by Shandi Boyes
My words trail off when the truth smacks into me. “I need to go.”
“Yes, you do,” Justine replies, laughing.
She knows me well enough to know where my thoughts strayed.
When she leans in to place a kiss on my cheek, I mutter in her ear, “Please don’t get freaky in the hot tub with Brax again tonight, J. Dad’s ticker won’t survive a second massacre.”
“We’re friends. That’s it.” She overemphasizes the word ‘friends.’ “I hang out with lots of friends when I’m home from school.”
I pull her back to an arm’s length, give her a look as if to say, no friend of mine has ever given me their virginity, then hightail it toward the gym. My lunch should be curdling in my stomach at the recollection I know all aspects of my sister’s love life, but for some reason, it isn’t.
That isn’t how our family operates.
We don’t keep dark, dirty secrets from each other.
We help hide them.
Forty minutes and a near head-on later, I assure the maître d at Petretti’s Restaurant for the fifth time I’m happy dining alone before she assigns me a waiter.
“Are there any tables closer to the kitchen?” I ask him when he guides me toward the front of the restaurant. I need to be near the back in the ‘workers’ half of the establishment.
As the waiter twists to face me, his dark brows pinch together. “There is… but they’re also close to the restrooms.”
“That’s fine. I have no issues eating near a toilet.” My last four words don’t come out as strong as my first two. “It can come in handy when you’re eating Italian.”
Really, Maddox? I was trying to be funny. It didn’t work out as planned. Now I understand why I’ve been dateless for so long. I thought my obsessive crush on Demi was the issue. Joke’s on me.
“I don’t like people.”
Much better. Arrogant and only partly false. I like people, but it’s rare to find good ones in Hopeton.
“Oh, okay,” the waiter replies. “Me neither.”
With a crass grin that reveals he’s as bad at joke-telling as me, he places down a setting for one on a table that butts up with the corridor leading to the washrooms. Although I could sit out of the firing line, I take a seat in the chair that infringes the walkway. It gives me an uninterrupted view of the swinging door that separates the kitchen from the main dining area. It’s the perfect spot for me to implement stage two of my ruse—woo Demi Petretti.
“Can I start you off with a drink?” the server asks, not put-off by my unusual seating request.
I issue my thanks for his coolness with a smile. “Water will be great, thank you.”
He jots down my order like he’ll forget it between here and the kitchen before he commences rattling off the meals customers ignore the dirtiness of the Petretti name to feast on each day.
“What is the sous-chef’s special today?” I interrupt, stopping him partway through a list far too long to run through for each customer. I didn’t lie when I told Demi I’ve dined here every second day the past two months. I’m well-rehearsed on the standard menu, but ‘standard’ isn’t what I want. I’m here for the ‘special dish’ only a handful of patrons are lucky enough to secure.
“I’m not sure,” the waiter replies, aware of what I’m asking but uneased by my request. “She wasn’t rostered on today. She only arrived thirty minutes ago. I could ask her if you’d like?”
“If you could, that would be great.” I swallow to clear the stupid-ass nerves in my throat before adding, “Or perhaps she could tell me what her creation will be… in person?”
“Oh.” He pauses, smiles, then starts again. “I see.”
He sees all right—a sucker in the making. His brow isn’t cocked for no reason. I won’t get anywhere near the ‘Petretti special’ without handing over some coin, and if the dollar signs flashing in his eyes are anything to go by, a couple of dollar bills won’t cut the mustard.
While grumbling about how my glass of water better be free, I dig a twenty out of my wallet before slipping it into his hand.
“Sous-chef will be right out,” he says, all pompous like.
Thirty seconds later, Demi fills his spot. “Maddox,” she stammers out like I’m a mirage.
As her eyes widen in shock, they scan the restaurant. I can’t confirm who she’s seeking, but I can assume. The dread on her face is very telling, much less the sweat beating on her brow. It’s the same expression that reflected in the Latin restaurant’s door when I carried her inside, and the very reason I requested for us to be seated at the back. Even with Hopeton being her stomping ground, she isn’t comfortable here. It fuels my eagerness to discover why that is.
When Demi fails to find any sign of her uncle or the men he regularly dines with, her eyes return to me. “What are you doing here? You just ate.” Her dark brows pull together as an uneasy grin raises her cheeks. “And how did you know I’d be here? I wasn’t rostered to work today.”
“One, I’m always up for more food, especially if it is delicious as the meals you’ve been creating.” Her ghost-like smile is potent enough to slay a man. “And two, you took a left on 22nd Street. If you were going home, you would have turned right.” I shrug like it’s no big deal I know all her favorite haunts. It isn’t hard. She’s a creature of habit. She’s either at the gym, home, or here.
“Right.” She looks torn between smiling and grimacing. “So I need to add stalking to your list of talents? Good to know.”
Her facial expression settles on relieved a few seconds later. I want to say it’s compliments to my undeniable charisma. Unfortunately, that would be a lie. All the credit belongs to the waiter. He didn’t just fill my glass with room temperature water when he returned to my table to take my order, he also advised Demi her uncle’s flight has been delayed until tomorrow, so she’ll need to stay until closing tonight.
Most people scowl when lumped with the late shift. Demi almost bursts with excitement.
“Thank you, Ty.” Although Ty looks on the verge of cracking a fat over Demi’s gratitude, I act ignorant to the admired twinkle in his eyes. Her words may have been for him, but her eyes are solely mine. “Do you really want to know what tonight’s special will be?”
I’m as stuffed as a turkey at Thanksgiving, but I’ll force down anything she’s offering if it keeps her looking at me the way she is.
Well, except for one thing.
“It isn’t snails again, is it?”
I thought Demi’s light eyes and dark hair combination was her greatest asset, but her smile makes a quick liar out of me. “Not tonight. I’m saving them for taco Tuesday. If you only want to spend two dollars on a taco, you should anticipate slugs in your meal.”
“Way to ruin a good feed.”
Her smile doubles. It’s almost as large as mine. “They deserve it.”
The mood shifts from playful to serious when I can’t hold back my comment. “I’m sure they do.”
Four little words shouldn’t be so impacting, but they force our exchange into a prolonged stretch of silence. I wouldn’t necessarily say it is uncomfortable. It’s more promising than disheartening.
I’m not claiming to know all her secrets.
I am merely letting her know I’m okay with her having them.
After an additional thirty seconds of silence, Demi breaks it. “I placed a tray of homemade lasagnas in the oven when I arrived, but they need another thirty or so minutes. I could whip you up something if you have time to kill?”
I nod like she invited me to her place for a nightcap. “I’ve got nowhere important to be.”
Her eyes fall to my watch that shows I’m due to arrive at a fight in the basement of a college library forty miles from here in a little over an hour before she returns them to my face. “Are you sure about that, Ox? From what I’ve heard, your Thursday nights are booked until New Year’s, and your Fridays may soon follow them.”
I twist my lips, not surprised she knows m
y fighting name and oddly turned on by it. “Who did you hear that from?”
I’m acting coy, and Demi knows it. Her cousin organizes the college circuit held every Thursday in local colleges, and he ‘owns’ a handful of fighters in the Friday night statewide feature his father runs each week. She knows what’s been occupying my time for the past seven months because her family is very much a part of it. That’s why I was hesitant with my comment earlier today. My ego wouldn’t let me believe she was only glancing my way because she wanted to shift my fight schedule from Thursdays to Fridays as her cousin has been endeavoring to do the past couple of months, but it has occasionally led me astray, so I had to listen to the rational side of my brain for a change.
“No one important,” Demi eventually replies, her tone honest.
When I scoot to the edge of my chair, the cuffs on the sports jacket I tossed over my gym clothes ride up past my wrists. I’m underdressed to dine in a restaurant, but I didn’t want to travel home just to change my clothes. The sooner I arrived here, the faster I’d learn how badly I shoved my foot into my mouth. I can’t take back what I said, but I can assure I don’t make the same mistake twice.
“My schedule is set by importance.” I scan Demi’s beautiful face and big blue eyes while muttering, “This is important.”
By this, I mean her.
Fortunately for me, Demi has no issues reading between the lines. With a smile that advocates my earlier stuff-up has been wiped clean, she says, “I’ll be out with your meal as soon as possible.”
Her steps away slow when I offer, “Then perhaps I can give you a ride home?”
The whisps of almost black hair fanning her gorgeous face slap her cheeks when she whips back around to face me. The rest of her glossy locks are pulled off her face in a high ponytail, enhancing the elegance of her long neck. “That’s hours away, Maddox.”
I shrug before sinking into my chair. “As I said earlier, I am exactly where I’m meant to be.”
Demi tries to reel in the happiness beaming across her face. I hope she has no wish to become an actor. Her skills are less than impressive.
After a couple of seconds of silent deliberations, she warns, “Don’t drink the water. It’s most likely laced with laxatives.” When my brows scrunch, her smile shines brighter than the moon on a cloudless night. “Ty can be a tad bit jealous. He’d rather you spend the night on the toilet than in my bed.”
Her reply has my emotions unsure which way to swing. I want to remove Ty’s smug grin with my fists, but I’m smiling just as smugly, stoked as fuck he too could feel the sexual chemistry bristling between Demi and me even with him only being in our monarchy for a couple of seconds. It makes me confident I made the right decision putting Demi before my fight tonight.
My eyes shoot back to Demi when she says, “By the way, Ty is gay. He isn’t saving me from you, Maddox. He’s saving you for himself.”
After hitting me with a frisky wink, loving my gaped jaw, she saunters back into the kitchen with the spring her step was missing when she left me gobsmacked only an hour ago.
4
Maddox
“How was your meal?”
I raise my eyes from my spotlessly clean plate to Demi. Even with her spending a majority of the past two hours in the kitchen, the electricity brewing between us is at an explosive point. The restaurant is full of patrons, so the floor staff enters and exits the kitchen every couple of minutes. Without fail, my eyes forever land on Demi’s between the swings of the door. She also hand-delivered my specially-crafted meal, so my stalker watch hasn’t just occurred from afar. It has also been front and center for the world to see.
After propping her slim hip onto the chair across from mine, Demi says, “You’ll be pleased to know it was snail free. I slipped them into Mr. Mosey’s dish after he complained the tomato paste wasn’t tomatoey enough for him.”
After laughing at her comment, I show her my spotless plate. “I think my plate speaks on my behalf, but in case it doesn’t, my meal was so delicious, I licked the fucker clean.” I grimace when my swear word gains me the stink eye of a group of elderly ladies on my right. “Sorry. My mom often threatens to wash my mouth out with soap. She just can’t bring herself to do it. I could be the biggest asshole in the world, but she’ll never see it.”
“If swearing is the worst thing you’ve done, I understand your mom’s objective.” After gathering up my dirty dishes like she’s one of the waitstaff, Demi locks her eyes with mine. “Dessert?”
I could be completely off the mark, but I swear her question is laced with hidden innuendo.
Always willing to push the boundaries, I test the theory. “What’s on the menu?”
There’s no doubt about my assumption when my gravelly reply causes Demi to pull her knees together. It’s the same heated, knee-knocking response she gave when I banded my arm around her waist earlier today.
After spotting my grin no amount of salt could tarnish, Demi balances my dirty dishes in one hand before she thrusts a dessert menu into my face. “You can pick something scrumptious off this…”
People who haven’t watched her for as long as I have could mistake her pause as allowing me the chance to reply. I’m not close to reaching that conclusion. She wants to say more, but she’s forever cautious she is about to make a mistake. It’s very much a Demi trait.
Although I could let her off the hook by ordering the first dish my eyes stumble upon, I strongly believe forcing her out of her comfort zone will do more good than harm.
“Or?” I ask like she left her comment hanging.
“Or…” she follows along nicely. “There’s an ice cream parlor a couple of blocks over. I’ve heard their vanilla cones are to die for.”
I can’t hold back my smile, so I let it free. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She bobs her head in sync with mine. “If you want. No pressure or anyth—” I steal her words by slotting the dessert menu back into its holder then standing to my feet. “Oh, I can’t leave now. I have to finish my shift.”
“I know.” I take a moment to relish the disappointment in her tone before saying, “But I see us getting out of here a lot quicker if I take care of them for you.”
When I nudge my head to the dirty dishes in her hand, her cheeks glow. “I can’t let you wash the dishes, Maddox.”
“Why not?” I ask while transferring the mess from her hands to mine. “If it’s good for you, it’s good for me.”
Demi doesn’t just cook here. She waits the tables, cleans the dishes, and turns a blind eye to the many shady deals that occur here every weekend, yet I’ve not once seen her accept a tip. Even the ones from the patrons who can’t take no for an answer are placed into the tip jar at the front of the bar.
With Demi too stunned to talk, I steer our walk into the industrial kitchen. Some of the waiters eyeball me with confusion. The twinkle in their narrowed gazes switches to amused when I fill the stainless-steel sink at the side of the large space with soapy water. They think I can’t afford the bill for my one-of-a-kind meal. If it keeps news of my backstage tour from Demi’s uncle’s ears, I’m more than happy for them to believe I’m poor.
“Is that it?”
“I think so.” Demi swings her eyes around the sparkling clean and empty kitchen before returning them to me. Even donning the apron she handed me partway through my new career as a dishwasher hasn’t stopped the front of my gym shorts from being soaked.
I take a couple of seconds to relish her hidden smile before asking, “It looks like I pissed my pants, doesn’t it?”
“No,” she replies while nodding, incapable of lying directly to my face.
When I arch a brow at her, calling out her deceit, she sets her smile free. It’s her biggest one tonight. “Okay, maybe a little.”
I whip her backside with the tea towel I haven’t been without for the past three hours. When it cracks on her backside, she squeals before darting to the other side of the kitchen. “Your secret is safe wi
th me. I won’t tell a soul. I promise.”
“It’s not a secret if it’s untrue.” I follow her around the kitchen, playfully whipping her another two times before my campaign to whip her into line is ended by her splatting a handful of bubbles in my face.
When my exhale replicates a bubble machine on the brink of running out of detergent, the happy gleam in Demi’s eyes the past six hours amplifies. I haven’t seen her wear this look in years, and it’s taking everything I have not to ask her exactly how long it’s been. I wouldn’t hesitate if tonight were about re-hatching old memories, but I want us to create new ones.
“You know I’m going to need to retaliate, right?” I speak through the ghastly smelling bubbles coating my lips. I’ve got enough suds on my face to scrub my mind clean of the many inappropriate thoughts I’m currently having. In case you’re wondering, every one of them features Demi. “It’s a Walsh trait. We don’t let anything slide.”
Sparks of the girl I knew before her father died fire in Demi’s eyes when she takes three giant steps back. “You can retaliate… if you can catch me.”
When she spins and bolts, I scoop up a huge handful of the bubbles in the sink before chasing her down. I’m on her heels in an instant, and even faster than that, I have her pinned to the industrial refrigerator with my crotch and am holding a suds-soaked hand in front of her face as if it is a cream pie.
Our closeness shifts the tension from playful to lusty in an instant, and the struggle to keep things friendly is heard in my voice when I ask, “What are you going to give me to keep these bubbles to myself?”