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“Hmm ...” She fills a thick glass mug with whatever’s on tap. “Tyler?”
She thinks for a moment while I try not to double over in pain. Or cry out “Mercy” to the gods of pain.
Month after month, my periods are ten times worse, and over-the-counter medications are barely making a dent. With any luck, the extra-extra-strength medication I got at the drugstore will kick in any second now.
While I bite my lip like a bullet, Anita ponders on. “Tyler ...”
Maybe it’s the repeated knife jabs to the gut talking, but if one more person says they haven’t seen Tyler Donovan, I’ll throw down like a toddler. I’m two seconds from unceremoniously face-planting onto the questionably clean floor, arms and legs flailing about in full-on meltdown mode.
Anita sets a pink-and-purple drink at the pickup station and a mug of beer next to it before sliding her glasses to the tip of her nose.
“So, you have to see Tyler?” she sings suggestively. Or hopefully. I swear, the woman is vying for the official title of Cupid.
The knife jab below the belly subsides to a dull ache enough for me to play along. “Obviously, because Tyler knows how to make a girl truly happy.”
She gives me the hairy eyeball. “You’re lucky you’re legal,” she says, smirking as she waggles her brows.
“All I need is a few minutes alone with him. Just me and Tyler so he can”—I deadpan— “pay me.” I lower my voice and clasp my hands in prayer. “And pitch him a dozen reasons for why I’d be perfect for your job.”
By her outrageous yawn, she’s underwhelmed. “Boring.” She leans in confidentially. “Moment of truth ... which one?”
“Which one what?”
“Which one of the Donovans melts your butter?”
Which?How can she ask me that? I mean, they’re all friends with my brothers.Whichmakes it weird.
Wide-eyed, Anita smiles expectantly as I think it through. Anything to take my mind off the pain, though it’s eased up enough that I’m no longer tasting blood from my lower lip.
Ignoring my childhood faux pas of a wish, I run through the list.
There’s Tyler, who’s inherently sexy because he has my paycheck. He’s the older, wiser, kinder of the Donovan brothers. His sandy-blond waves are always as carefree as his soul, and his twenty-seven-year-old smile warms you from the inside out. One day in the not-too-distant future, this business will be his kingdom, an attractive quality that the vagina of every eligible bachelorette in the ti-county region has zeroed in on.
Hunk-worthiness? A ten and a half. On the date-worthy scale, I can’t even go there. He’s almost paternal. Or a really hot uncle you hope will find his forever match. Whenever I come in, he’s always checking to see how I’m doing and if I’ve eaten. Thanks to this place, I have.
Then there’s Zac, the youngest and three years older than me. A young McDreamy in his own right; his looks are totally wasted. The man has been my BFF since forever ago, but he never dates. Between studying at New York University and launching his own mogul career, you’d think the man was thirty-one, not twenty-one.
Over summers and holiday breaks, he returns to Saratoga Springs to shake things up. Moving the inventory system from the caveman era into the next millennium. Shifting the ordering to the cloud and ensuring it takes everything from Venmo to Bitcoin. And launching a spruced-up website with candid shots that always manage to blow up Instagram, which he often credits me for.
Every chance I get, I snap outrageous photos and videos, and at Zac’s insistence, they’ve posted every single one. Food photos. Tyler clowning around, serving a bachelorette party in nothing but a black apron. Well, he had shorts on, but you couldn’t tell from the front. Even simple things like Anita plopping dry ice into drinks at Halloween.
Zac says I have raw talent. I call it an obsession with Mrs. D.’s food.
Zac will forever be my biggest cheerleader and best friend, but something more? Let’s just say our one and only test-the-waters kiss was all we needed to be eternally friend-zoned. Plus, I’m not sure he’ll ever settle down. Core-of-the-Earth-level hotness? A thousand percent. A compulsive workaholic? Ten-thousand percent.
And last, but not least, there’s Mark. The very same Marcus Evan Donavon my child mind thought I could marry. Silly girl. I couldn’t possibly marry an ass, and make no mistake, that man is an ass.
As if reading my thoughts, Anita asks, “Ooh, is it Mark?”
Heat flares up my neck to my cheeks as I scoff. “Mark? Mark hates me.”
“He does not.”
“He even gave me that stupid nickname.”
Anita coos at me. “It’s adorable.”
My palm is affronted before I am, and it flies in her face. “Don’t even.”
