by Jo Leigh
“What’s a licker li—”
“Come on, Josh.” A waitress cut him off and grabbed his hand. “Rose, you, too, let’s go,” she said, leading them outside.
“Thanks, Tiffy,” he called after them, then rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. Just as he turned back to Cricket and Ginny, a tall, slim woman with strawberry blond hair rushed in.
“Oh, my God, Wyatt, I’m so sorry. We were on our way over and I turned my head for only a second—”
“It’s fine, Becky. I know how it is. Tiffy is taking them around to my office.”
“I saw her. Look, I’ll only be gone a couple of hours...” She trailed off, studying his face. “Did you forget? You did, didn’t you? You said you’d keep an eye on them while—”
“I didn’t forget,” Wyatt said.
Cricket was willing to bet the farm he was lying, but he was damn good at it, she’d give him that.
“I thought you were off today,” the woman, probably his ex-wife, looked confused.
“I was. We got busy. Don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure they have dinner.”
Becky made a face, clearly not thrilled with his offer.
Wyatt gave her a wry smile. “Believe me, I’m not gonna do that again. Now, go.” He turned to Cricket. “Sorry about all this. Tell me again what you wanted. It’s on the house.”
At this point she wasn’t sure she remembered. “Tell you what,” she said with a slow smile, “why don’t you surprise me?”
He raised a questioning brow. “You sure?”
“Positive.” His dark good looks accompanied by that sexy rasp in his voice were enough to send a little shiver down her spine. When was the last time that had happened? God, she really hoped Becky was an ex.
“Uh-oh. That sounds too much like a dare,” Ginny said, laughing. “Bring her a margarita. You can surprise her another time.”
Cricket glared at her. “What are you, my mother?”
“I know you, Cricket. We have a function to attend tonight, and you aren’t weaseling out of it. You promised to be my date.”
She knew what Ginny was getting at. Frank Geary, who had more money than brains—or anything else including class—was one person neither of them wanted to see. As luck would have it, he was hosting the welcome reception in a couple of hours and Ginny didn’t want her using the excuse she was sick.
“Cricket? That’s your name?”
“No,” Cricket said and Ginny said, “Yes.”
“Interesting.” He extended his hand. “Wyatt.”
Cricket responded in kind, liking his firm grasp, then felt greedy and petty when he let go to offer his hand to Ginny. It hadn’t even occurred to Cricket that her friend might share an interest in the guy. Although she seemed to have a lot on her mind concerning her daughter. And here Cricket was flirting instead of being the friend Ginny needed.
“Coming right up with those margaritas,” Wyatt said, and turned with a grimace at the high-pitched voice of the kids coming from somewhere in the back.
“Hubba hubba,” Ginny said, the second he was out of earshot.
“Are you interested?”
Ginny frowned. “I meant for you.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“Nooo...” Ginny shook her head. “I have enough on my plate.”
“Yeah, let’s get back to your custody question. Look, you don’t have to tell me who Tilda’s father is... Or you can. I won’t lie, I’m curious as all get out.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Okay, that helps.” Cricket smiled sheepishly. “Me anyway. But you’re probably wondering if he has any rights.”
“He can’t prove anything without a DNA sample. Do you think the court might compel me to provide one? I mean, he can’t just make demands because we had sex a couple of times.” Ginny worried her bottom lip. “Right?”
Another high-pitched screech cut through the bar noise. It sounded like Josh again.
Standing behind the bar making the drinks, Wyatt just shook his head.
Ginny chuckled. “Aren’t you glad you missed all that?”
Something twisted inside Cricket. “You say that like I’m over the hill. I might still have kids.”
“Really?”
“You never know.” She shrugged, shocked to realize it wasn’t just envy niggling at her. Much worse, longing tugged at her from both sides.
Chapter Four
AFTER KEEPING UP with a steady crowd all evening, Wyatt was ready to sit down with a cold one himself. In between mixing a Long Island Iced Tea and a gin and tonic, he looked over at table seven to see if the preppies were still there. If they were still called preppies. Brand-name clothes, tidy hair and smug laughter spelled prep school at the very least. The short guy wore a designer golf shirt and loud pants. Yep. Reunion attendees, all three of them, products of Roger Williams Preparatory Academy. He’d bet his lucky charm on it, or had he lost that to Bobby last night, too?
Huh. Sounded familiar.
Checking his pocket, he felt the Leatherman tool. Hell, maybe he’d be better off getting rid of it. His life had been anything but lucky in the last few years. Although the fact that he was still alive might be argued as a win, but not by him.
Slamming the brakes on his dark thoughts, he set the finished drinks on Lila’s tray, and took a moment to rub his gritty eyes.
She stopped flirting with the old guy at the end of the bar and swept up her order. “Thanks,” she said, giving him a sexy smile and a toss of her long blond hair. “After I deliver these, you want some help behind the bar?”
He shook his head. “I’m good. Just worry about your tables.”
“I only have three, so I can easily cover the beer tap, too.”
“No thanks.”
Her lips pursed in a pout, a very fetching pout. But no way he was going anywhere near that. Not just because she was an employee. Sexy, persistent Lila was built like a wet dream, but being in the vicinity of twenty-two, she made him feel a hundred years old. Hell, being with anyone that young would just exhaust him.
On the other hand, looking wouldn’t kill him. He watched her curvy hips sway in rhythm with the jukebox music as she made her way around a rowdy group of surfers from Australia.
“Hey, Covack, you up for another game later?”
He turned just as Bobby pulled out a stool and dropped his car keys on the bar. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here, Cappelli.”
“What? You don’t honestly think I cheated.” Bobby chuckled. “Come on. Why would I waste the energy?”
Ignoring him, Wyatt wiped down the bar. Arnie was sitting two stools down, crying in his beer over his lousy morning catch. A lot of the older fishermen frequented the bar when there weren’t too many tourists crowding the place.
Arnie glanced up and pushed his empty mug forward.
“You got a ride home tonight?” Wyatt asked him.
The old man nodded. “Left the truck with Thelma.”
Wyatt believed him and poured him a refill. Arnie was one of the more responsible drunks.
“The trouble with you is, you think you’re good at poker,” Cappelli said. “But you stink, and I don’t mind taking your money while you try proving otherwise.”
“Yeah, keep it up. Like I don’t already wanna throw your ass out.”
Grinning, Bobby pulled out a wad of cash, half of which had been in Wyatt’s pocket last night. “Give me a Scotch,” he said, peeling off a twenty. “In fact make it Glenfiddich. I’m feeling flush tonight.”
Wyatt flipped him off.
Cappelli laughed and swiveled around to survey the room. “Dude, you need to do something with this place. It doesn’t just look like it belongs in a trailer park, it would have to be a condemned trailer park.”
Yeah, most of the piñatas we
re old and faded. He’d been told on more than one occasion the dangling bikini tops were offensive. Maybe. But most of the locals thought they were funny and part of the landmark bar’s signature. “The place has character.”
“Sure, if all you care about is the local crowd.” Cappelli appeared to have caught a back view of Lila leaning over a table and suddenly he had no more opinions to share.
Good.
The newest hire, Shelly, stood at the end of the bar waving an order ticket. Wyatt nodded as he poured the jerk’s Scotch. Not that he’d admit it, but Cappelli had a point. Wyatt had been thinking along those lines as he watched tourists and reunion people float in and out all afternoon. If he wanted to be a serious business owner, better yet, a more profitable one, he had to get his act together.
He should’ve contacted the hotel, or whoever was in charge of the reunion activities, to get a copy of the weekend’s agenda. Figure out how he could attract the prep schoolers during the times they had no organized functions.
If turning a healthy profit was just about him, he wouldn’t give a damn. But he had Becky and the kids to consider. They were the whole reason he’d moved here. To make sure they were safe and had everything they needed. Becky was certainly a smart, competent woman, but it was tough for her to work full-time with two little kids at home. The monthly widow’s benefit she received from the government was decent but could only go so far. Adam’s grandparents lived nearby and helped however they could, but they’d already gotten up in years when they’d raised Adam.
Jesus, someone must’ve just gone through a shitty breakup. Wyatt looked up from the Sex on the Beach he was mixing to see which idiot was playing “Un-Break My Heart” for at least the hundredth time. His gaze didn’t make it to the jukebox. The brunette from this afternoon had just entered the bar, all dolled up in a short red dress that showed off long killer legs. He chuckled when he saw she was barefoot, a pair of five-inch red stilettos dangling from her hand. Man, he didn’t think he’d walk barefoot on this floor, even though it was washed every night after closing.
Evidently she figured that out for herself. Her lips moved as she looked down at her feet and made a face. Grabbing the back of a chair, she quickly slipped on the heels, then glanced around.
It was a sure bet she’d join the Ivy League trio.
A bet he would’ve lost. The second she spotted them she turned her head, completely cool and collected, as she swept her gaze in the opposite direction while strategically arranging her long dark hair to hide the side of her face. She zeroed in on the empty barstools and headed toward them.
Wyatt didn’t want her sitting anywhere near Bobby, or Mad Dog, who was downing shots to Bobby’s left. “Hey, Cappelli, move over three stools.”
“What?” He glanced warily at the large, bearded biker. “Why?”
“Just do it.”
“You’re nuts.”
“If you need a fourth, I’ll play tonight. But you gotta move now.”
“I’m holding you to it.” Cappelli got up, stepped back and nearly plowed into the woman. “Hey, sorry, I didn’t...” His voice trailed off as he turned, his eyes level with her chest. Bobby was short and she was wearing very high heels. He looked at Wyatt. “You dog.”
“What?” Wyatt said, laughing. “Move and let the lady sit.”
Bobby pulled out a stool for her. Then the jerk sat right next to her. That wasn’t the deal.
“Am I chasing you away?” she asked.
“I should be so lucky,” Wyatt said, shooting Cappelli a warning look. “Cricket, right?”
Her brows rose and she blinked at him.
“We met this afternoon.”
“Oh, I remember,” she said with a slow smile. “It’s just... I haven’t been called Cricket in a while and I’m trying to get used to it again.”
“So, what should we call you?” Bobby was all teeth, his body twisted around, elbow on the bar, facing her.
Wyatt shook his head. “Ignore him. He’ll go away. Now, what can I get you?”
She laughed. “I believe you’re supposed to surprise me?”
“Right.” Wyatt thought about it as he took in her manicured hands, neat, trimmed nails with a faint gloss, nothing flashy. She wore minimal jewelry, earrings and a watch, both classy but understated. No ring, and if she’d ever worn one, it had been a long time. “Did you drive?”
“I walked.”
“You staying at the Seaside?”
She nodded. “Only ten minutes by beach,” she said with the smile that had drawn him in the first time he’d seen her. “Did I pass? Do I get some alcohol now?”
“Sounds like you need it.”
“Most definitely.”
“Yeah, reunions must be a b—” He didn’t finish.
“A bitch? Yep.”
He’d already decided what to pour her. Nothing fancy, not for her. Figuring he’d start off with something as high-end as those earrings, he grabbed a glass and a bottle of his Lagavulin twelve-year Scotch, which he liked better than the Glenfiddich. Neat or on the rocks, he wasn’t sure about that detail.
Wyatt went for neat. And was rewarded with another one of her gorgeous smiles.
* * *
SO HE’D GUESSED she was a Scotch drinker. Wyatt was either really good at reading people, or Cricket hadn’t left the no-nonsense image behind in Chicago like she thought. She watched him hesitate, probably wondering if she drank it on the rocks.
Seeing Ginny and Harlow had felt good, and it would be even better when they connected with Jade once she straightened out her delayed flight—she was hoping to arrive sometime around 2:00 a.m. Jessica—no, Cricket—hoped she didn’t regret promising to wait up for her. Ginny had left the reception early to pick up her daughter from a party. Harlow had hooked up with a football player from back in the day, a guy Cricket barely remembered. They’d begged her to join them but she’d lied. Told them she had a headache and she still hadn’t seen Ronny yet. That part about her dad was true.
They’d talked on the phone when he returned from the fishing charter. She’d just gotten to the reception and he’d had a long, taxing day and suggested she come over for breakfast tomorrow. Waiting for anything wasn’t Ronny’s strong suit, and after what Ginny had told her about his accident, Cricket hoped he wasn’t avoiding her.
No, that was crazy. Ronny probably hadn’t given it a thought. Nothing fazed him. It wouldn’t have occurred to him that Cricket might be worried about his health.
She looked down at the Scotch the bartender slid across the bar to her. Neat. Perfect. She’d been surprised that he hadn’t given her the Glenfiddich that was already down, but had gone for the top of the line. Trying to score points? When she took her first sip, she gave him a ten out of ten.
She heard the guy next to her sigh, and realized he’d been trying to hit on her, but she’d been lost in her own thoughts, and if there was one thing she’d learned how to do in law school, it was ignore distractions. Luckily his phone rang and he quickly got involved in the call.
“So, did I get it right?” Wyatt folded his muscled arms across his chest and leaned back. His gray eyes looked darker than they had this afternoon, his stubbled jaw, as well. And damn, he was still hot.
“Oh, yes.” She lifted the glass in a salute, then took another sip. “But you would’ve been right with wine or beer, as well.”
“Huh.” He frowned. “What kind of beer? Specialty microbrews made in small batches, or...”
“Actually, I’m not that picky when it comes to beer. Lately I’ve been leaning toward Corona. Unless I’m having sushi, then it’s...” She flashed back to the evening in Grant’s office, and just like that her mood plummeted.
“Kirin?”
She blinked at Wyatt, and seeing curiosity flare in his eyes, she lowered her gaze and nodded.
“Got an order.” T
he woman’s voice came from directly behind her.
“Be right there,” Wyatt said. “Hey, would you prefer something else? This being a vacation maybe you want something pink and frilly?”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Blue, then. With a couple of cherries, a matching umbrella?” he said as he drifted toward the end of the bar.
Cricket smiled, watching him take a slip from the blonde waitress who was staring at her. Wyatt said something to the young woman and she hurried around the bar to the beer tap. While he mixed drinks, she filled mugs. He didn’t look too happy when she seemed to go out of her way to stand close enough that her hip rubbed against his thigh. But then maybe that was just part of the gig. Just because he’d flirted with Cricket didn’t mean he wasn’t playing with the Happy Meal toys.
Nope. He laid down the law. Cricket couldn’t actually hear what he’d said but she was good at reading body language. Besides, the waitress hastily hopped a foot to her right and, stone-faced, finished filling three mugs. Maybe Wyatt wasn’t just the bartender but the owner. Not that it mattered, at least not to Cricket.
She’d be here for another two days, spend some time with her dad, catch up with old friends and acquaintances, and then return to Chicago and tell Grant she hadn’t changed her mind. Sanford Burbidge could fry for all she cared. Yes, innocent until proven guilty—she got the concept, she even believed in it—but sometimes you just knew a person was evil and capable of doing evil things. She didn’t have to be a criminal attorney to know that wasn’t a rare experience.
But dammit, what if being true to herself really could torpedo her career? It was possible that Grant was using the threat to strong-arm her, just to placate Burbidge. She didn’t want to think he’d do that, but making senior partner was singularly important to him. She had no illusions where his career was concerned. Still, the firm had other female attorneys much better qualified to defend the creep. All Cricket would be was a figurehead, a very reluctant, pissed-off figurehead. How would that help anyone?
Grant wasn’t stupid. Quite the opposite, in fact. And he knew her better than anyone at the firm. Surely she could convince him to talk Burbidge out of it, reason with the partners and smooth any ruffled feathers...perhaps even without letting them know just how vehemently she opposed being placed in such an untenable situation.
