The cruise-ship crowd had only begun to thin out when the bell above the door jingled. Mr. Martin walked in with a crooked smile under his graying mustache.
“Shepherd, my man,” he greeted in a bellow, his voice louder than the regulars arguing at the bar. “How are you this fine day? This first of the month?”
“Zito doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Regular One was saying to the TV mounted above the bar that played nothing but the NHL channel. His beer sloshed over his fingers. “He just got lucky, is all.”
“Lucky?” Regular Two replied. “Yeah, right.”
“I think we’re missing the big picture,” said Regular Three. “Our best enforcer is injured. That’s more troubling than the management, you have to admit.”
Regular One finished off his beer and waved for another. “I admit nothing. Except for the fact that you are a turd.”
Shepherd wiped his hands off on his apron, stepped away from the table where he’d delivered a meat lovers’ pizza. “Mr.Martin! Yeah, I got the cash for you back here. Come to the bar with me.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me twice. Pour me a coolada while you’re at it?”
“You got it, Mr. Martin.” Shepherd wasn’t about to deny the landlord a free drink. Besides, he liked Mr. Martin. Sometimes he showed up for karaoke night and absolutely slayed the competition, much to the annoyance of Ginny, who herself had a terrific singing voice.
He grinned while he poured the coolada. He was going to pick something she’d hate to sing. Maybe something slow and sexy. But no, that wouldn’t do his blood pressure any favors, especially after all this hullabaloo with her mother. And don’t forget the lying. He was terrible at play-acting, even worse at lying. He’d make her sing some Wiggles song about hot potatoes or something—the unsexiest song on the tracklist.
Ginny, though, was so pretty and so talented that she’d make even the dumbest songs worth listening to.
Shepherd slid the landlord his drink and opened his mouth to talk, but Mr. Martin was already talking.
He was talking to Ginny’s mother.
Alarms started sounding off in Shepherd’s head. Flashes of red light and deep, constant beeping—the whole deal. He stood frozen behind the bar, fingers twitching at his sides, completely unsure of what to do next.
He did not have a plan for this.
Increasingly, he had fewer and fewer plans. All the things he prepared for, that he worried about, that he braced himself for impact over—those things never happened. Instead, Ginny came in like a hurricane and pummeled everything, leveled every last bit of structure he had in place, until she was his fake girlfriend, and his fake girlfriend’s mother was unabashedly flirting with his real landlord.
Maybe this was a good thing? Maybe if she was so busy with Mr. Martin, who was a similar age to her and incredibly wealthy, maybe she wouldn’t care so much about what Ginny did. If she stayed or if she went. The romantic might get swept away in her own romance, and he wouldn’t have to pretend tohave feelings for his employee that he definitely did not have. Obviously.
Ginny barreled into his side.
Shepherd sidestepped and let out an “Oof!” which drew the attention of both mother and landlord.
Ginny wrapped her arm around his back, rested her temple against his shoulder. “Please excuse us one moment, Mom, and then we’ll be right with you. Mr. Martin. How are you today?”
“Very well, thank you, my dear! This lovely creature is your mother? Why, I would’ve thought that the two of you were sisters!”
Ginny’s mother giggled. Full-on giggled. Cheeks pinking, eyes crinkling. “Oh, please. Do be serious, Michael.”
“I am being serious. I am only ever serious about beautiful women, Deandra.”
Ginny dug her fingernails into Shepherd’s side. He hissed, and she pushed her hip against his, forcing him to walk sideways out of the bar and towards the kitchen.
Noah watched them walk by—their sides practically glued together, Ginny’s arm around him—with his brows knit and his mouth wide open.
Ah, utter confusion. At least, Shepherd wasn’t experiencing it alone.
“I don’t want to go in the kitchen,” Shepherd said. “It’s hot in there!”
“Don’t want to go in the kitchen, don’t want to wait on tables, don’t want to talk to customers. Why did you even open a restaurant in the first place?”
Shepherd shrugged the shoulder that didn’t have Ginny’s face pressed against it. “I like pizza. Plus, I thought of the restaurant name which issoa pun.”
“It is, you’re right.” The kitchen doors swung open, and she finally let go of him. Shepherd’s stomach swooped. In relief, not disappointment, obviously. He didn’t like her touching him or being that close to him. Obviously. He certainly didn’t dream about it all the time.Obviously.
