He glances at his watch, then chugs the coffee. With one swift motion, he pulls off his shirt and throws it onto the barstool, leaving him standing in just his low-hanging sweatpants.
I cough to stifle the choking noise in my throat and try to avert my gaze.
The guy has a massive cock. I just know. That distinctive V can’t be pointing at a tiny penis. What would be the point?
Except I can’t avert my gaze because I’m a warm-blooded woman and wild Irish horses couldn’t force my eyes away right now.
Stiff Killian Quinn has a chest tattoo. A gray, sexy Celtic chest tattoo.
My ovaries come alive like beacons sending out an SOS. My blood is very fucking hot.
I can’t… I just can’t leave it alone. “You have a tattoo. I thought…”
He releases a long breath. “If my daughter sees an attractive young woman with tattoos, I’ll be nagged for the next two years about why she can’t get any.”
Attractive young woman. My throat goes dry. “Oh.”
“I’m going for a run now. See you in forty-five.”
I nod robotically. Great idea. Get out, man, get out!
“Did you forget something?” He looks straight at me as he stretches his muscular arm above his head, providing me with a full view of his armpit hair. He alternates his arms, flexing each in turn. Now, that’s what a real man’s armpit looks like.
Yup, Aunt Flo is in control.
I blink, confused at the question being fired at me and the show in front of me. Are they related? “Umm….”
His hands come down onto his hips. “You need to check with me every morning if there are additional tasks to carry out.”
“Oh!” Shit. Mrs. Dalton had put that in bold. “Sorry, of course. Are there any today?”
He frowns. “I need my tux dry-cleaned before the gala. Talk to my PA about getting two extra tickets.” He pauses. “Oh, and check with security to see if Stephen’s coming today. Make sure you’re available if he needs you.”
My eyes widen. Gala? When? Stephen, who are you, and what do you need from me?
I open my mouth, then close it when I realize his instructions aren’t open for clarification. Thank God for Mrs. Dalton’s attention to detail. “Sure.”
Fixing his earbuds in his ears, Quinn stalks out of the kitchen, and I let out a strangled moan of relief. It’s barely past five o’clock, and my nerves are shot.
I just realized the guy didn’t smile. Not once.
This is bloody exhausting. How did Jane Eyre do it?
***
True to the manual, Quinn returns from his run at five forty-five, and by some miracle, I have his high-protein breakfast of poached eggs, broccoli, and whole wheat toast ready. The man eats broccoli before six o’clock while the rest of us struggle to get our five a day.
I’m greeted by a freshly showered, suited Quinn wearing dark blue trousers and a white shirt, holding a laptop in one hand and a tie in the other. His hair is wet and tousled.
Damn.
“Hey.” He takes a seat beside the island, discarding the tie on the counter.
“Hey,” I echo softly. “Good run?”
He glances up briefly before opening his laptop. “Yeah.” That’s the end of that.
I hold my breath as he swallows the first few bites of breakfast, waiting for him to chastise me.
After a moment, he gruffly nods in my direction. “It’s different from Mrs. Dalton’s.”
That’s the closest I’ll get to a compliment. I release my breath. Thank fuck. I knew I made good eggs.
He tucks into breakfast as he types. He pops earbuds into his ears, informing me our conversation has finished. Maybe he’s doing critical billionaire things. Or maybe he’s just an asshole.
I turn to load the dishwasher.
“Oliver,” he growls loudly behind me, making me jump. “Where are we with the tender docs for the Vegas site?”
Six o’clock on a Monday morning, and the guy is talking shop already.
He barks demands behind me to Oliver as I fill the dishwasher as quietly as possible.
When I turn to collect his dirty plate, his gaze fixates on my lower half with a deep frown.
He is definitely checking out my butt.
I have a large ass for my size. I’d be adored if I were a female baboon. I’ve been told it’s decent. It’s not supermodel bootylicious, but it’s round and full, and I’ve had no complaints.
When his eyes lift to mine, he glares at me like I’m the one in the wrong.
I turn back to the dishwasher, clenching my butt cheeks.
I wish he would leave so I could breathe properly. This weird tension is stifling.
Behind me, the laptop snaps shut, and he clears his throat. “I’m going to work now, so I won’t be here to introduce you to Teagan.” He pauses as I turn to face him.
“She’s expecting you,” he adds in a softer tone, suggesting that he’s aware he’s an asshole for not staying for the introductions. “I go to work early so I can get home to have dinner with her. Make sure she finishes all her homework. And keep her off her damn phone.”
He doesn’t wait for my response. I watch him stride off, tie hanging undone around his neck, leaving me alone in the kitchen. A stranger moves in, and he can’t rearrange his schedule for one morning to introduce his daughter?
***
My pulse quickens when I hear footsteps in the kitchen. I’m nervous about meeting his daughter. Turning thirteen is that weird age when crushes, puberty, and hating the world all collide to create an emotional roller coaster of angst.