Page 1 of Naughty Irish Liar

CHAPTER 1

Catie

Some people called me an heiress brat. A socialite of Manhattan with nothing between my skull but hot air and the latest fashion trend. They said I was more acrylic nails than SATs.

I’m none of those things.

I’d say I was decisive. I know what I want, and I work my yoga-built bottom off to get it because if I didn’t, how else would I achieve anything? And while I might technically be my daddy’s heir, I don’t take his money for granted, nor am I living on his allowance anymore.

I’ve decided what I want…wanted for a long time and no matter what, I’m going to make it happen.

But I think my social status has more to do with my family name, being a Clemonte.

You see, I’m Catherine Hope Clemonte.

And I have no idea why we’re categorized as though our name is some big scandal when we’re talked about.

I promise we’re not, far from it.

Daddy is rich beyond belief because he earned it the hard way, there was no inheritance for him, he worked constantly, having grown up poor. He got into property development in the early eighties and now the Clemonte Hotels are all over the world. Celebs and the rich flock to stay there. Movies use them for locations. We hold prestigious events that earn their spot in the society pages of Manhattan. He married mom who instantly became his world, and then they had me. I was ridiculously spoiled with love. They’re those embarrassing type of parents who were incessantly in love with each other and had no bones about showing it even if their mortified teenage daughter had friends over at the house.

I suppose being the only child of the fifth richest man in American might explain why I’m called a brat. It’s what people expect. Us millennials have a reputation.

Who cares? I carea little, I guess.

I’m twenty-two, I don’t need that kind of label this early in my life. Can’t they call me a genius? (Sadly, I’m not. I’m in the last year of college and I’ll be lucky to get my business management degree) or a trendsetting influencer? (But I only have a few hundred Instagram followers, so it wouldn’t seem likely to happen. Plus, I only post pictures of toast and the odd stray cat)

Oh, god. My nerves are so rife I could exorcist-puke along with my rampant thoughts going nuts.

I’ve paced outside so long that a passing saloon car actually stopped and asked how much I was charging.

I hustled closer to the bar entryway, caught how loud it was inside and almost changed my mind about going in at all. I could always choose to do this another day, I reasoned with a croak of nerves tickling my throat.

Did I want to do this with an audience?

I swallowed and ran a anxious hand over my long red hair.

I was not risking humiliation and complete rejection just for scraps, I reminded myself. This was an all-in situation.

I wanted it all. I wanted what my heart had hurt over for five years.

My story wasn’t all that unique. Girl too young fell for the older guy. Guy crushes girl’s hope. Girl longs for guy ever since. It’s what every Lifetime movie is built on.

I was too young back then.

Now I’m not.

The door swung open and three guys ambled out talking to one another, giving me a cursory glance before they headed down the street. I hastily stepped aside and peeked in before the door swung closed again.

I knew already whatMacNam’slooked like even before I’d stepped inside because I Googled it so often that if the FBI were to look at my search history on my hard drive it would appear that I was up to some no-good shit.

I couldn’t help myself. I had issues, okay. He’d become my sexy, delicious hobby and when I was obsessed with something I was all or nothing. I didn’t have gray areas.

But he hadn’t made my secret hobby easy that was for damn sure when I discovered he didn’t have one social media account.

And believe it, me and my second-best friend wine did extensive cyber stalking one weekend.

What kind of psychopath doesn’t have Snapchat?

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