Free Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant (Cassidy Jones Adventures, Book Three) by Elise Stokes

to stop him.
    “So you didn’t lie and tell them I’m your girlfriend?”
    “Of course not. Only a fool would lie to Riley.”
    “Whoever’s out there, grow some cojones and come in!” a man shouted from inside. He had an Irish accent.
    My eyes widened on Emery.
    “You’ll love them,” he assured me and pushed the door open. “Nice first impression, Mickey.”
    I peeked around Emery. Mickey’s hands were folded behind his head, feet propped up on a desk stacked with files. He wore jeans, a fitted black T-shirt, a pewter Celtic cross around his neck, cowboy boots with steel tips, and the same devilish grin I remembered glimpsing from my window.
    “Well, well, well, look who the cat dragged in,” he teased.
    I noted he had grown his Mohawk out. His bright red hair was clipped close to his scalp. “Long time no see, little brother.” He flipped his feet to the floor and was on them in a second flat, pulling Emery into a bear hug.
    I watched them in shock. This type of familiarity was totally unexpected.
    Mickey gave Emery a solid smack on the back and directed his roguish grin at me. “And you must be the reason Emery has made himself so scarce. Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Cassidy.” He extended his hand to me. “Mickey O’Shea.”
    I shook his hand, surprised that he knew my name. “Thank you,” I said, charmed. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Emery has told me a lot of great things about you.”
    Mickey laughed heartily. “If that be the case, he hasn’t told you everything.” He winked at Emery. “The Slave Driver’s going to love meeting you.” He turned his head away and yelled, “Mom!”
    “Michael Seamus O’Shea,” an Irish woman bellowed from behind a closed door at the back of the room. “How many times have I told you not to yell?”
    The door flew open to an amply endowed, stout woman whom I guessed to be in her late forties. Her flaming red hair was teased into a frenzy. She wore a leopard-print blouse, black leggings, stilettos, and a square ton of makeup. Shrewd green eyes peered at me between false eyelashes, her candy-red lips curving into a wide smile.
    “My boy,” she exclaimed, walking toward us, arms out, “you’ve grown inches! You’re as tall as this lug.” She smacked Mickey’s chest with the back of her hand and threw her arms around Emery’s neck, forcing him to bend over awkwardly to hug her. He didn’t seem to mind, though. “Looks and brains, always a dangerous combination.” She mussed his hair and patted his cheek affectionately.
    “Riley,” Emery said, gesturing to me and grinning at the shock on my face. I hadn’t been positive until that very moment that this vibrant, wild woman was, indeed, Riley. It was a lot to absorb, especially after picturing her young, hot, and not a mother—especially Mickey’s mother. “This is Cassidy Jones.”
    “As if I need an introduction with the way you rave about her. Let’s have a look at you, girl.” Riley clutched my face between long red fingernails that could almost qualify as lethal weapons and studied me. For some reason this didn’t bother me.
    “Hmmmmm . . . With that hair I’d say you have a bit of Irish in you, but not a freckle on your face, beautiful child, and those eyes !” Riley inspected them, while I willed my expression to remain calm. I had forgotten about my freaky eyes. “I’ve never seen such a color. Magnificent, lucky girl . . . and you!” Releasing my face, she turned her attention to Emery. “You’re a lucky boy.”
    I took a deep breath, collecting myself. The woman was like a whirling dervish, or a cartoon come to life.
    “What brings you in?” Riley cut to the chase. Obviously, she knew Emery wasn’t there to introduce me.
    “Can we talk in your office?” Emery asked.
    “By all means.” Riley smiled, suspicious. “Cassidy, would you like a pop? Mickey, get her a pop. Have a seat, sweetie. Mickey will keep you company. Mickey, where are your brothers?”
    I