Full Summary

William J. Richardson III, one of the most influential persons in America, rich by no means and totally gorgeous. Sadly, he's the guy that I'm supposed to be stealing something from. I wasn't even sure if he had it, but my best friend, the guy I'm returning a favor, said he has it...whatever 'it' was. Stealing something isn't going to be easy with the security around his house, plus the fact I had no idea what this item was. I guess it does kinda help that I did get a job as the nanny to his two month old baby girl. Now I'm juggling bottles and diapers. Things only get worse when his teenage sister comes to me for guy help. (What do I know? I never had a boyfriend before, so I'm the last person to ask advice from.) In addition, I just might be losing my heart to someone who's made of ice and stone...

Chapter One

Taylor’s POV

“Michael, seriously I want to see your homework on the table when I get home,” I said to my brother over the phone, as I carefully drove down the wet streets of Chicago. “I don’t want another phone call from your math teacher to hear that you failed another test again.”

“Yeah, yeah, what time are you going to be home?” Michael muttered into the phone. I glared out the windshield. Michael knew that it bothered me when he muttered, even more so when he muttered into the phone. His voice was just so damn deep that all you hear is garbled garbage instead of words.

“I’ll be home at eleven at the lateness. I’ll call you if I’m going to be later than that,” I said.

“Fine, bye,” he said and promptly hung up on me.

I snapped my phone closed and threw it into the passenger seat as I stopped at the light, two lights down from my designated location. My brother, Michael, was trying my patience. It started shortly after our parents died about six years ago with the simple statement of, “You’re not my mother”, but he always ended up doing what I asked of him, partially out of guilt for being rude to me, his older sister, who decided to quit university to take a few night classes while working full time job during the day, just so I could help support my two younger brothers.

I didn’t have to take in my brothers, I could have stayed in university, but I couldn’t stomach the fact that they were going to go to foster homes if I didn’t take them in. I was their only living family left. But now, six years later, the guilt of disobeying me slowly washed away and now he was fully rebelling against all people. I really hope he does his homework tonight instead of playing that stupid Guitar Hero that Kevin and I bought him for his birthday, a bad move on my part, but Kevin talked me into it.

Sighing, I pulled into the parking lot for The Potato Pub, a local British-Irish pub that was reviewed by the Chicago Sun Times and Chicago Tribune as a great place just to relax and have a fun time. The pub itself was just a small hole-in-the-wall pub located in downtown Chicago; however, people from all over the city come just to have some cold beer and other drinks and enjoy some good authentic British and Irish dishes that have been passed down through the generations of the original owners, the O’Hare family.

I picked up my cell from the seat where it laid beside me and, grabbing my keys from the ignition, I headed towards the front doors of the pub. Warm air hit my face full on as I opened the door. I could smell the delicious aroma that was drifting from the kitchen, interlaced with a slight hint of the smoke that came from the bar. I wondered what Mrs. O’Hare was serving as tonight’s special. There was always a different special every night that consistented of different British and Irish cuisines. It was a no brainer that the pub served fish and chips or corned beef, but they served things like steak and kidney pie, dorest jugged steak, Kentish pigeon, and some good old Irish potato recipes. Again, all were passed down through the O’Hare family for generations, and are very delicious. I made sure each time I visited the pub, I would get the special no matter what it was.

I looked around the room, trying to see if I saw him anywhere, but before I could get a really good look, Mr. O’Hare spotted me from his position at the bar, beside his great-nephew. I smiled at him and watched as he made his way towards me at the door. Mr. Patrick O’Hare was an Irish immigrant who came to America as a boy. He met his wife here in Chicago. She was an exchange student from London at the time he met her. Mr. O’Hare must have been one hell of a looker, because Lilly Oliver became Mrs. Patrick O’Hare a few years later. Now fifty some years later, they had children, grandchildren, and soon to be great-grandchild.

Mr. O’Hare himself treated me as one of his own children, only I didn’t have to work at the pub. I asked to have a job here when I was in my teens, even if I had to just wash dishes, but Mr. O’Hare wouldn’t have it. He was a very kind gentleman, always remembering my brother’s and my birthdays, and always included us in their family Christmas dinner every year. He was a short man, four inches shorter than me, standing at five feet three inches. He had a little beer belly that every time he laughed it would shake. I use to, when I was younger, think that he was Santa Claus with an Irish accent, brown hair atop his head, and no facial hair. Hey, I was a creative child, and of course, it didn’t help that he always wore a Santa suit at those Christmas dinners either.

“Aw, it’s my favorite customer,” Mr. O’Hare said, wrapping me in a warm hug.

I chuckled as I returned the hug. “Hi Mr. O’Hare, how are you?” I asked, stuffing my hands into my jean pockets, giving him a slight smile.

“Oh, I’m fine, just fine. You are looking absolutely beautiful as well,” he said, his eyes crinkling around the edges as he smiled at me.

I blushed and looked down at what I was wearing. I had changed out of the slacks I wore to work at the library into a more comfortable pair of jeans I had stashed in my car trunk in case I needed them. I was still wearing the brown blouse though, mostly because I liked it too much to change into a plain shirt.

“Thanks,” I said, looking back up at Mr. O’Hare.

He waved me to follow him, as he led me towards my favorite little table in the pub. It was a Friday night, almost nine o’clock, and the pub was semi-full. The bar, of course, was the most popular location for customers because it was the place to meet singles and an easy location to get your drink replenished quickly, so every seat had a butt in it, with some people standing around the bar. Mr. O’Hare’s great-nephew was going to be hopping tonight. While the bar was full of customers, I preferred to be in the dining area, away from the bar and more towards the stage.

The stage was normally a location for extra tables during the week, except on Fridays and weekends where a live band performed every night from ten until about one in the morning, sometimes two, depending on the band that was playing that night and the following they had. Tonight, with the crowd already here before nine, I had a feeling that the band was going to have a pretty good following.

I was just about to take the seat that Mr. O’Hare offered me when a woman with silver—and I mean silver, like platinum silver—hair pulled back into a French knot walked out of the kitchen doors cursing in a British accent.

“I told that bloody bastard to turn down the bloody temperature, but no! He had other more important things to do like cut—AH! It’s my favorite customer!”

I laughed as Mrs. O’Hare came running towards me, her hands raised to give me a hug. Mrs. O’Hare looked like the prim and proper grandmother, the one who has tea and cookies in the afternoon, but really she was a straight forwarding woman with a kind and caring heart, though she could play a mean game of softball. I really envied the elderly woman for one reason, her hair. Her hair, though it was a silver coloring, was long. It went to her waist and she wasn’t cursed with a thinning hairline.

“Hi, Mrs. O’Hare,” I greeted her as she wrapped me in a warm hug. I forgot to mention, but, Mrs. O’Hare was a hugger. She’ll just about hug anyone, strangers included.

“Dear, you must be in dire need of some food,” she said, as her husband held out the chair again for me.

I smiled up at her. “What are the specials tonight?” I asked, sitting down in the chair.

“Tonight, we’re having bubble and squeak,” she said. I raised an eyebrow at the dish she just mentions, having no clue exactly what ‘bubble and squeak’ was. “And for dessert, we have a choice between queen cakes and Kentish pudding pie.”

I heard just then a very familiar laught and turned in time to see Lexie O’Hare, the only O’Hare granddaughter—the O’Hares had nine grandsons—coming towards me.

“Your face was priceless, Taylor, at the mentioning of the specials tonight,” she said, pushing her pad and pen into her waitress apron.

“As it always is,” she added, stopping by her grandmother. Mrs. O’Hare gave her a look which Lexie totally ignored.

“Glad to see you too, Lexie,” I said, smirking up at her.

Lexie Jane O’Hare and I were childhood friends. Our friendship started out almost twenty-one years ago when we both were four years old. Our parents were next door neighbors to each other and decided to set up a simple play date between us toddlers. Now, twenty years later, we were still best of friends and were completely different from each other.

“Oh, trust me, Taylor,” Mrs. O’Hare said, patting my shoulder, bringing my attention back to the matter at hand. “They are delicious!”

“Well I have yet to die from any of your cooking, Mrs. O’Hare, so I guess I’ll have the special then,” I said, shrugging.

“Good girl,” Mr. O’Hare said, patting my head in a fatherly gesture.

I blinked each time he patted my head. Lexie always found this reaction funny, so when I turned my head towards her to look at her again, she was snickering behind her hand. I rolled my eyes.

“So, who’s playing tonight?” I asked her, looking around at the crowd as her grandparents moved away from my table.

“Red Alert,” she said, sitting down across from me.

I raised an eyebrow at her. I had never seen Lexie sit down while she was working, at least while she was in the dining area. Normally she would be sitting in the kitchen or out back.

“Hey, I’ve been on my feet for the last four hours without a break, fifteen minutes will do me good,” she said, leaning into the chair.

“So would a bra,” I muttered.

She just smirked, apparently she heard me even over the chatter from the crowd.

“I don’t want to know what you and Chad do,” I said, fighting the shiver that wanted to go down my spine.

Lexie laughed and shook her head. “Oh come on, Taylor. You’re a twenty-five year old and you’re acting like a virgin.”

I glared at her. She knew the truth behind the comment.

“Anyways, yeah tonight Red Alert is playing here,” Lexie said.

“Red Alert,” I muttered, frowning. “I’ve heard of that band for some odd reason but I can’t remember why though.”

Lexie rolled her eyes. “You should, your brother is their band manager.”

I blinked. “Kevin?”

She nodded.

“Huh,” I said, leaning back into my chair. Kevin has been mentioning a band a lot lately, mostly on the phone. “That explains why I keep hearing him talk about them, and also why I found a new phone in his jeans when I did laundry the other day.”

She raised an eyebrow in question.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t ask.”

“What is there to ask?” she said, her eyebrow still rose. “He’s twenty-two and still living at home.”

“Oh shut it,” I said, rolling my eyes. “He just graduated from university. I’m not pushing him to find an apartment for another few months and that I know he has a better job other than a manager of a band.”

“Unless Red Alert makes it big,” Lexie pointed out. “And by the looks of it, they have a popular following.”

I looked around. “I can see that,” I muttered, trying to see if he was here.

“Okay, who are you looking for?” Lexie asked, leaning onto the table.

I turned and looked back at her.

“No one,” I said, trying to play it off, but Lexie knew me too well.

“Mhm,” she said, smirking. “Got a hot date tonight?”

I blushed and quickly said before she got any ideas from my blush, “No! Actually Devon called me.”

“Who’s Devon?” Lexie asked.

I lowered my eyes and started telling Lexie just who Devon was.

Devon Jordan was originally Kevin’s friend. I, at first, didn’t entirely trust Devon. The fact that he looked like he hadn’t cut his hair in almost a year or so and that his jeans were older than old with grease stains didn’t help to earn my trust. But about three years ago, he came to my aid in the most surprisingly way.

My parents just died. I just quit school to help keep my family together. I had to make the choice between food and having a home and I decided to get food. I knew about malnutrition and I didn’t want to have my brothers—Kevin was 18, a senior, while Michael was 14, a freshman—to starve while we were home. I tried to beg my landlord to let me miss a payment. I was going to pay him next week with my next check. The bastard though said no.

Lexie knew some of the story, but not how serious it truly was.

“God, Taylor! Why didn’t you tell me?!” A few of the pub patrons looked at her just then, as she was very upset with me.

I flinched.

“Pride,” I said.

“Pride, my ass,” she spat, glaring at me.

“What were you going to do if I did tell you?” I said, leaning towards her.

“I would have given you some money!” Lexie said. “And I knew that you would pay me back. God, Taylor!”

I flinched.

“Continue,” Lexie said. She was still pissed.

Ignoring her mood, I continued with what happened.

So the ass of a landlord (who I might add is no longer my landlord) wouldn’t let me pay him next week. I proceeded to beg, on my knees I might add, when Devon stopped by.

“Whoa! Pause and rewind there, buddy,” Lexie said, waving her hands to get my attention.

I blinked. Huh?

“You were going to beg?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Seriously? On your hands and knees?”

“When Devon gets here, you can ask him,” I said. “I was seriously on my knees when he came by.”

“Yeah and what a picture it was too!” said a deep male voice.

I blushed and turned to see the said person I was waiting for.

AN: Eh, the chapter wasn't entire eventful but it gets the story rolling. I have posted up pictures of the characters. If you wish to see them, go to my profile and click on the "my own personal work" link, it will take you to where the pictures and descriptions of the characters. You may have to be patient with the loading...freewebs has been a butt some times.

Anyways, review and let me know what you think of it. And if there are any errors, ya sorry about them, let me know where it is so I can fix them. And also the title and the rating may change because I'm not entirely sure about the title and either or not the rating for the story is worth a M...just depends of what I write.

Huggles,
Nollie

Posted: Thursday, February 5, 2009

Edited: Sunday, February 15, 2009