Page 4 of Daring Wicked Love (Wicked Dade #2)

My first week of unemployment was spent doing three things.

First, dodging calls from my sister, because I honestly would rather swallow a lump of hot coal than tell her that I lost my job.

She’d say she understood in the tone that meant the exact opposite of her actual words, and eventually, I’d let the guilt-infused monster take over me and agree to give her all the money from my savings.

Secondly, reading an unhealthy amount of cowboy smut. I mean an unhealthy amount, but fuck it. A girl needs to distract herself one way or another, and what better way than fantasizing about an older, rough-around-the-edges cowboy taking me for a ride?

Cowboy hat and all, yeehaw.

And finally, the most heartbreaking and humbling thing of all, presenting my portfolio to every art gallery in the city.

It turned out I’d have better luck turning water into freaking wine than getting one gallery to take a chance on me.

The owners looked at me as if I were something stuck to the bottom of their designer shoes.

Showing up without an appointment was pushing boundaries, especially when I rocked in with my thrift shop blouse that no matter how many times I washed it, the mustard stain refused to budge from the collar.

But I was fed up with being ignored or getting a generic email back stating they did not work with unestablished artists.

I wasn’t an egotistical person, far from it, but I knew my paintings were good.

No, fuck that — they were better than good.

I just needed someone to see that and take a chance on me, one chance to prove I was worth the risk.

Standing inside yet another gallery, attempting to balance the torso-wide folder and a cup of over-priced coffee that my bank balance wouldn’t thank me for, I kept the smile plastered on my face despite the unkind look from the receptionist.

Just breathe.

“Hi.” I beamed, walking to the front desk. “I was hoping to be able to talk to someone about the possibility of showcasing my art in the gallery.”

“You can’t bring coffee in here.”

“Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.” I placed the cup on his desk. “I’ll set it here, that way it won’t spill.”

The receptionist rolled his eyes, not subtly, as he typed something into his computer.

My molars crunched together behind my smile. “So, about my art…”

“You’d need to speak to the owner about your art.”

I peered around the empty open space. “Is she around?

“Do you have an appointment?” He inspected his fingernails. “Yvonne doesn’t see anyone without an appointment, and she detests unsolicited calls.”

Maybe the ground would do me a favor by opening up and swallowing me whole.

“I see.” I cleared my throat. “In that case, can I book in for the next available appointment?”

“It’s doubtful.”

“I’d appreciate it if you could squeeze me in.”

He pressed a couple keys on his keyboard with a bored expression.

I avoided the temptation to throw my coffee across the desk straight into his face as he yawned dramatically.

Look, buddy, I want to be here talking to you as much as I want to squat on a cactus.

“The next available appointment is January 5 th ,” he said. “There’s a ten-minute slot I could squeeze you in.”

January? That was seven months away!

And a ten-minute slot? He had to be joking. Except I knew it was the furthest thing from a joke.

Flattening my lips into a thin line, I shook my head. “Thanks for your time.”

Outside, my smile slipped away with the droplets of rain falling from the clouds above. My options for money and employment were narrowing, and instead of allowing panic to take a monstrous hold of me, I let the patter of rain soothe my internal storm.

Rain reminded me of being back home in Ireland.

It felt like a lifetime ago that I moved away from the fields of green and warm summer rain.

I left Ireland for many reasons. Wanting to explore the world outside the small emerald island, hoping to be inspired and share my art with more of the world, and most importantly, to be far away from the echoes of my past.

Running away from my past wasn’t the healthiest decision, but hiding away from the pain, isolating myself, was how I learned to deal with my trauma.

There were days when I wanted nothing more than to jump on a plane and go home to the place where my roots were buried, but that part of the world was tainted to me now.

Donegal was too small. It was a difficult thing to forget about the memories of my younger years, when the whole town spent their time looking at me with either pity or disgust after the truth came out about the crimes my father committed and hid for years on end.

My childhood wasn’t something I cared to dwell on for too long. The scars of that time in my life were barely healed almost ten years later, and I feared that even thinking about it for one moment too long would reopen the wounds.

Talking to my sister was as close as I wanted to get to my childhood trauma, thank you very much.

The buzzing of my phone pulled me out of my thoughts.

“You’re going to love me more than you already do,” Callie, my best friend and former roommate, exclaimed when I answered her call. “I will accept your love in the form of vodka and brownies.”

“Oh really? And why is that exactly?”

“Because I have found you a job,” she said.

“And one with a hell of a pay packet attached to it. Seriously, I considered quitting my job and going for it when it came through, but alas, I thought you deserved it more than I did. Consider yourself lucky, because it turns out money does things to me.”

“How very kind of you.” I hailed a cab. “What’s the catch?”

“Nothing major. It’s a rolling contract job, with it starting as a month’s probation and then two years thereafter,” Callie explained. “They are eager to have someone start immediately. All you need to do is go to the interview, knock their socks off, and thank me later.”

“You already got me an interview?”

“Of course I did,” she said. “The second the post popped onto my screen, I submitted your name and only your name.”

Thank my stars for Callie.

The thought had crossed my mind to ask Callie for help in the job department.

She worked at a job agency firm. Although she mainly worked with high-paying roles that required applicants to have a ridiculous level of education and experience, I knew if I asked her, she’d do whatever she could to help.

However, my natural unwillingness to ask for help had gotten in the way.

“They’ve asked if you’re free for an interview today,” Callie said. “I know it’s short notice, but like I said, they are keen to get someone as soon as possible. I’d say it would be too risky not going today, I don’t know what other agencies they put the advert into.”

Jumping into the back of the cab, I flopped back into the seat. “Send me the address and I’ll go now.”

“Perfect, I’ll let them know you’re on your way.” The sound of her keyboard echoed through the speaker. “Ask for Isaac when you arrive, he already has a copy of your resume. Now let me get the address for you.”

I relayed the address to the driver.

Wait a second — that sounded awfully like a home address, not an office building.

“Uh, Callie?” I pushed strands of wet hair from my face. “What exactly is the job?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Here’s the thing,” she laughed nervously, “don’t kill me, but I may have told a couple white lies when I submitted your name. It’s a live-in nanny post, which, according to your slightly edited resume, you have experience in.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Everyone lies on their resume, it’s the status quo,” she said. “Plus, it’s not entirely untruthful. I stated you have several years’ experience nannying a young girl called Niamh back in Ireland.”

“I didn’t nanny her!” I exclaimed. “She’s my sister!”

“And you practically raised her when you were still a child yourself. She wouldn’t be where she is today without you. That has to count for something. Technically, I only bent the truth on your application.”

This was a mistake.

I couldn’t nanny a child. I was barely able to keep my cactus alive, which says a lot because apparently those little bastards were meant to be unkillable.

If it nearly died on me twice, how was I expected to look after an infant?

This was a disaster waiting to happen.

“Callie, I am not equipped with the skills to look after someone’s child full time. You need to ring them and cancel the interview.”

“Like hell I will. The pay you’d make from this job in six months is more than you’d make anywhere else in three years. All you have to do is tell a couple teeny tiny lies.”

“It feels wrong.”

“Look,” Callie sighed softly, “we both know you need the money, and if you land this gig, you will be able to pay off Niamh’s university fees and have enough left over to buy yourself a new apartment.

Fucking hell, if you stayed at the job for a couple years you could open up your very own art studio and live your dream. ”

My bottom lip disappeared between my teeth, the chapped skin peeling off and coating my tongue with copper.

My own art studio was all I had ever dreamed of, somewhere I could sit and paint for hours on end, letting the whole world see what art meant to me.

But as the years ticked by, the dream felt more like an impossibility.

I promised my sister I’d look after her for as long as she needed.

Paying off her university fees and giving her a lump sum would maybe be enough to get her to finally stand on her own two feet.

Then maybe she’d once and for all see me as her sister, not the walking bank machine she held responsible for our past.

What if even then she didn’t forgive me?

“Just go to the interview, the worst that can happen is they say no. If you don’t get it, at least you can say you tried, and then I can help you look for something else.”

Tearing another piece of skin from my lip, I relented. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Perfect,” Callie chirped. “I have all my fingers and toes crossed for you. Remember, if you get the job, I will take payment in the form of alcohol and baked goods.”

Thankfully, the suddenness of the interview meant there was no time to second-guess my rash decision as I sat silently in the back of the cab.

Callie wasn’t completely inaccurate, I did have experience looking after children — sorry, child singular, but I highly doubted my sister counted.

There were two hours a week that I volunteered in my local community center, teaching children to express their emotions through the medium of paint. Though the parents advertising the job were unlikely to see that as enough experience.

What were the odds that telling the truth, that I needed the job because without it I’d be homeless and my sister would hate me, would get me the job?

One in a quadruple million?

Oh, shitting hell, I’m screwed.

The rain stopped as the cab parked outside a large iron private gate. Paying the fare, I stepped out and let out a low whistle.

It was as if someone had plucked the house straight out of a Pinterest board.

When the gates opened, I walked up the long-pebbled driveway to the beautiful grey-stoned home, where I could see someone standing at the front door.

“Are you Isaac?” I asked. “My name is Orla Connell. I believe Logan’s Agency informed you I was coming?”

He looked down at his phone and nodded. “Ms. Connell, come with me.” Before I could blink, he disappeared back into the house.

Juggling with my art folder, I quickened my footsteps to keep up with him.

Holy hell, the house was out of this world.

My eyes darted around the white marbled foyer in sheer awe.

Distracted by trying to take in every detail I could, the nervous flutters of butterflies struggled to take full flight in my stomach.

We came to a halt abruptly.

“Your interview will be conducted through here.” Isaac pointed to a door. “Once you are finished, you may see yourself out the same way you came in.”

“You aren’t interviewing me?”

He didn’t bother to answer me as he looked back down at his phone and walked off.

Okay then.

Inhaling deeply, my heart jolted into an uneven beat as I gripped the doorknob. Part of me still thought this was a colossal mistake, one that was likely to backfire straight in my face. But a smaller part of me, the one who still dreamed about the art studio, opened the door.

I didn’t believe in coincidences.

In my opinion, everything in life happened for a reason.

But coming face to face with a familiar pair of intense blue eyes, I found myself questioning everything I believed in.

Because why else would the universe have me standing in the doorway being stared down by none other than the Ice Man himself?

Well, shit. I was most definitely, positively screwed.