6 Days to Get Lucky

by L E Franks

  “Ah, deepest apologies, Nick. We didn’t mean to disrespect your place here. Forgive us. Here… let me help ya down…”

  His dimple was back, and when he reached up to me, it seemed safe enough to risk. Corwyn put his hands on my hips after guiding mine onto his shoulders and stepped back, muscling me off the bar and against the safety of his body.

  He leaned back far enough to give me room to slide slowly down the front of his wet torso, avoiding barstools and hurlers alike.

  I felt a shiver as I stuttered to a halt, eye to eye with the man. His were warm and liquid—full of invitation, the look hot enough to quick dry the bar itself. I swallowed, unable to look away. For a split-second, I didn’t move, frozen like a bunny cornered by a cobra.

  I blame his wet shirt and my damp apron for causing the friction that prevented me from slipping easily away from danger, but like everything else in my life lately, I seemed in need of perpetual damage control.

  I felt someone large move up behind me, hot breath teasing my ear as the drawl I’d been dying to hear just moments before was now making my balls shrivel at being caught hung up like this.

  “I didn’t realize you started having Wet T-shirt Tuesdays, Nicky. I can’t wait to see what you plan on givin’ the winner.”

  Fuck me.

  * * * * *

  As soon as FatBoy took up a position standing in front of the bar with his arms folded across his chest in warning, tensions unraveled quickly. It didn’t hurt that whenever anyone tried to speak to me without benefit of a credit card or wad of bills in their hand, FatBoy chased them away with a look.

  Within minutes, they went from a pack of snarling dogs to a herd of little lambs with bows on their tails. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to kiss FatBoy in gratitude or cry in frustration over my own inadequacies.

  “I should make you clean this up,” I snapped at Corwyn. He was the only one refusing to be intimidated by FatBoy. He just leaned against the bar calmly, sipping his pint and enjoying the byplay around him, while peppering me with more hurling factoids.

  “It’s the oldest sport in Ireland. It goes back thousands of years,” he said.

  “That’s nice.” I was still mopping up the bar top, tossing soggy piles of napkins in the trash and resisting the urge to dump the lot over Corwyn’s head… maybe FatBoy’s head, as well. I moved over to my garnish tray and poked at a waterlogged lemon slice before calling it a total loss.

  Liam had taken it upon himself to ring the team bus, if my eavesdropping was correct, then moved to the back of the bar to wait with the rest of the team. I felt only relief that they’d be out of my hair soon. I was exhausted, and I had hours left in my shift, and within fifteen minutes, the last of the pitchers were drained and paid for. With bags of sporting equipment slung over their broad Irish shoulders, the entire team departed. Rory dragged his feet, loitering at the edge of the bar until his older brother and a few of the other men yanked him away under protest.

  Corwyn was the last to go, waving cheerfully and calling over his shoulder as he exited, “Thankee, Nick! We’ll be seein’ ya!”

  I pretended not to hear the last bit.

  Once they’d cleared out to FatBoy’s satisfaction, I yanked a couple of the busboys out of the kitchen to help Juan with clean up.

  One look at FatBoy and the sky blue eyes that telegraphed his state of happy were nowhere to be found. Instead, all I was gifted with was a flat hard gray stare with the barest tint of blue. My heart gave a dull ache every time I caught him looking at me—it felt like an old war wound twinging with the coming storm.

  There was nothing more I could say to make it any better, standing as we were in the middle of the bar, so I went back to my locker for a change of apron and possibly skivvies. A quick glance at my watch—barely four thirty—told me it was going be another long-ass night with FatBoy glowering punishment at me from across the bar.

  Lovely.

  * * * * *

  The gray metal door clanged shut with a flick of my fingers—I’d traded out my damp clothes for a more formal black button-down shirt to go with my black jeans. I wasn’t in the mood for anything else. Already the stress from my fight with FatBoy, the invasion of the hurlers, and the resulting water works had me at my limit. Plus, FatBoy’s cold shoulder once he’d pried me away from Corwyn wasn’t making me optimistic for my chances in talking him into a late night rendezvous at my place.

  He had an old-fashioned streak that was proving inconvenient as the days ticked by without anything remotely resembling a first, much less a second or third, date together.

  It’d been my longest dry spell since senior year of high school. Valentine’s Day had come and gone and with it my sex life. It seemed that more than my heart hung in the balance when I looked at FatBoy.

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday March 13

  This time when I woke, I was unsettled—the vague snippets of dreams I retained already losing their form in the light of day. All I remembered was chasing FatBoy through the restaurant, which had expanded dimensionally given the number of long hallways and doors it had mysteriously acquired, but I could never quite reach him, by words or by touch. The closest I came was lunging to grab his wrist and seeing that look of disappointment cross his face before he disappeared into mist. I spent the rest of the dream alone, walking the corridors, opening the doors, searching…

  I rolled over, checking my phone.

  Nothing.

  Again.

  Last night after closing, I’d gone out to eat pancakes with the staff—our usual practice—I’d said yes before FatBoy declined and it was too late to change my mind without making it obvious that I was pining for the man. I’d half-hoped I’d find him lying on my couch when I got home, but there was no sign of him. Not even a text wishing me goodnight—something else I’d begun to look forward to over the last four weeks.

  Apparently FatBoy and I were in full stop.

  Well… Fuck it.

  * * * * *

  The line at the Blue Bean was long enough that I took out my phone and scrolled through the apps, looking for a new game to play while I waited to order breakfast to go. I had a plan. A thought. But I was too engrossed for my own good and I didn’t notice the man until he slid right into my personal space, breathing mocha-spiced heat next to my ear.

  “Niiiick, what a lovely surprise.” Corwyn. Of course. I looked around for his double-digit entourage, which might have explained the logjam at the front of the line, but he and his Irish lilt appeared to be alone.

  “Uh, hey… Corwyn, right?”

  Corwyn glowed at the use of his proper name. In fact, everything about him glowed. He looked like he’d stepped off the shiny pages of 'GQ UK’—a far cry from his rugby-roughened image of the day before. He wore a cream mock-neck sweater under a black motorcycle jacket.

  I couldn’t resist an eyeful of well-worn jeans covering well-formed thighs. They weren’t hiding much. This was a man who obviously shopped at the really big men’s store—the denim worn so thin in key areas I was afraid he was about to have a wardrobe malfunction.

  I wasn’t the only one.

  A whispering giggle came from co-eds who were clustered behind him in line, no doubt analyzing what it would take to separate his pants from a seam. I could only imagine what their view from the rear was like, but from the corner of my eye, I’d swear one blonde was drooling. Not that I blamed her. Even my peek at the pointy toes of his designer boots was enough to give me a tingle to go along with the rest of my hot flash.

  I swallowed dry and forced myself to look him in the eyes.

  “Travel Lodge out of breakfast pastries and bad coffee?” If I sounded grumpy, I was. I had other fish to fry and a flirty Corwyn was nothing but trouble.

  Corwyn snorted before taking another sip from his to-go cup. He held it under my nose, and I wasn’t sure if it was an invitation to a third-party kiss or he was merely teasing me with his current caffeinated status.

  Whatever.<
br />
  I shook off both offers and thumbed through another page of gaming options. The pickings were a little slim unless I was a twelve-year-old girl. In fairness, according to Simone, I sometimes was. But not today. Today, I’d pulled on my big boy pants and was prepared to woo my man.

  With food.

  Hopefully, I’d find him still in bed.

  Or at least at home.

  Switching over to MapQuest, I was about to enter FatBoy’s address when I felt Corwyn. He was tucked just over my shoulder, snooping, so I scrolled through my Facebook feed, instead. It wasn’t taking long, I had three friends from college I stayed in touch with and a longer list of wine & spirit pages that I kept track of. Five minutes once a month was all I needed—I hoped Corwyn enjoyed this week’s talking-wine-bottle meme.

  No matter how hard I tried to ignore it, the hovering was playing on my nerves, and I finally broke.

  “Really?”

  Looking back at him, he just grinned that adorable grin, and I felt my resistance melt slightly so I conjured a picture of FatBoy at his most annoyed.

  At me.

  That did the trick.

  The line scooted forward a few more inches, Corwyn right along with it.

  “Don’t you have something better to do?” It looked like he’d already eaten—there were crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth, and I was tempted to run a thumb across his lower lip. He smirked like he was reading my mind.

  “Aye.” Snatching the phone out of my hand, within a few seconds, he’d pulled out his own, juggling between them.

  I now had four friends.

  Great.

  If I left now, I’d retain some dignity, but I’d lose out on my plan to win over FatBoy with his favorite latte and breakfast sandwich combo. According to the dancing coffeepot wall clock above the cashier, I still had a forty-five minute window before I risked missing him.

  “Are you fini—”

  “Nicholas! Darling!” I’d recognize the sultry voice and the gold-tipped nails wrapping around my bicep anywhere.

  “Emerald…”

  “Tut! Emmy to you, Nicholas. Always to you!” Blake’s wife grabbed my arm tighter, pressing it into the cleft of her abundant chest as her other hand snaked around my wrist. Freezing me in place unless I wanted to wrestle a forty-five-year-old woman to the ground in the middle of the Blue Bean. Decking the exotic beauty in five-inch heels and green silk wrap dress at eight in the morning would be the final nail in my coffee-less coffin.

  I had to beg the Blue Bean’s owner to let me back in after our last banishment following the spectacular catfight erupting over Valentine’s week. It was nearly impossible—I never did find out what sort of backroom deal FatBoy had to pull—but as long as we didn’t have FatBoy’s cousin with us and tipped well, we were, if not warmly welcomed back, then at least our presence was tolerated.

  Glancing around, I looked for Blake. It was normally his job to rescue me from his wife.

  Emerald cooed, “Nicholaaaas! Who is your friend? Blake told me you were needing help to find love, but I must say he is a verrry pretty man.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.” Corwyn dimpled, slipping his long fingers around Emerald’s, freeing me from her grasp and spinning her around, neatly unwrapping me like a package. I had a hot flash at the thought, and Emerald was swooning.

  Stupid charming man. Men.

  Oh, man.

  The doorbell jangled and a quick glance over my shoulder had me thrown. Of course, what was the saying?

  If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all?

  Yep.

  Coming through the door was a familiar blonde head. Just the sight of him gave me a twinge in my chest, and I felt the last few grains of sand fall in some giant psychic hourglass representing my last chance for love.

  I was out of time.

  FatBoy’s face was down, glued to his phone screen. If he bothered to look up, his unerring instinct for catching me at my worst would be enough for him to witness Emerald setting me up with Corwyn. I panicked.

  Nothing about this screamed innocence, so I did the only thing I could—I fled—ducking away from Corwyn and Emerald, who stood entangled and giggling, bonding as only a presumably gay man and a Brazilian glamour diva could.

  I hoped they pulled out the entire ‘gaypal’ playbook and started listing their favorite… everythings so I’d have plenty of time to escape. There was only the slimmest of margins left for me to sneak to the back of the line and steal FatBoy away before anyone noticed.

  Sliding next to him, I finally caught a break.

  When FatBoy glanced at me, it was pure delight that danced in his eyes. The hand that slid surreptitiously up my spine spoke of connection not rejection, and it felt like I was getting my ‘do-over.’

  I spread my hand wide across his midriff, enjoying the rise and fall of muscles under my fingertips, holding him in place, while I stepped around him, yanking open the door.

  “We’re leaving. Now.” I leaned in, my words a whisper of warm breath next to his ear, and his body shuddered, sending an echo through mine. The desire I had for this man, tamped so far down, and for so long as I waited for our first moment of intimacy, erupted on a surge of emotion that I couldn’t control. In my rush to escape with him, I pushed against his chest—the gentle nudge I’d intended translating into a hard shove of adrenaline.

  Unprepared for a violent change in direction, FatBoy jerked backward, catching his heel on the jamb of the open door.

  Time slowed, just like they say it does.

  One second, he was a solid presence in front of me, the heat from his body warming my palm and my heart, and the next second, he was flying through space, our fingers desperately grabbing for each other and just missing. I didn’t see my love life flash before my eyes, but it was a near thing—FatBoy’s pleasure in seeing me flickered, morphing first to horror, then confusion, followed swiftly by suspicion and finally damnation.

  In a blink, the look was gone along with the man himself, but instead of a painful end sprawled in the gravel parking lot outside the Bean, the man of my wet dreams was saved by the timely arrival of another customer—one big enough to wrestle my boyfriend from the arms of disaster and into his own.

  Shit.

  I was torn between the relief that FatBoy wasn’t left picking rocks out of his face because of me, and the rising tide of jealousy sweeping through my heart.

  Of all the ill-timed, unlucky…

  I fixated on the man cuddling him safely against a broad chest that wasn’t mine. Of all the men FatBoy could possibly fall on…

  The current dasher of my dreams, the igniter of my heartburn, and the one holding the flame now torching all my plans for a leisurely breakfast spent seducing FatBoy, could only be this one man… Blake.

  And to top it all off, FatBoy was looking at me like I was a crazed buffoon.

  Really. Crazed. Which is never sexy.

  I turned my face.

  I’m far from superstitious by nature, but given the string of disasters that kept befalling me, I was ready to believe that Natalie had cursed me with some weird holiday voodoo.

  I tried to dismiss it, but the thought kept bouncing inside my head like a rubber ball…

  Nothing had gone my way since I ditched that pot of shamrocks in the bar.

  * * * * *

  One minute, Blake had FatBoy righted, and the next, he was dragging us both back to where Corwyn and Emerald stood in line. All hopes of romance between us evaporating, as FatBoy moved away from my side to greet Blake’s wife.

  And it was even fun to watch the expression on the face of our waitress when she took one look at us and blanched, swiveling her head between Corwyn, FatBoy, and Blake and the café, searching for a table large enough to accommodate us all. She finally stuck us in one of their huge corner booths designed to fit eight. We made it look more like a four-top… well, five with Emerald. Since she and I were the smallest, we were drafted to slide and crawl our way o
ver to the middle of the red vinyl bench, making me feel like a kid again.

  I had a sudden urge for smiley face pancakes with sausage fingers.

  What I was in the mood for wasn’t on the menu so I resigned myself to watch the floorshow as FatBoy and Corwyn jockeyed for position. It wasn’t as if FatBoy wanted to sit next to me, he’d taken one quick step in my direction and then froze, his eyes darting over to Blake to see if he’d noticed.

  Corwyn certainly had. His charming smile had turned into a full-on smirk as he moved around, ushering Blake into the seat next to his wife and leaving FatBoy to choose between sitting next to me or leaving me to Corwyn’s sweet machinations. He finally caved when Blake yanked him onto the chair next to him, shoving a newly filled mug over, as if caffeine was the only thing the man was missing.

  I knew for a fact what the man had been missing and that wasn’t it.

  I moved a freckled hand from my thigh and reached for my own cup.

  This meal was going to last forever. Maybe coffee was the answer after all.

  * * * * *

  A bored Emerald was a dangerous one; there wasn’t a privacy boundary or personal space limitation that she hadn’t smashed through among the staff. And for those in need, she was a blessing from above—a more generous heart around the restaurant couldn’t be found—but if you had anything to hide, she was relentless until she uncovered it. Blake called her ‘Emmy’, but around Frisson, we just called her ‘The Nose’.

  “Soooo… Davis?” Emerald purred, tilting her menu forward, trying to catch FatBoy’s attention.

  He was sitting close enough to play footsie with me under the table if I stretched out my legs a little bit, but I recognized the flash of panic in his blue eyes. He was back playing the role of my bouncer, not my boyfriend, so I backed off for the moment.