Chapter One
Shrieks, laughter, and booze-induced bellowing mixed with the occasional belching of the attendants at CAKE’s annual St. Patrick’s Day bash. All the sounds clamored along the rafters of Stephen Silver’s entertainment room. The large living space couldn’t be called anything else, but a ballroom. Kenyatta Kramer understood why her boss, the owner of CAKE, would refer to the room as an entertaining one. Large, flat screen televisions, anchored to the walls, flashed various sports programming intermixed with scenes from Ireland. Seating was arranged in close proximity to the televisions. It also worked for intimate group conversations. Dark green streamers and Irish music piped in through the mansion’s interior sound system. Some people performed Irish jigs and step-danced on the dance floor. The party unfurled in a tide of green dyed beer, leprechaun stick-up posters, and metallic-green shamrock confetti glittering across the entire flooring.
Kenyatta spied Doran Richards from across the room, felt his dark blue eyes on her like a wet blanket—heavy and all encompassing. Something about the way he looked at her made her clit tighten and her nipples pebble. When their eyes connected, her entire body reacted as if he had touched her. No , as if he had caressed her. That action verb definitely made a closer stab at describing how Doran made her feel. Not that she had a lot of words that could do that. Her skin hummed like electricity had zipped along her person.
Glancing across the mass of people once more, Kenyatta saw him sip his beer as a flock of women approached him. He attracted women like moths to a flame. As proud as peacocks, they flitted around him, batting lashes and flashing artificial cleavage. Kenyatta let out a slow breath and looked away. Not that she could blame them. Doran had dark Irish good looks, dark chocolate hair cut beautifully around his strong face, full lips, strong nose, and brooding dark blue eyes. Tall and lithe, his muscular body spoke to athleticism, not vanity.
She knew he wanted her, too, but she had no idea of his motives. Mr. Silver’s unusual mode of proposing to his employee had somehow green-lighted CAKE’s single employees to follow suit—sort of. The workplace had become a hot bed of hook-ups. Kenyatta had zero interest in being someone’s office fling. Her self worth meant more to her than an hour of self-indulgence. After all, she had to face the man she slept with every day at work. If it went sour or —heaven forbid—sucked, then the situation at work would dissolve into a real problem.
She couldn’t risk it.
Still she couldn’t deny their chemistry ignited a blaze of lust inside her. Just like now.
“You know, he’s been watching you move all night,” Cree said into her ear, making her jump.
“Sweet Jesus!” Kenyatta shouted. Her drink sloshed. “You scared the salvation outta me.”
Cree laughed, and nodded in Doran’s direction. “Oh, sorry about that. Can you please put that fine man out of his misery?”
“He isn’t in any pain to me.” Kenyatta sipped her appletini and feigned indifference.
“That man looks like he’s been longing for someone.” Cree shook her head.
“He’s fine.”
“Yes. Yes he is,” chimed in Chloe Reese. “Damn, he’s sexy—all dark and brooding. His muscles are testing that shirt he’s wearing. Oh and damn those thighs…”
“Not you too,” groaned Kenyatta. Chloe didn’t work at CAKE, but for Carte Seay’s law office. The attorney wore a short green miniskirt and knee-high black stiletto boots. Her blouse matched her boots—inky black silk.
“Hey, when Mr. Seay says go to the party, mingle, and scoop up clients—that’s what I do. And that Irishman right there can get some kisses right—”
Cree sharply cleared her throat.
Chloe looked at Cree and then Kenyatta. “Oh, well, my bad.”
“No problem,” Kenyatta said. “We’re not dating.”
Chloe frowned and inclined her
Shrieks, laughter, and booze-induced bellowing mixed with the occasional belching of the attendants at CAKE’s annual St. Patrick’s Day bash. All the sounds clamored along the rafters of Stephen Silver’s entertainment room. The large living space couldn’t be called anything else, but a ballroom. Kenyatta Kramer understood why her boss, the owner of CAKE, would refer to the room as an entertaining one. Large, flat screen televisions, anchored to the walls, flashed various sports programming intermixed with scenes from Ireland. Seating was arranged in close proximity to the televisions. It also worked for intimate group conversations. Dark green streamers and Irish music piped in through the mansion’s interior sound system. Some people performed Irish jigs and step-danced on the dance floor. The party unfurled in a tide of green dyed beer, leprechaun stick-up posters, and metallic-green shamrock confetti glittering across the entire flooring.
Kenyatta spied Doran Richards from across the room, felt his dark blue eyes on her like a wet blanket—heavy and all encompassing. Something about the way he looked at her made her clit tighten and her nipples pebble. When their eyes connected, her entire body reacted as if he had touched her. No , as if he had caressed her. That action verb definitely made a closer stab at describing how Doran made her feel. Not that she had a lot of words that could do that. Her skin hummed like electricity had zipped along her person.
Glancing across the mass of people once more, Kenyatta saw him sip his beer as a flock of women approached him. He attracted women like moths to a flame. As proud as peacocks, they flitted around him, batting lashes and flashing artificial cleavage. Kenyatta let out a slow breath and looked away. Not that she could blame them. Doran had dark Irish good looks, dark chocolate hair cut beautifully around his strong face, full lips, strong nose, and brooding dark blue eyes. Tall and lithe, his muscular body spoke to athleticism, not vanity.
She knew he wanted her, too, but she had no idea of his motives. Mr. Silver’s unusual mode of proposing to his employee had somehow green-lighted CAKE’s single employees to follow suit—sort of. The workplace had become a hot bed of hook-ups. Kenyatta had zero interest in being someone’s office fling. Her self worth meant more to her than an hour of self-indulgence. After all, she had to face the man she slept with every day at work. If it went sour or —heaven forbid—sucked, then the situation at work would dissolve into a real problem.
She couldn’t risk it.
Still she couldn’t deny their chemistry ignited a blaze of lust inside her. Just like now.
“You know, he’s been watching you move all night,” Cree said into her ear, making her jump.
“Sweet Jesus!” Kenyatta shouted. Her drink sloshed. “You scared the salvation outta me.”
Cree laughed, and nodded in Doran’s direction. “Oh, sorry about that. Can you please put that fine man out of his misery?”
“He isn’t in any pain to me.” Kenyatta sipped her appletini and feigned indifference.
“That man looks like he’s been longing for someone.” Cree shook her head.
“He’s fine.”
“Yes. Yes he is,” chimed in Chloe Reese. “Damn, he’s sexy—all dark and brooding. His muscles are testing that shirt he’s wearing. Oh and damn those thighs…”
“Not you too,” groaned Kenyatta. Chloe didn’t work at CAKE, but for Carte Seay’s law office. The attorney wore a short green miniskirt and knee-high black stiletto boots. Her blouse matched her boots—inky black silk.
“Hey, when Mr. Seay says go to the party, mingle, and scoop up clients—that’s what I do. And that Irishman right there can get some kisses right—”
Cree sharply cleared her throat.
Chloe looked at Cree and then Kenyatta. “Oh, well, my bad.”
“No problem,” Kenyatta said. “We’re not dating.”
Chloe frowned and inclined her
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