Reluctantly Charmed by Ellie O'Neill Read Free Book Online Page A

Actually, I wanted to know if I could put it on the Red Horizon site as well? This is good stuff. There’s a buzz.”
    “You think fairies and a potentially mad self-proclaimed witch is a good buzz?” I eyed him in disbelief.
    “Hey, look, if it gets people talking, sends them to our site, you bet I think it’s a good buzz. I’m all over this—fairies, witches, whatever.” He winked at me. “Look, I’m sorry. I thought I’d have more time, but there’s a thing I’ve gotta go to. Kind of last minute.” He glanced at the adoring groupies who had reapplied lipsticks and readjusted hemlines and looked about ready to pop in his direction. He drained his drink. “So, it’s cool if I put it up on our site?”
    I nodded, stunned. And he disappeared into a mist of groupie hairspray.

    Work the next day was . . . infuriatingly confusing. First, I received an e-mail I wasn’t expecting.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I’ve got an interview with a journo at lunch tomorrow, we’re going to AlJo’s. Could I buy you a coffee after? Say 1:30?
J x
    Was it a date? It sounded like a date. Was it a friend date? We’d never been friends.
    And, secondly, I met the porn client, and he left me reeling. He was as hateful as Marjorie had described. I didn’t know who he was, initially. Dudley had called me down to dispatch to pick up a set of advertising-award DVDs sent for me. By rights he should have delivered them, but, as he’d told me on the phone, he “just couldn’t be arsed.” So there I was, slipping into the empty lift, when a deep gravelly shout bounced in my direction, causing the hairs on my arms to stand up like soldiers.
    “Hold the lift.”
    A “please” would be nice , I thought as I scrambled around, looking for the Open button.
    The man startled me. It wasn’t the sheer size or handsome presence of him—because he was handsome and he was huge, six foot plus something or other, with shoulders that grazed opposing walls—or his dirty blond hair that looked unkempt and unstylishly spiked on top of his head. No, it was his eyes. Gray and stormy like the Atlantic Ocean. He held me in his gaze for several long seconds, knowing, probing, penetrating. And then he seemed to shrug it off with a blink and a long stride, as he heaved himself into the lift, looking anywhere but at me. In one movement he stretched his arm across, and I saw how his gray knit sweater pulled against his muscles. I also saw that his light denim jeans were dirty but nowhere near as filthy as his boots,which were positively caked in mud. He hit the Open button again.
    “I’m . . .” I could feel myself blushing because (A) he was so handsome, and (B) I was talking in the lift, which is something that never ever happens. “. . . going to the basement.” I pushed the B button, in spite of the fact that his finger was still firmly positioned on the Open button.
    “One minute,” he mumbled softly into his neck.
    “What?”
    “Hold.” And looking anywhere but at me, he gestured outside, as though he was waiting for someone to arrive. And so we stood, and stillness filled the lift, and silence bounced between us, and I listened to his breathing (hard and fast), reviewed his profile (chiseled), complexion (pale with pink cheeks), smell (he smelled of the sea), and prayed for some elevator music to relieve the tension.
    “Maybe they’re not coming,” I braved, an eternity later.
    “He’s coming.” And he finally looked at me—sternly.
    “Okay. It’s just that I’ve got to get to the basement, and I’ve a meeting . . .”
    His look stopped me from talking anymore. It was cross and determined. “He’s coming. You don’t need to be in such a rush,” he responded with a warm and singing west-of-Ireland accent.
    “Well, I do. I’ve work to do,” I said, suddenly affronted.
    “I’m guessing the world won’t end if you’re a minute behind schedule.”
    “You don’t even know what I do. Maybe it