terrible.
One of the guys at the bar nodded at her as she went past.
Not my type, she thought. Average, if anything, and sloppy drunk. One of the guys had a nacho stain down the front of his shirt and the beginnings of a soft beer belly. Nothing like Jax. There wasn’t anything soft about Jax. At thoughts of him, her body instantly responded, her belly growing warm. Damn, Jax! Once in the bathroom, her phone pinged an incoming text. She realized it was her work phone.
They had a big client’s campaign launching this week, and everyone on her team was pretty much “on call” for possible problems. Jenna, the graphic designer, might be called on to log in at ten, fix a graphic or make a last-minute change. She shouldn’t even be out drinking. She’d told herself she’d just have one drink—two at most—but her willpower dissolved somewhere around the end of the second round, probably because the more she talked about Jax, the more she wanted to drink.
She hoped the text wasn’t work-related.
But when she glanced at the face of the phone, she saw it wasn’t work texting at all.
Jax’s name lit up the face of the phone, along with his two messages. Jenna hurried into the nearest stall, her heart racing, as if she worried Maddie would burst in any second and catch her reading them.
Baby, I’m sorry.
I miss u.
Jenna blinked and looked away from her phone. He had some nerve texting her work phone. She’d told him dozens of times not to do it, that she might get in trouble, but Jax wasn’t the type to care about company rules—or any rules, for that matter.
Still, seeing Jax’s name on her phone made her heart soar, which her brain knew was all wrong. She shouldn’t feel glad he texted. She should ignore him. She deleted all the texts in a fit of rage.
Then, she wished she hadn’t.
Did he really miss her?
God, why do you care?! That vicious voice of reason screamed in her head. Of course he misses you; his Tinder hookup must’ve fallen through!
Jenna started typing a text message. She’d tell him. But, she’d tell him to his face! She’d stormed out of his apartment yesterday and hadn’t been back since. She had a whole lot to tell him.
We need 2 talk.
She hit Send and waited. She swayed on her feet. Then, a Sam Smith song, one that Jax had sung to her as he undressed her just last weekend, piped in over the bathroom speakers. She remembered her zipper in his teeth as he tried to sing, and felt shivers down her spine. The alcohol made her feel fuzzy and adrift: why was she so mad at Jax? What she wanted was to get naked with him. Drunk, it sounded fine. One more hookup. What could it hurt? Like a farewell tour? Maybe that’s what she needed to get him out of her system for good. Just one more sleepover.
She knew she was in a bad place—one minute, she wanted to shout at Jax and the next, she wanted to strip. Jenna needed to get her emotions straight.
One more hookup. Maybe that’s what she needed.
She couldn’t tell Maddie, or she’d talk her out of it. She’d never have to know!
I know you want me. You should want me. I’m the best you’ll ever have.
She sent the text and giggled. She slipped into the role of sex pop star goddess easily: it was something she and Jax did.
She waited, staring at her screen, which seemed to be a wiggly, blurry mess. Why was her phone so blurry? Oh, right. I’m drunk. She wanted to giggle, but instead, she put out a hand against the stall door to steady herself. She blinked once more to focus and found a message popped up in answer:
When? Where?
Good. Jax was playing along.
My place. Tonight.
* * *
Jack Kearney had never done anything so crazy before. Met a girl at nearly midnight on a Tuesday? And not just any lass, one who worked for him.
Jenna Cho.
He’d never in a million years expected her to text him, but here she had. I know you want me. You should want me. I’m the best you’ll ever have.
There wasn’t anything hotter than a confident girl who knew exactly what she wanted. Jack was hooked the second the text came in.
Jack locked the back door of his sleek town home in Old Town, as he trotted out the small yard and to his waiting parking space in the back alley, wishing he could teleport himself over to Jenna’s place and not even bother with the car. Jack was used to female attention. His wicked smile and lean, athletic physique had gotten him more than kisses in alleyways and bars across Dublin, where he’d grown up—a streak that had continued when he’d jumped the pond to Chicago two years ago. He’d been propositioned before, but never in the middle of the night. Even at Hue, he’d had to politely turn down advances from nearly every department. He never used to mix business and pleasure, but Jenna was different.
My place. Tonight.
The thought sent a thrill through him. He hated that he was so excited about the prospect. He should’ve ignored the texts. She’d been drinking. It was probably a mistake, and yet... he had to know for sure.
Jack had been drawn to Jenna the minute they’d met. He had a string of blonde and red-headed freckled beauties back in Ireland he’d loved and left, but Jenna was different. It wasn’t just that she was dark-haired and gorgeous. She always seemed so out-of-reach, so completely immune to his charms. He’d tried, against all his better judgment, and yet, she remained completely and totally aloof, maddeningly professional.
And then, out of the clear blue, this.
“Yer gonna lose yer job,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head at his own foolishness, as he opened the garage door, revealing his sleek, freshly washed BMW. Not that he was particularly married to this job or even really planned to keep it much longer, he reminded himself. Still, he should’ve ignored that text. It wasn’t like he was going to take advantage of a drunk lass. One who could get ye fired, or sued, or worse! His ma had raised him better than that. Old Mrs. Kearney would not approve, and she’d berate him to no end. And if she didn’t, one of his four sisters would have something to say about it. Growing up the only boy in a houseful of women taught him a few things about respecting ladies. But, he had to know. Did she secretly feel the same way about him? He’d been soft on her for months. She’d gotten under his skin like a bad rash.
“Yer bein’ an arse,” he mumbled to himself, but that still didn’t stop him from sliding into the front seat of his Beamer and starting the engine. And if he ran over there and slept with her? Then what? Most American girls he’d met weren’t ready for a relationship. Sure, they’d muck about for a while, but when it came to serious talks about exclusivity, they’d all go pale and start blubbering about not being ready to settle down. Somewhere, between Ireland and here, the roles had been all switched around. He didn’t quite understand it.
In Ireland, he’d been an unapologetic serial monogamist. He craved
