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1
Nola
Some women perspired gracefully. As in, they got a light peppering of sparkly perspiration around their noses when they got hot. Maybe if things got real serious, they’d even have to wipe their brow occasionally.
I was not some women. I sweated. I especially sweated when our restaurant owner was too cheap to replace the dying A/C unit that couldn’t have even cooled off a fight between two Canadians. It was one of my many unfortunate charms. As a server, it was doubly unfortunate because I had to show up to work like some rec league middle-aged athlete decked out in a sweat band and wrist bands to avoid dripping in people’s food.
I flinched at the sound of a plate crashing to the ground from the kitchen. There was a brief curse, then the sound of Tony laying into whoever had made the mistake.
I used my wristbands to wipe a drop of sweat from my nose and continued punching in an order at the computer. Before I filled my newest table’s drinks, I stopped by the stool at the bar where my six-year-old brother sat. He was suspended from Kindergarten for two days—yes, that was possible. For the last three years, the little demon had been my sole responsibility.
I gave his head a pat while he did a poor job of hiding the salt and pepper shakers he'd undoubtedly been in the process of sabotaging. “Why doesn’t it look like you’re practicing your spelling, Griff?”
Without hesitation, he belted out the correct spelling of every word I’d given him for practice. He wouldn’t have been my little brother if he didn’t follow his recital with an obnoxious little wiggle of his eyebrows and a smirk.
I stuck one palm toward him and planted my other fist on my hips. “Give me them.”
Griff set both shakers in my hand carefully. With a little wiggle, I confirmed he’d loosened the tops so the entire contents would spill on the first customer to try to use them. “Really? If you’re going to devote your life to chaos, the least you could do is be original.”
“What’s original?” he asked, reminding me that despite flashes of brilliance, my brother was still just a kid.
“Forget it. But I’ll get you some more words to practice in a few minutes. I’ve got to get these refills.” I took two steps toward the soda machine, then stopped, turning to face Griff once more. “No more trouble. You understand me?”
He held up his little palms like I’d just waved a gun in his face. I sighed, then smiled. Despite the hell he caused, I did take pride in taking care of him. Most of the time, I thought I was doing a horrible job of it, but I would’ve liked to see even a trained professional come close to handling Griff. The kid was more of a handful than a trophy wife on her way out of the plastic surgeon.
I was setting the drinks down when the bell over the door dinged. Three men who were each so tall and broad that they nearly swallowed up the entire doorway were coming in. A little hiccup of silence rolled through the restaurant as everyone seemed to sense their presence. Some people turned to openly stare, and others pulled out cell phones to make videos.
I didn’t entirely blame them. The first man, though I didn’t recognize him, was stop what you’re doing attractive. He was clean cut, dressed impeccably in a suit and tie, and had an air of confidence and power that was undeniably sexy.
As if there’d been some cosmic arrangement to cluster the hottest men I’d ever see into my life into a single encounter, the man just behind the first was equally stunning. But I recognized the mischievous eyes, the half-smile, and the messy blond hair. That was Chris Rose. The Chris Rose. The same one I’d barely been able to avoid hearing about any time I turned on the radio or the TV for the past few months once he got tangled up in all the engagement and wedding controversy.
The final man through the door was cut differently than the first two—who, I realized as some latent knowledge bubbled up, were related. The third man wore a week or so worth of beard that grew in as black as his hair. Tattoos snaked up from beneath his collar and ran down over the backs of his muscular forearms and hands. The first man looked serious, the second appeared amused, and the last seemed… Troubled. Why did that immediately make me like him the most?
He was wearing a baseball cap, and then I realized I recognized him, too. He was the baseball pitcher who hadn’t been drafted and went on to take the league by storm a couple years ago. Jack Kerrigan.
