☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
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Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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Upon returning to Mr. Gallagher's office after a brief lunch break to the Cavendish Kettle — as much for the gossip as the nourishment — Rose prepared to continue to muddle through her list of telephone calls. She was poised to pick up the handset when the clamor of raised voices coming from inside her new employer's office gave her pause. Her desk was situated only six feet from Mr. Gallagher's door, and she inclined her head in the direction of the muted ruckus. As she listened, the voices crescendoed to a volume that allowed her to make out the heated words.
“...and you need to take some interest in the day-to-day goings-on! You'll be required to know all of this before you take over for me.”
“And be bored to fuckin' death? Nah. Ya may as well put one between my eyes. I'd rather go quick.”
“Hush your foul mouth, boy! This is my legacy! Therefore, your legacy! Show some goddamn respect!”
“Relax an' have a smoke, father, before ya give yo'self a nose bleed.”
Ah. Mr. Gallagher and James II were engaged in a rousing session of father-son bonding. Lovely. Apparently they got on about as well as Rose's mother got on with every human being in existence.
“Get back here, Jimmy, or so help me—”
“You'll what? Put me on the rack? Douse me with hot oil? Make me go outside and pick a switch?” came the haughty reply. “I've got better things to do than listen to you rage, father.”
The office door burst open and Rose suddenly found herself locking eyes with the arrogant young man from Mr. Gallagher's photograph.
So, this was the heir. No more impressive in the flesh than he'd been in two dimensions. His mop of dishwater blonde hair was a bird's nest of disarray, but Rose got the distinct impression that he'd styled it that way on purpose. His tie was loose around his collar and hung askew, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. The gray of his eyes was cold, like steel in winter, but as he stared at her, a gleam of intrigue appeared among the frigid hue.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted him, minding to keep her voice demure.
Mr. Gallagher's son took a step closer to her desk, his gaze one of pleased appraisal. The sneer melted into a smirk on his rodent-esque features. “It's good now,” he declared. “Haven't seen you here before. You must be new.”
“I am new, yes,” Rose confirmed. “I just started this morning. And I don't wish to anger Mr. Gallagher any more than he already is, so I should get back to it.”
She shot James II an apologetic smile, hoping her meek and modest performance would be just the catnip needed to inspire him to engage her in further conversation. In her experience, arrogant men loved passive women.
“My father has a permanent rash up his arse. Never mind him. I'm Jimmy,” the volatile young man introduced himself, extending his hand out toward her.
