by Cara Dee
Perhaps today was a reminder that my life sucked even before Finnegan rode into town on his Aston Martin horse. I’d woken up to the sound of Dad throwing the coffeemaker at the fridge. Considering he’d been gone when I came home yesterday, I’d assumed he’d sleep away half the day. Instead, he’d acted like he’d been possessed by a demon, so I’d hightailed it out of there.
Only to come here to the diner and find out we were short-staffed.
“Miss?” A man sitting by the counter held up his empty coffee cup.
“I’m sorry, sir. One minute.” I rounded the counter first to serve a family their lunch. Rattling off their orders, I set two plates of food on their table. “I’ll be right out with the kids’ meals.”
“I painted!” The youngest boy in the family presented the coloring sheet he’d gone berserk on with crayons.
“You did? That’s so cool.” I grinned and ruffled his hair, then addressed the parents. “I’ll get you some refills too.” Then I returned behind the counter, refilled the man’s coffee, and waited for Ben to finish the next orders in the kitchen.
I endured another hour of torture before I had to excuse myself. Laura could handle things for two minutes.
I found privacy in the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face and neck, willing my mind to slow down. I actually liked stressful environments, but this was pushing it. There were supposed to be five people working during the usual rushes. Now we were down to three, leaving Ben alone in the kitchen, and Laura and I had to man the register too.
I looked like roadkill. Make that candy-cane roadkill, given my uniform. I could survive the Santa-red leggings and white polo tee, but the stripy apron and hair band crossed the line.
Grabbing a few paper towels, I dabbed them over my neck and forehead. It was time to get back out there and let Laura take two as well.
Two more hours, and then I was further ruining this day by seeing Finnegan.
On my way out, I tucked some loose waves into my ponytail and—fuck, stopped short at the door in the kitchen. Through the round window, I could see Finnegan sitting at the counter. Wearing a hoodie. I didn’t know what shook me the most, the casual outfit or that he was way too early.
Something tugged at me, though. Something that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. I watched as he flicked his gaze between the daily specials and his surroundings, maybe wondering where I was.
I liked this less polished look on him. His hair wasn’t tidy today either. Before, he’d at least made an honest attempt.
I pushed the door open and resigned myself to be mocked for my uniform, and he looked up from the little menu stand.
A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he gave me a slow once-over.
“You’re early—again.”
“And you’re adorable,” he chuckled. “I’m hungry. What’s good around here?”
I took the menu from him and placed it by the register. “Nothing on there. The grilled cheese with bacon and tomato is pretty good.”
“Sign me up for one of those.” He nodded.
I took out my pad from my apron and jotted down the order. “Fries or mac and cheese with that?”
“Mac and cheese? With grilled cheese?”
I pointed my pen at the diner sign behind me. Welcome to Mac’s Diner. Bringing you every meal with the best mac and cheese since 1969. Mac Hanson, who’d opened the diner, had passed down the business to his son and daughter. He was dead now. Heart attack.
“We’ll see if it’s the best.” Finnegan saw it as a challenge.
I laughed under my breath. “And drink?”
“Coke, thanks.”
Tearing off the order, I pinned it on top of the others, then poured him a large Coke with ice.
“Will I get any special treatment?” he asked with a smile.
I shook my head, hating that I found him funny. “I can ask Ben to burn your food if you want.”
“Sassafras.” He removed the straw and sipped from his soda.
He was about to say something else, but Laura interrupted, joining me behind the counter with a loud sigh.
“I think things are finally calming down. I’ll take a quick break if you don’t mind.”
“No, of course. Go.” I surveyed the diner. All booths were full. As were the guests’ drinks, and Finnegan shared the counter with two others. The guy who’d been impatient for coffee earlier had left.
I knew if I sat down, someone was going to need me, so I poured a soda for myself and remained standing near Finnegan, who was watching me.
“I know I look like a mess. Stop staring.”
“I will if you will.”
“I’m not staring at you,” I said.
He raised his brows. “You’re literally watching me right now.”
“But that’s just—ugh!” I wanted to whine.
He cracked a smug little grin.
Sexy, cocky, arrogant asshole.
Thank God someone needed a refill. I was quick to leave the counter and grab the guest’s near-empty glass. “Is there anything else I can get you, ma’am? Everything taste good?”
“Always good, dear.” She patted my hand. “Just some iced tea, thank you.”
“Coming right up.” I ignored Finnegan’s amused stare and did my job, though it was impossible to avoid him for long. Laura came back, and since she was never on good terms with the register, she opted to cover the dining area.
I had no choice but to plant myself behind the counter and manage payments and one mobster.
“One twelve with mac,” Ben said behind me. It was Finnegan’s order, and I accepted it through the serving hatch.
Finnegan’s eyes lit up at the sight of his lunch, and it was almost cute. Okay, it was cute as hell, and I hated him for it. When was I gonna understand that it wasn’t all right to find the company of convicted felons entertaining? There was a part of me that was beginning to focus solely on Finnegan to see how he’d surprise me next.
Where was the fear? The horror? The repulsion?
“This looks…” Staring at his meal, he quickly unfolded the napkin around his utensils.
“The guy who opened this place died of a heart attack,” I blurted out.
Finnegan’s eyebrows bunched together, and he wasn’t happy anymore. “Why would you hurt me like that? Why?”
Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh.
“Fucking women,” he muttered under his breath and tucked into the mac and cheese.
A snicker broke free. I had to distract myself before I lost my mind and downright enjoyed being around him.
At two, the place was dead—and would be for the next couple of hours before the early-bird rush started. I sent Laura home and put in two final orders. I wanted my free meal, and Finnegan wanted dessert. He’d spotted fried Twinkies and ice cream on the dessert menu and couldn’t order it fast enough.
“You’re different today,” I noted.
It was as if he relaxed when the suit came off.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that lately.” He smiled with chagrin and picked at a straw wrapper. “Can we snag a booth? My ass is in agony.”
I spluttered a laugh at the image, failing to hide it with a cough, and nodded once. I didn’t wanna eat standing up anyway, so we moved to a booth as soon as our orders were ready.
As we sat down, Finnegan and I exchanged a look, and he appeared as confused as I was. It hit me how average this was—yet comforting and familiar. We were two people hanging out in a diner, something kids my age had done for generations. It was just…different. Very different from our date in Gettysburg.
“Did you have any special plans for us today?” I asked.
“I think I just changed them.”
So, we were staying at the crappy diner where I worked, and it was okay. It was more than okay. I relaxed in my seat and stuck a couple fries into my mouth, genuinely content for the first time in weeks. I’d feel guilty for it later; right now, I wanted a break.
Finnegan let out an obscene groan when he tasted his dessert. His car had a similar effect on me, and I felt the heat on my face. This time, I didn’t hide my amusement. I guess it didn’t matter if a guy was a thug or a CEO; there would always be something about men and their food.
“I’m gonna have to ask Ian to make this,” he said.
“Ian?” I poked at my two pieces of chicken and tore off the meat with my fork.
“My parents’ chef.”
Good lord. “You have a personal chef who cooks for you?”
“My folks do.” He nodded. “To me, he’s more of a therapist. I talk, he listens.”
I quirked half a grin. “I think you just described a priest.”
“I already have one of those.” The words came out muffled, his cheeks puffed out with Twinkie and ice cream. “And trust, he talks as much as he listens.”
“You’re not religious, are you?” That would be too weird. I assumed he was Catholic due to his heritage, but come on.
“I am.” He nodded slowly and frowned slightly. “Is that a problem?”
Jeesh. Where did I begin? “Not for me,” I clarified. “I guess that’s between you and the man upstairs.”
“We’re on good terms.”
“I’m sure,” I replied dryly. “God loves a killer.”
He grinned around his dessert and pointed his spoon at me. “I’ve never killed anyone.”
So he kept insisting. I wished I could believe him—I honestly did—and I feared I would if he kept this up. Finnegan was incredibly charming, and he knew it. He used it.
“Let’s talk about your birthday.” He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth. “Fuck, this was good.”
“What about my birthday?” I dragged a piece of chicken through the puddle of barbecue sauce.
“You turn eighteen. We gotta celebrate it. If there’s one thing the Irish know, it’s how to show people a good time.” He pushed his plate to the side, then rested his forearms on the table. “What do you say?”
I scrunched my nose. “Like a party? I’m not fond of many people in this town. I only have a handful I’d call friends.” If that.
“Fuck them,” he said. “I wanna introduce you to my family. My brother and my cousins, to be more exact. My folks are still busy packing up in Philly.”
That put a rock in my stomach. One mafia guy was enough. I’d pee my pants if I had to meet more, and he had a whole family of them.
“I don’t want a party,” I answered and stared at my food. “You can get me a card if you want. I’ll even spell out happy birthday for you—”
“Emilia.”
I looked up reluctantly and was met with a soft smile.
“I’m not budging.” He leaned forward a bit. “And it’s not a party. It’s you, me, my brother, Sarah, and my two twelve-year-old cousins.” When he put it like that… Things changed at the prospect of having Sarah there. And two kids? “We’ll eat and drink and listen to some music. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
To someone who didn’t have any family, it was anything but ordinary.
The bastard was pulling me toward him with crap I’d never had, crap I’d dreamed of. Good company, laughter, family, just a plain good time among people you liked. And it was so wrong. I didn’t like Finnegan, and I wouldn’t like his damn family either.
Make it true, make it true.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“Fair enough.” He stole a French fry from me. “I’ll win you over.” That’s what I’m afraid of, idiot. “You haven’t asked a single question about my offer. Are you thinking about that too?”
I thought about it every hour of the day. Especially since yesterday. Once I’d stopped crying my eyes out and Sarah had comforted me, she’d been persistently encouraging. She wanted me to agree to marry Finnegan, because then she wouldn’t have to go through this alone. Moreover, she and I could start making plans for our post-O’Shea future.
She had lists of things she wanted to do or get once she’d divorced Patrick.
For a moment, her fantasies had swept me away too, except those thoughts hadn’t resulted in anything positive. I’d sat there on the picnic bench and indulged, thinking I could be anything I wanted if I had the money. Which had led to the question, what the fuck did I want to be?
I had no dreams that went beyond getting my own place and making ends meet.
“I don’t know what to ask,” I admitted. “I assume you’re offering me money if I agree.”
He nodded.
“And I don’t want to be married to a mobster,” I replied honestly. “I’m not romantic by nature. If you’d been someone else, I probably would’ve considered it. I hate my life here, and the money is a one-way ticket to freedom. But you’re an O’Shea.”
He hummed and peered out the window for a moment, thinking. His car was parked right outside. “And you’re dead set on believing the rumors about me.” He cocked his head, asking for clarification.
“They’re not rumors,” I said quietly. “You’ve been to prison.”
“Not for murder. Christ.” His eyes flashed with frustration. “Emilia, you’re judging me for what people around me may or may not have done. I would never—” He released a deflating breath and smirked a little sadly. “You know, on my way over, I thought my biggest issue today would be how to pick out questions on the list my cousins helped me make.”
I frowned in confusion. “A list?”
He shifted in his seat to reach something from his back pocket. “Nessa thought it was imperative I ask who your favorite movie star is and if he’s cute.”
He slid the crumpled piece of paper my way, and I picked it up and flattened it against the table. Question upon question, scribbled in a disturbingly flawless cursive writing. From my favorite color and scent, to preferences on music and—oh, geez.
“‘What’s my favorite cake?’” I quirked a brow.
“I came up with that one.”
I tried to hide my smile.
“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” He leaned back and withdrew his hands to his lap. “You legit believe you’re sitting here with a killer.”
I dropped my gaze quickly. My head couldn’t handle this. For all I knew, he could be a skilled manipulator. I would never know.
“I’m not sure, Finnegan.” I was at a loss. A couple weeks ago, I was a hundred percent certain. Now he’d crammed so many questions inside my skull that it physically hurt. It was the danger of getting to know him. He was funny, smart, and we bantered like professionals.
I didn’t know what was real. That was the problem. All I had was me, and the more I saw Finnegan, the less I could trust myself.
“Meet my family next week, princess.” He inched forward again and, for the first time, covered my hands with his. Ugh. Even his use of princess was sounding less and less like snark. It came out like a term of endearment. Combine that with his hands touching mine, and my brain was ready to call it a day. “See for yourself,” he murmured. “My folks can’t wait to see you when they come out here. My brother and cousins will be the warm-up. We’ll sit out back and get a fire started. Watching Patrick burn his fingers is always fun.” Damn him for painting these images for me. “You’ll love Alec. He’ll probably try to impress you with some live music.”
My chest ached.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Yeah?” He brushed his thumbs over my knuckles.
I suppressed a shiver and managed a small nod. In response, he brought my hands to him and kissed the backs.
The moment left me dazed, and I retreated a bit once he released my hands. One thing was for certain: I’d never met a man like Finnegan O’Shea before. Time would tell if that was good or bad. If knowing him would be bad.
“It’s a she.” I cleared my throat and fidgeted with my napkin.
“Hmm?” He looked to me.
“My favorite movie star,” I said. “Tell your cousin it’s a kick-ass woman.”
&
nbsp; He smiled. “All right.”
Chapter 8
Emilia Porter
Instead of going home after school on Monday, I stayed behind with Sarah. She’d accepted my invitation for a “get-together” with the O’Sheas on my birthday, and it worried me. When I was weak, I needed her to be strong and resolute. The O’Sheas were bad people; she had to keep reminding me. If she stopped, who knew what would become of me.
“When does your shift start?” she asked.
We reached the picnic tables, and she extended a cigarette to me.
“Thanks. In an hour or so.” Butt planted on the table and feet on the bench, I stared at the cigarette between my fingers. What was once an occasional anxiety relief was turning into a daily thing because Sarah could afford it.
She kept showing up in new clothes. Patrick had given her a credit card, and she was putting it to good use.
“Do, um…do you ever feel like you’re warming up to Patrick?” I asked hesitantly.
Sarah gave me a look that said it all. No, she definitely didn’t. “Hon, this is business. Nothing else. You gotta take more advantage of Finnegan. Remember that he’s using you.”
Why did that sting? She was right. Finnegan was using me.
“I bet if you agree to marry him, he’ll give you a credit card too,” she said.
Was that why’d she’d gone so far as to agree to a marriage proposal? The way I saw it, agreeing to date Patrick would’ve been enough to help the FBI. Then again, she had to look out for herself too.
As hobo-like as I looked next to Sarah these days, I wasn’t sure I wanted a credit card. I guess that made me horrible at taking advantage. He’d given me a nice outfit and a fancy phone. It felt like a lot already. But, as Sarah pointed out, he was using me. The gifts were part of the allure to reel me in.
“You’re right.” Not that I had any plans to accept a proposal, but I had to chill. I lit up the cigarette and handed back the lighter. “You seem to be looking forward to Wednesday a whole lot, though.”
“Nothing wrong with enjoying yourself.” She bumped her shoulder with mine. “We deserve it, Em.”