my dick.

“Fine. That’s good,” I grate out. “Do you know where the maids are this morning?”

I might as well use her for information since she’s wasting my time.

Snorting, she puts her phone in her back pocket and folds her uniform over her arm, a determined glint in her eye. Her hair pulled back makes her look severe and professional, unlike the night before with her dark tresses cascading around her, and her cocoa-soaked shirt clinging to her skin.

“Maria, the head maid, will be wherever Anton is—most likely in a broom closet somewhere,” she murmurs, before sighing and turning away. “Good luck, Mr. O’Doyle. You’re going to need it.”

She saunters down the hall, pulling on her chef’s jacket as she walks.

What the hell happened in the last two weeks?

Whitley Whitt

“He said what?” George asks, his white-haired head tipping back. He pops a grape into his waiting mouth as he reclines at the large table in the dining room where I’m currently serving breakfast.

I laugh at the expression on Fifi’s furry face, his tail wiggling for a treat as he gets jealous of George’s snack. He smiles and reaches for Fifi’s breakfast, a small plate of chicken and brown rice and sets it on the ground under the table at his feet for the dog to eat.

“Allan said there is going to be an important dinner in a couple weeks,” I say, a repeat of what Allan told me yesterday as I top off his orange juice before putting his omelet in front of him.

I glance at George, wondering why his brows are pulled in a frown. George never frowns.

“Don’t you know anything about it?”

“Me? Why would I know about anything?” he asks, popping a forkful of egg into his mouth.

I smile at how his eyes flutter closed.

“Mmhm, sure,” I say with a laugh.

George seems to always know what’s happening before anyone else. I may have only been here a couple of weeks, but it’s true. He definitely knows more than he’s letting on, but I’m not fazed. As long as Mr. O’Doyle stays out of the kitchen, I couldn’t care less.

A bird landing on the windowsill catches my attention, its singing muffled by the thick glass.

“No, honest, I don’t know anything—yet, that is.” He winks, his fork clattering to his plate as the bird grabs his attention too. “My goodness its windy out there today.”

“Yeah, it is,” I agree, watching the tall trees at the edge of the garden dip with the wind. “I bet I’ll need a jacket on my walk this afternoon.”

George sips at his coffee as I kill time, enjoying the quiet morning while waiting on Maria to get back from straightening George’s room. I don’t even have to guess what’s taking her so long—I know what it’s like to be young and in love. Besides, it just means the dining room is a bit quieter than usual. Of course, with the castle only having two to three guests at a time, it makes it a really easy place to work, except for the amount of cleaning. The kitchen alone is a lot to clean, but the massive dining room is ridiculous. It took Maria four hours to clean the chandelier last week, bless her.

“When do you think Vlad will be back, George?” I ask as he types away on his phone.

Connor O’Doyle can be a pain in the ass if he wants to, but Mr. Tepesh will surely set things to rights when he returns—if I can ever have a talk with him.

“I don’t know. He and Aubrey are in Greece on vacation, but I can ask her.” What George tells me is nothing new.

After Mr. Tepesh and Connor left, one catastrophe after the other happened, including the bathroom water leak. Luckily only my room was affected, but it took ages for one of the workers to find the right shut-off valve for the servants’ quarters. Lucky, because if it hadn’t caused the ceiling leak over my bed, I’m not sure how long it would have been before someone noticed. The castle needs some major repairs, and although some work has been done, I don’t think anyone has taken ongoing care of it. Most of the gothic structure is beautiful, but the servants’ rooms are, sadly, in disrepair.

George raises his head and gives me a pointed look. “Have you talked to Connor yet?”

“We spoke,” I say, wiping at a nonexistent speck on a nearby table and making my way toward the kitchen door to escape.

“Oh? And what did he have to say?” He wiggles his eyebrows for effect and scoots closer. “Tell me or I will just go ask him, and the way you tell it is so much better, so spill.”

I groan.

“Pleeeease, Whitley?” He pouts and I know he isn’t going to let it go until I tell him something. “I haven’t had any juicy gossip in ages .”

With Aubrey and Vlad gone, George tries to visit me at least once a day now, and the poor man lives for gossip. If he knew about our conversation earlier this morning while Connor was wearing only a towel, he would start trying to plan the wedding.

I roll my eyes and grab the large linen napkin and unfurl it, then throw it over my arm like Connor does. That silly cloth he’s always holding, along with his phone in his hand. I scrunch my brows together and purse my lips to look disgruntled and throw a finger under my nose to act as a mustache.

“Miss Whitt, you are but a low servant, and I have no intentions of telling you anything. Why don’t you make like a tree and fuck off ,” I say in my best male voice.

George gasps and brings his hand up to his chest over his striped button-up shirt. “ No , he did not say that.”

“He did.” I drop the napkin back onto the table and prop my hand on my hip. “Almost verbatim. You know, I think he’s actually worse than Allan.”

He gapes and pivots in his chair to face me. “That can’t be right—Connor has only ever been nice to everyone. I don’t know why you two argue so much.”

“I assure you, George, he hates my guts.”

The older man’s brows scrunch across his forehead, before his wrinkled face smooths into a wry smile. “You know what they say about love and hate. He will come around.”

I snicker. “Whatever matchmaking you are planning between me and Mr. O’Doyle can stop, because I’ll tell you now, it’s not happening.”

George chortles loudly and Fifi hops up onto his lap, his breakfast demolished, and the plate licked clean. Wriggling happily, he tries to see what his master is excited about, and George tucks Fifi to his chest, rubbing his soft blond belly lightly.

“Any more news on your bakery?”

I huff out a sigh. “No.”

After the divorce, it took me a while to decide what I wanted, but when my grandma’s old bakery came up for sale six months ago, I started saving up to buy it. It has an old apartment above it and will be perfect for me. Two more months and I’ll have the down payment and enough funds to get everything else I need to start it back up. It will be a lot of work on my own, but I think after a year or two I can hire someone to help.

“Oh, pooh. Do you want me to have a look at it? Maybe run it by Felix? He’s pretty good with numbers.”

“How is he doing?” I ask, taking the focus off me and the bakery. I know George means well, but this is something I need to do by myself, and even though I’m sure his ex-husband knows his stuff, it’s my responsibility.

“He’s good. I think he’s going to get to retire soon.” His face flushes and a smile pulls at his cheeks.

My gaze softens. “That’ll be so nice.”

“Mmhm. Now you don’t let Mr. O’Doyle get to you. I don’t know what has gotten into him. If you would let me just talk to him... ” George’s smile turns to a scowl, and it somehow makes him look cuter.

I shake my head, putting a hand up to stop him before he gets any other ideas about talking to Connor on my behalf.

“No, George. I’ve got it handled.” Vlad is the one cutting the checks, not Mr. O’Doyle, so it really doesn’t matter at all. I have a job to do, and as soon as these two months are over, I will tell Connor exactly what he can do with himself. Until then, I will be on my best behavior.

“Okay, let me know if you change your mind.” He chuckles.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I murmur, and move to grab Fifi’s empty saucer and place it on a food tray.

“I’ll be back later to get Fifi’s treats before we head out,” he says with a wave of his hand.

“Sounds good.

I walk George out, holding the door for him and Fifi, and turn back to the huge table covered in a long burgundy-colored tablecloth. The dining room is massive, with a large lancet window on the main wall, a huge mirror on one side wall and an art painting of a bowl of fruit on the other. Rich people are so weird.

Wind whistles through a small gap somewhere in the window frame, and I walk to it, gripping the stone encasing the glass. Eesh, these things are so huge—if it was open, I could almost fall out of it. I stare out at the courtyard and the big hedge maze beyond; spring is in the air and a lot of the greenery is starting to bloom.

“God, this place really does look like something out of a fairytale.”

“Yes. That’s what I was coming to see you about actually.” Allan’s weaselly voice accosts my ears, almost making me jump. The nasally tone has me wanting to cringe in disgust, but I paste a smile on my face instead and turn around, brushing the dust from my white uniform.

“Oh? What is it you need, Allan?”

He stands just inside the dining room, lip curled in disdain, and his greasy black hair slicked down on either side of his head.

“I just spoke with Mr. O’Doyle, and we require your assistance,” he says, while glaring down at the clipboard in his hand.

“My assistance with what?”

Why do they want to add to my responsibilities on top of ordering all the food, preparing meals, serving the guests, and cleaning? Light glistens off his glossy black head and I openly stare at the part above his forehead, a precise razor-sharp edge.

“The castle will be hosting a gala, a fairytale-themed one apparently, and the menu will be changed for the event,” Allan says, in that same nasally tone, his nose in the air as he obviously attempts to make himself appear taller. If he weren’t so short, he could easily double as Thin Man from Charlie’s Angel’s, which is fitting considering it matches his personality.

A villainous haircut for the self-important ass with a small-man complex.

“Of course. Do you have the new menu with you?” I ask, mentally going through the options of suppliers if it has changed overly much. I will need to outsource for ingredients. Hopefully it’s not a crazy menu or I’ll need to get on that now.

He hands me a sheet of paper and my brow pinches as I look down at it. The menu has more than quadrupled.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Does it look like I do something as asinine as joking, Miss Whitt?” The man’s nose flares and his chest spreads as he sucks in a breath. Eesh, this guy is so weird. “All the staff will need to be present for new uniform fittings and a choreography schedule will be provided.”

What? My head goes up at that. “Choreography? You mean like dancing?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I mean, Miss Whitt,” Allan says, his lip curled as he tries to stare me down from his short height.

Why would we need to dance at all? What the hell is going on?

“Umm, where is Connor?” I ask in my sweetest tone. No one ever said anything about dancing on the job description.

The short man’s brows come together, and the thin slash of his mustache twitches. “Mr. O’Doyle is very busy and has entrusted me to oversee these new changes. You will follow my edict.” His tone says, I’m mister big man, hear me roar . He’s all arrogance, and my hands form into fists at my side.

There is no way I am letting this guy talk down to me. I know what I signed on for and this is not it. I grit my teeth, trying not to explode.

“I’m very sorry if I have said something to offend you, Allan. I guess I’m a little stressed: the new living arrangements have been hard to adjust to. However, I am afraid I will need a meeting with O’Doyle myself on this one.”

“And I am very sorry about that, Miss Whitt, but Mr. O’Doyle is very adamant that he is not to be disturbed.” He goes back to frowning at his clipboard and page flipping.

It makes me want to take it and smack him with it.

“What do you mean he’s not to be disturbed?” I ask.

“It is not your place to question him, or me, Miss Whitt, and honestly, it is rude of you to even ask. I suggest you spend your time seeing to the guests and the kitchen instead of wondering when more help will arrive.”

What is with the men around here? I feel like I’ve stepped into a past century.

I resist the urge to scream and move to fill a nearby tray with George and Fifi’s leftovers—anything to keep me from attacking this man.

“There will be new renovations beginning in the following months as well,” he says, like this it’s the most important thing to have happened since the dawn of time.

“New renovations?”

He nods and clears his throat. “Yes. Mr. O’Doyle has several new additions and renovations he wants done, including the fixes to the plumbing.”

“You mean renovations so that guests aren’t drenched in their sleep?” I retort, laying it on thick since he knows my bed was literally ruined. Waking up in the middle of the night drenched, with water splashing on my forehead, was not on my bingo card this year.

With Connor missing, a plumber from the village came to the castle, and from what I heard, he said the bathrooms on the third floor would need repair. I wonder if Connor knows how much damage was done.

“Yes.” He nods once for emphasis.

I give him the side eye and drop a napkin onto the tray. “You didn’t tell him you moved me to his wing, did you?”

The manager blinks like a confused owl. “I don’t see how that’s your concern, Miss Whitt.”

Sure, it isn’t.

“Right, of course. Is there anything else Mr. O’Doyle requires?” I ask, wishing he would just go away.

He takes another look at his clipboard, his mustache pulling down over his mouth as he presses his lips together. “You will attend all dinners dressed in costume and attend to guests’ needs as such until the dinner has concluded.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” Costumes? What happened to the uniforms? O’Doyle Rules has lost it. “You can tell Mr. O’Doyle thank you for the offer, but I must decline.”

I bat my eyelashes for effect and move toward the kitchen. There is no way I am dressing up for whatever over-the-top event Connor has planned.

“I am afraid that is impossible,” he calls out, but I keep walking.

We will just see about that.