by Emilia Finn
“You need to walk away from this kitchen door.” She ignores Beck and speaks to me. “Staff need to get in and out without being accosted or stolen from.”
“Florence?”
“Fastidioso,” she bites out and burns him with a glare. “Move, or I’ll have someone remove you.”
Finally, his smirk notches down. God forbid a woman not be charmed by his bullshit. “Seriously? I was only playing.”
“It’s not fun unless everyone is having fun.” She looks to me. “Apple pie is not tonight’s dessert, and there are no pigs in blankets on the menu.”
When my eyes widen—How did she know…?—she tips her chin.
“You gentlemen have been speaking extremely loud while standing here waiting for the sausages and pie. Tonight’s event is very important to many people, and men who think they’re funny and entitled will ruin it if they get the chance. Please move along.”
The desperation in this woman’s eyes, the plea that we do as she asks without making a scene, is almost palpable.
“I’ll move him,” I tell her. “Quietly. And we won’t come back over this way tonight.”
“Thank you.” She exhales, relieved and relaxed. “I will speak to the head chef and have him send something special out for you two, since someone stole your pie and you’re starving. But in payment, you must vada via. We have work to do.”
“We’ll behave,” I tell her. “Our sister is—”
The server’s eyes flash from relieved to concerned as she brings a hand up to touch her ear.
Now that I look closer, now that she points it out, I catch sight of a small earpiece nestled behind her luscious hair.
“Maximo? What’s wrong?” Her breathing turns faster, and her shoulders bow in. “Maximo?” She steps back, then around us, and darts toward the opposite end of the ballroom until she disappears amongst the hundreds of others in attendance.
“Well, that was… odd.” I stand taller and try to catch sight of her hair. Her narrow neck. Her dainty shoulders drowning under an ill-fitting shirt.
“Do you think she’ll remember to talk to the chef?”
“Beckett…” When I can’t find her, I give up and look to my brother. “Not everyone thinks you’re sexy, ya know? Not every woman wants your attention.”
“You lie to hurt my feelings,” he snickers. But then he turns a little more serious. “If we see her again, I’ll tell her I’m sorry. I was obnoxious.”
“Ya think?” I turn away from the kitchen doors and make my way in the direction Abby went. The same direction, coincidentally, the server with communicative eyes and an intriguing pair of plump lips walked. “Let’s just sit down and chill the fuck out. If they bring us food, great. If not, we can hit the drive-thru after we leave.”
Beck nods and sets the platter he still holds on a table as we pass, then snags two glasses of wine from a passing server, and offers me one as we find empty seats. “So… the hotshots? When do they get here?”
“On the fifteenth.” I settle in and sit so I’m facing the crowd. A few minutes ago, I was secretly fangirling for the smokejumpers who have the coolest job on this planet and the next. But now, I want to know where that server went. I want to know her name. I want to know who the hell she is, since this town is small, but her face was unfamiliar. “They’re sending a squad, so I told the captain I wanna train with them.”
“Just you?” he asks.
“No, my whole crew. We’ll run through the outside of town, get to know how they work, and then I’ll bring them to the station and show them what we have.”
“Which is…?”
“A budget one-tenth of what they have,” I chuckle. “What we have, in comparison, is embarrassing. But we get the job done, and we keep the clunker truck we call Daisy in honor of how fucking ancient and slow she is.”
I sit taller when I glimpse Abby’s red hair across the room; it’s easy to spot, especially since she’s always being followed by her tall husband. But when the red is gone again, I lower in my seat and let my breath rumble out. “That server was cute, huh?”
“Aw man.” Beck huffs. “You think so too?”
“Uh… yeah? I’ve got eyes.”
“But I’m trying really hard this year not to flirt with unavailable women!”
“You flirted with the first server for the dessert menu!”
“But that server isn’t dating one of my brothers,” he argues. “Plus, she was, like, barely out of high school, so it’s not like I actually want to bang her. But that last server, though… she was pretty.” He hunches in his seat. “I shoulda dibsed first.”
“You’re insane.” Exhaling, I push up to stand and set my untouched wine on the table. “I’m going for a walk before you make me hit you.”
“You’re grumpy.”
“I’m somewhere around thirty hours of no sleep, and my brother is fastidioso.”
He barks out a laugh. “You caught that too, huh? Told you she was Italian.”
“Sparta is Greece, by the way. Not Italy.”
He shrugs. “Potato, potahto. It’s all Rome.”
“It’s— It— No, Beck, it’s not!”
Chest bouncing, he studies his wine glass and tries uselessly to smother his grin. “No, it’s not. But it makes people argue, and arguing is one end of the passion pendulum.”
“Ugh. Fastidioso.”
“Poser,” he smarts. “She went through those doors, by the way.” He points toward the far wall. “I wonder who Maximo is? Perhaps she’s already spoken for.”
“Perhaps you should shove apple pie into your throat and shut the fuck up.”
I turn away and head across the ballroom. I pass people I know, dozens and dozens of couples I’ve met over the years, and many more I know by face, but haven’t said more than two words to. I pass the Checkmate crew; as in Abby’s man and his buddies. They stand with their wives, their partners in crime, their friends, and act like they’re not packing enough heat to shut down a major airport. Then I pass others, people I’ve seen walk through Abby’s shop in search of flowers for special occasions.
I smile for Abby when she turns away from her group of gun-toting friends—somehow, the protected, innocent sister is now possibly the most badass of us all—then I stop when I’m met with that server once more.
I was expecting to catch her in the hall, perhaps on the way to the kitchen, but she squeaks when we slam together, jumps back with a startled cry, then her eyes widen when our gazes meet once more.
“Merda, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Are you okay?” I grab the woman’s arms when she fusses and almost falls over in her panicky state. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I…” She shakes her head with quick, jerking movements. “No, I’m okay.”
“Did I stomp on your toes?” I glance down when her movements still, then smile when her eyes achingly slowly make their way to mine. “And you still didn’t tell me your name.”
“That was a conscious choice.” Collecting herself, she steps back once more, jiggles her arms so I release her, then lifts her chin. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to—”
“Oh, hey.” All smiles, Abby steps up beside us and pulls the server into an embrace. Hugging is such an Abby thing to do. “So, you’ve met my brother? I was hoping you would. He’s one of the nicer of the lot.”
“Your… your…” The woman’s face drains white. “Your brother? Biologically?”
“Ha, yes. I know.” Abby places a hand on my arm and hugs in close. “The similarities are dazzling, right?”
“Er… no.” The woman, whose name I still don’t know, studies us with narrowed eyes. “There is nothing familiar here at all.” Then she shakes that off, clearly having more important things on her mind. “I know this is inappropriate, but can you monitor things for just a moment? I have to see Max. He’s calling me.”
“Who is Max?” My stomach dips for reasons unknown, and my heart trips just a little faster. “Is he here?”
&nbs
p; Her eyes whip to mine, frosty and mean. Dare I say territorial. “You ask things that have nothing to do with you.”
“It was only a question.” I lift my hands, but Abby’s hold hinders my movement. “I mean nothing by it.”
“Then you’ll never ask it again.” She looks to Abby, pleading, “I need help. For just a few minutes.”
“It’s fine.” Abby releases me and moves to the server. She wraps her up in a side hug, turns them both toward the doors I was originally heading toward, and in doing so, shows off two female bodies, wildly different from each other.
Abby is slim, flat, and simply… small. But the server is curvy and voluptuous. Wide-set hips, and a chest that tempts the buttons on her blouse to separate. Her stomach is thin, too thin, but perhaps it’s the roundness of her ass that makes her stomach appear so small in comparison.
“You go,” Abby tells the other woman. “I’ll stay here and keep watch. Though I doubt anything needs to be done. The guests are happy, and the announcements are still a few minutes away.”
“I’ll be ten minutes at the most.”
“Take twenty. In fact…” Abby snags Arlo’s wrist as she tries to pass, nudges her toward the server, and grins. “Arlo will help you.”
Arlo tosses a stuffed mushroom into her mouth. “What am I doing?”
“Initiative will guide you.” Abby pats her on the back and not-so-gently shoves her forward. “Go with her and help any way you can. Pretty please.”
“Sure.” Arlo hooks her arm through the server’s and turns their walk to an almost skip. “Where are we going?”
“Who is that?” As soon as the women disappear, I look back to Abby and scowl. “That’s my second run-in with her tonight, and both times, she’s completely ignored a request for her name.”
“Perhaps she doesn’t want to tell you?” Sniggering, Abby grabs onto Spencer’s arm when he walks by, then they’re gone, once more lost in the sea of people.
What the fuck is going on?
Who is the server, and why the hell hasn’t she lost her job yet? How does she know Abby… and better yet, how does Abby know her?
“And who the fuck is Max?”
Beckett sidles up on my left and taunts me with a dirty chuckle. “That was strike two. And possibly more brutal than how she shut me down.”
“Who the hell is she, Beck? Where’d she come from?”
“Rome, apparently. She speaks of Max, but she has no ring on that finger. Not even a tan line.”
“Of course you checked.”
He laughs. “Like I said, I’m trying not to hit on taken women. I looked at her chest first, her fingers second. Then I saved her ass for when she walked away.”
“You’re objectifying a woman you don’t know.”
“Isn’t that what society is built on?” he counters with a laugh. “Where would we be if leering men were no longer a thing?”
“Probably better off.” I reach up and scratch my shoulder. “Fuck, she’s like an itch I can’t scratch.”
Unbothered, Beckett only shrugs. “She’s on the waitstaff, so if she disappears, it’s a sure bet you can ask Abby or Nadia or anyone else to find out who she is. Abby has been harping on about the contract for this hotel for months, and she and the owner seem to be pretty tight, if the million phone calls a day indicate friendship. I bet you could figure it out quick enough.”
“She doesn’t seem inclined to want to know us.” I make my way through the crowd. Slow steps, slow eyes, and a penchant to check the fire escapes. “She had two separate opportunities to tell us her name. She said hell no both times.”
“Did you try the smolder?”
My eyes shoot to his, my temper fraying. “We need space. Right fucking now.”
Chuckling, he turns away and saves himself from a fight in the middle of the ballroom that Abigail is supposed to be supervising. His shoulders bounce, and as he moves, his eyes scour the occupant of each sparkling dress, paying particular attention to those with the strapless tops and busty…well… busts.
Shaking my head, I turn back and study the head of the room. A microphone stands atop a wooden structure, the podium lone and striking in its ability to create a stunning focal point when it’s nothing more than waxed wood. The wall behind it is made of garlands and lights. Candles and roses.
My smile notches up a couple of degrees when my brain registers the fact that those roses came from my sister. They were placed there by my sister’s hand—or Nadia’s, or Arlo’s. Every single pretty flower in here, and potentially many of the crystals and glass pendants, they’re all hers.
Pride swells in my stomach, even as the lighting in the room dims but for the lights at the front, which turn brighter.
Whoever is in charge of the theatrics around here is working, and they’re preparing to showcase someone. The emcee, perhaps.
Silverware is tapped against crystal glasses by the crowd, who somehow knows to make this into a big production. Abby and Spencer make their way to the center of the mob, and we come together a mere ten feet from the podium just as the room finishes its din.
Then a spotlight flashes bright and stops on a silver gown, sparkling like royalty and blinding in its elegance. Heels peek from beneath its front, and as the spotlight rises, so too do my eyes. Over a pair of luscious hips, then a trim waist.
“Oh my gosh.” Abby squeezes Spencer’s arm and bounces in place. “It looks even better on her than it does on the hanger.”
My eyes remain glued; to the hips, to the bust. To her trim arms, bare of any clothing or adornments, and her hands, which clasp a wireless microphone.
The spotlight continues up, so we see the ends of her dangling hair, a loose, messy bun tied at the nape of her neck.
And then a sharp jawline. Fire engine red lipstick. And eyes of fire.
My lungs seize, and my heart stumbles. Because I’m faced with none other than the server from a few minutes ago, but gone is her black and white ensemble and in its place is can’t-touch-this elegance.
“Welcome.” She speaks into the microphone, sex and sophistication all bottled up within one thick Italian accent. “My name is Idalia,” she purrs. “And I personally want to thank you all for coming out tonight for the Oriane’s grand opening. Your support means the world to me.”
Beckett sidles up beside me, hunger and humor both evident in his dirty chuckle. “She’d like to personally thank me for being here, Nix. You still have dibs, or can I make my move?”
Idalia
It Runs in the Blood
It is hard work being the owner and single operator of a hotel the size of mine, on opening night, with a child barely out of his toddler years upstairs also needing my attention.
Max refuses to come down to be with me, and I can’t go up and be with him—not for more than a couple of minutes at a time, when I can sneak out of this ballroom. So I’m left with the earpiece nestled deep in my ear—a gift from Abigail’s husband—and on the other end, Arlo, my accidental babysitter.
Max isn’t speaking, of course, but Arlo is; she hardly stops to allow for breathing. “Max is hungry,” she chatters in my ear, all while I hold a glass of champagne and smile for the group who demand my attention—or really, they demand I pay attention to them.
“When I was a child,” one of the men, old and stuffy in a suit that would have fit him much better back when he was twenty-five, chortles and forces his jowls to bounce. “This place was grand. The grandest in town.”
“Max and I are going to make a sundae surprise, Mommy. No cooking, I promise. Just lots of mess, but that’s totally cool, because we’ll clean it up, won’t we Maximillian?”
“And back then,” the man with swinging jowls continues, “this place was purportedly home to royalty.”
“Chocolate sauce and marshmallows,” Arlo sings. “Sprinkles on Max’s nose.”
“There was a dispute over who would live here,” the guy pushes on. “One family claimed it for themselves. Another family said
it was theirs.”
“Mmmm-Bop! Ohh, let’s have soda too. Have you tried soda with your ice cream before, Max? It’ll make your tummy swirl.”
“Excuse me.” I back out of my small group and spin with the intention to spear tackle the child babysitting my child, but before I can take my shoes off and sprint, I crash into a broad chest for the second time tonight and stifle a squeal of fright.
My heart thunders in my chest, but when my captor’s—my savior’s?—cologne fills my lungs and clouds my brain, my pulse only quickens.
“You’re always in a rush, huh?”
I look up and meet forest-green eyes that sparkle with humor and a heaping dose of intrigue.
I saw him when I introduced the Oriane; standing front and center, his eyes on me, his attention all mine, even with his siblings standing on each side and chattering at him.
He has dark hair, darker than mine, that sits about an inch long. A heavy brow, and lashes longer than any woman will ever get unless she pays for them. His shoulders are ridiculously broad, his chest, thick and heavy enough to make his suit stand proud.
I allow myself this minute to look, to catalogue and, sure, to admire. I’ve been looking for months… not for a man, not for a replacement for my husband, but for that second glance. The spark that makes me want to study a man for more than a fleeting moment in time.
And this man does that. He looks good, and for the first time since my husband’s passing, I’m intrigued enough to look for twenty seconds longer.
But then, “Do you wanna make s’mores, Max? At the stove, or should we go up to the roof?”
“Oh, merda.”
The man’s brows shoot high, but his hands remain on my arms, his grasp tight enough to keep me prisoner, but not so tight that I feel like he’s restraining me. “I know what you just said, Miss Italy. Am I that repulsive?”
“Nope. But I think someone’s about to set my hotel on fire, and if she does, murder will follow when I get my hands around her neck.” I swing out of his hold and shoot toward the hall.
“Arlo?” I speak, though I know she can’t hear me the way I hear her.