Dawson MacKay plans to open a pub with his brother, but he has a lot to learn. Taking a job for three months at Pat’s Irish Pub seems like the perfect place to acquire the finer points of running a business. The first couple months pass without a hitch—the pay is good, the information invaluable, and women hit on him every night. However, nursing a broken heart, he doesn’t take a single woman up on her offer. Then an auburn-haired beauty falls into his arms, and his world is turned upside down. For as long as she can remember, Sophie O’Neill has always wanted to be a reporter. Digging deep and finding the truth is her passion. But then her boss sends her on the most challenging assignment yet. Determined to finish the story, she jumps in feetfirst only to find herself at the center of a nightmare. She loves being a reporter…until the story is about her. Thrown together, Sophie and Dawson are held hostage to the whims of destiny. And though neither believes in love at first sight, they find themselves falling hard and fast for one another. But time is running out. And the nightmare stalking Sophie is closer than either of them realizes.
He held out a heather-gray T-shirt and a pair of black jogging shorts. As she accepted them, her fingers brushed his, and she startled. The warmth of his skin rocketed into her, her skin tingling, her blood pounding out a sensual rhythm her body instinctively wanted to follow. The exact same sensation she’d experienced in the car when she’d touched him. Twice. Did he feel it, too?
His eyes darkened as he stared down at her, his gaze dropping to her mouth. Maybe he did feel it. For a second, she imagined him gathering her in his arms and kissing her. Heat pooled low in her body, and her nipples tightened in response.
But instead of moving toward her, he backed up a step. “I, uh, guess I’ll leave it to you, then.”
He turned to leave, pulling the door closed behind him.
“Oh, wait!” She popped to her feet and gasped. The twinge in her ankle had her angling to the side, her hand on the bed to catch herself as he reappeared in the doorway.
“You okay?” He came in again.
“Stupid ankle.” She lifted her head, and several wayward strands of hair wisped into her face. Irritated, she blew at the willful locks—like that ever worked. So she resorted to reaching up and tucking them behind her ear. “I need help getting all this poufy white stuff off.” She turned away from him. “Can you get the zipper?”
“Sure.” He moved behind her, and the pressure of his fingertips at the middle of her back sent all kinds of heat dancing through her. His warm breath played across her shoulders as he slowly lowered the only device holding the dress to her body.