A Very Bossy Christmas - Kayley Loring Page 0,71

every Irish guy, for that matter. I would laugh in Colin Firth’s face if I ever meet him, but if I cross paths with Colin Farrell, I’d probably burst into tears, start quoting In Bruges, and try to make out with him or something.

Billy switches the Top 40 radio music to a hip hop station and cranks up the volume before shaking up a bottle of champagne and popping the cork, spraying bubbly everywhere like an asshole.

I don’t even finish the whole can of Guinness before Nolan silently exchanges it for another full one. I know this trick. It’s harder to keep track of how much I’ve had this way. Not falling for it. Not this time.

I type out another text to Maddie because I remember something really important that I wanted to tell her, and then hit Send before Billy comes over to hassle all four of us brothers for texting our women when we should be partying.

“Whatta yiz doin’ ovah heah? This a bachelah pawty or a fuckin’ pussy convention?”

I send Maddie one more impassioned text before slipping my phone back into my coat pocket as Nolan sits down between me and Brady, flicking at his scruffy face and staring me down like an Irish gangster.

“You’re here to have fun, are you not?” he calmly asks.

“To a degree,” I say. Holding my ground. “We’re gonna pace ourselves. I promised my ma and my sister I’d keep my brothers out of trouble. You wouldn’t want to upset my ma and my sister now, would you?”

He grins and pulls a flask out of the pocket of his leather jacket. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint your Irish ancestors, now would you?”

Some sober voice in my head starts reciting every single thing I should be saying on the phone to Maddie right now, but I can’t quite hear it over the din of my drunk Irish ancestors taunting me.

“Forgive me, Cooper,” I whisper into the flask as I slowly bring it to my lips.

Thirty-Four

Maddie

SHOULD OLD ASSISTANTS BE FORGOT

Well, I gotta hand it to Declan—no one has ever given me a more useful Christmas present in my life. I only allowed myself one glass of wine at my sister’s place yesterday because I didn’t want to risk getting all maudlin and drunk-texting him after so emphatically telling him not to text me when I left the office. But instead of waking up with a hangover this morning, I have bruised fists.

Worth it. I got out a lot of aggression with that punching bag. But I had to remove the picture of him that I’d taped to it, because it just made me sad, and I didn’t even want to pretend to mess up that annoyingly handsome face.

First he’s got me overworking my erotic massage tool, and now I’m abusing the punching bag.

Okay, I may have also abused the erotic massage tool last night. And again this morning. Because not having a job is stressful. I emailed a headhunter shortly after I got up, to let her know that I’m looking for a new position, and she called me back immediately to discuss my options. She didn’t even ask why I was leaving my current position—I suppose because she has already found jobs for numerous other former executive assistants who have had the misfortune of working for Declan Cannavale.

I went out to run some errands when I knew Mrs. Pavlovsky would be in her apartment eating lunch, because I didn’t want to risk seeing her disappointed face. Declan had come by the building yesterday, and I wouldn’t let him in. She came by my door to ask if she could let him in. When I asked her not to, she was only slightly less dramatic than the heroine of every film I’ve ever seen that’s based on a Russian novel. Now that I’ve returned and put the groceries away, I casually check my phone to see if the recruiter or anyone else has contacted me.

There are a bunch of texts from Declan and a couple of voice mail messages, and I am so mad at my stupid heart for racing as soon as I see the notifications. I’m so furious with my idiot stomach butterflies for taking flight as I open up the texts.

DECLAN: Hi. I know you said not to bother texting you, and even though you are the boss of me, I have never been good at letting someone else have the last word. There is one thing and one thing only