Forgotten Promises (Lost Boys #1)

by Jessica Lemmon

  I’d never be the kind of prick to say I had it all, but I had it pretty damn good. When my father died, he left Oak & Sage to me. I was eighteen at the time and his friend, Sonny Laurence, taught me the ropes of running a restaurant. Thanks to our history, and my being Sonny’s go-to guy in this small town, I knew every degenerate who placed bets within a fifty-mile radius.

  But “degenerate” wasn’t a term I’d use to describe the Crawfords. They were wealthy, thanks in part to me, I reminded myself as I approached the table. Which made this visit almost pleasant.

  “Sal.”

  “Devlin,” he greeted, cheeks rosy from the bottle of Merlot on the table. At my arrival, his wife perked up, batting her lashes and adjusting her pearls. Never mind I’m thirty years her junior, Annabelle Crawford would have me for dinner instead of the fish if I said yes.

  I wouldn’t.

  He patted his mouth with a black cloth napkin as I leaned over the table and winked at his wife. “Anna. Looking beautiful this evening.” My lips tipped into a wry smile and her hand landed on mine.

  “Oh, you.” She toyed with one of her earrings. Women were one of the things I was really good at. The other was what I did to them to make them howl. Too bad for Anna. Another ten years closer to my age and I could’ve had her clawing the bedsheets.

  “I believe we have business to attend to,” I told Sal. Mrs. Crawford fished a small compact from her giant purse and patted her nose, intent on ignoring this part of the meal.

  He nodded, his lips twitching slightly at the sides. I made people nervous. Not that I was some massive block of muscle with a thrice-broken nose or anything, but I was the man with the power. I carried the weight of Sonny Laurence, and had a frame that was six-two and two-twenty to back that up. In a town like Ridgeway, Ohio, reputation was worth more than any fortune Crawford could amass.

  “Next time”—I reached into my jacket pocket and Sal’s eyes widened the slightest bit—”I’ll be the one collecting from you.” I proffered an envelope with curly gold script on it that read, Gift Certificate, but we both knew it contained a few cool thousand Crawford had won fair and square. “Sonny says hello.” Which was code for, Call him to place a bet today.

  Sal smiled, getting the message, and accepted the envelope. Mrs. Crawford shut her compact with a snap. I pressed my palms together in typical manager-of-a-restaurant fashion and said, “Your meal is on me this evening.” I raised a brow at Sal. “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” I flicked a glance at the envelope.

  “A pleasure, Mr. Calvary.” He nodded. Once. A sign he’d be calling Sonny later to give back some of those crisp hundreds in his hand now.

  I turned for Benny’s table to relieve him of the eight hundred dollars he owed Sonny, feeling the slightest bit smug. Sal had addressed me as Mr. Calvary. Twenty-four years old and I garnered more respect than an orphaned kid from West End had ever dreamed. But this was the game.

  Thanks to Sonny, a game I’d mastered.

  Rena

  My fingers shook over the computer screen as my mind threw information at me at ninety miles a minute. I looked down at the scrap of paper where I’d written my table’s order, and suddenly, I couldn’t make out my own handwriting.

  Is that an L or an R?

  A server behind me huffed his frustration. I blew out a breath and closed my eyes, willing my pounding heart to calm.

  You’ve been through worse traumas than the Thursday-night rush at a restaurant.

  So much worse.

  Centered by that reality, I threw the guy behind me a smile. He shook his head. I was the new girl impeding his progress and he didn’t appreciate my learning on his time. After I’d keyed in the last dish, I realized I had no idea how to take an item off the baked potato. I practically felt the angry vibrations at my back as I navigated out of one menu and clicked another.

  Beside me, a few other servers blurred by, shouting to the guys on the line, filling baskets with warm bread, and calling “Corner!” as they rounded the blind-spot wall leading to the dining room.

  It had to be here somewhere. Sour cream, sour cream…

  “Come on!” the impatient server shouted.

  I flinched, backing out of the on-screen menu and preparing to let the server go ahead of me when a hand landed on the touch screen in front of my face. A wide hand with blunt nails, not perfectly manicured. I caught the flash of a black opal cuff link as the jacket slid away when he tapped the screen, selecting three buttons I couldn’t have told you the name of if you put a gun to my head.

  I inhaled, the smell of soap obliterating the cacophony of food smells behind me. There was only the scent of clean man, only the feel of heat enveloping my body.

  I peeked over and caught the sharp angle of Devlin’s jaw, full lips, and lashes shadowing his cheeks as he squinted in concentration. He flicked a look over to me, those blue summer-sky eyes freezing me in place as I struggled to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. I’d been doing it since birth but somehow needed to remind my lungs how to pull in air.

  With a blink, he turned back to the screen, punched the order in and brushed by me, just a whisper of expensive suit against my restaurant-issued, dry-cleaned cotton shirt.

  “Move!” came the server’s shout behind me.

  Jerking back to the present, I stepped aside, shakily closing my little black waitress book. I hazarded a glance to the side and saw Devlin’s tall form disappearing around the corner, and my heart leapt into my throat.

  Devlin. Since I’d started working here last week, he’d been practically the only thing occupying my mind. Which might have explained why I still couldn’t navigate the touch screens. His medium-length black hair and contoured lips were distractions. Even if he hadn’t had a pair of cerulean blues or walked with a proud, straight back, his face set like steel, there was something about him I responded to. On a cellular level.

  I’d gone home after my first shift wishing I could have met him at a bar instead of a restaurant where he was my boss, but then, I’d never have been as close to him in a bar as I had been a moment ago. Outside of this restaurant, his arms would be dripping with elegant women, and there was no way I’d be one of them.

  Yes, Devlin Calvary was best left to the fantasies of my feeble mind, not the reality before me.

  “Whose side work is butter?” The shout sliced through the kitchen and brought me out of my delusion.

  “M–me.” I raised my hand as I turned toward the voice.

  Melinda stood at the computer, hands on her hips, looking disappointed. Her brows slammed down and she banged an order into the touch screen with blurring speed.

  “Remember your training?” she said without looking at me. “You have to do your side work in between your tables.”

  Heat reddened my face from a combination of anger and embarrassment, but I stayed silent.

  She faced me, her full-frontal fury intimidating, but I straightened my shoulders, refusing to become her whipping girl because she’d been given an ounce of power. She lifted a small ramekin of whipped butter—the last one—from a tray next to the bread oven, then tipped the stainless-steel mixing bowl next to it to show me it was empty.

  “Okay, I got it.” I didn’t have time to do it, though. One of my tables needed a refill. I can handle this, I reminded myself, closing my eyes and thinking of Joshua’s funeral.

  Whenever I worried I was about to blow something out of proportion, I thought of that day. Joshua’s accident had been the most defining moment of my life. Thinking of him lying there helped me remember that whatever was upsetting me wasn’t important in the grander scheme. Remembering how I’d survived the loss of the boy I’d loved for two years helped me stay strong.

  The Butter Crisis paled in comparison.

  Perspective in place, I walked to the back of the kitchen, stopping short for the dishwasher hurrying by with a stack of platters. Sidestepping him, I turned and nearly ran into the guy at the fryer dropping a batch of soft-shell crabs into a bas
ket.

  I will get through this night if it kills me.

  And it might.

  A broad well-dressed chest rounded a wall without the helpful call of “Corner!” they’d taught me on my first day. Had I not been seeing red, I may have recognized the blur for what it was—a tie. As it was, I didn’t put “tie” and “Devlin” together until I’d already growled, “Excuse me!”

  I craned my head, locking eyes with him. His dark eyebrows shot to his hairline, then lowered over his nose in what looked like frustration.

  “Yes. Excuse you.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized he was speaking directly to me. I swallowed thickly, displaced attraction flooding my chest.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I—butter.” I stepped past him, wincing, and ducked into the walk-in refrigerator. Maybe the temperature in here would cool my flaming face.

  I butter? Really? That’s what I’d said to him out there?

  I scanned the shelves in front of me where plastic bins were filled with soaking potatoes soon to be fries, fillets of fish on ice, and cut vegetables. As I searched, I muttered “Diet Coke” to myself. That’s why I’d been in the kitchen to begin with. To put in the order and take the woman at table 29 a refill. How many minutes had I been back here now? “Shoot.”

  I started to give up and rush from the fridge but stopped short when I found Devlin standing in there with me, the door whispering shut behind him. The space was large enough for two people, three or four actually, but him in that cool space made it shrink. Like the shelves had swelled and begun to press in on us.

  The several feet separating us crackled with awareness, and my breaths went shallow again. I hadn’t been aware of a man in four years. Part of my self-imposed penance for leading Joshua astray, for guiding the golden boy onto the road of ruin, had been to avoid men altogether.

  Devlin came deeper into the cooler and I backed up until I rattled the shelf behind me. He penetrated my personal space, leaning over me without touching me, his heat blanketing my side. He pulled down a stainless-steel bowl wrapped with cellophane, his eyes on mine as he handed it over. I took it, allowing a brief inventory of my helper. Charcoal suit, red patterned tie, shiny shoes. Every inch of him smacked of warmth and power and…

  Danger.

  My earlier thoughts of Joshua scattered in the wake of Devlin’s presence like a flock of birds spooked by a sound. Joshua’s smile, abandoned for the full set of Devlin’s unsmiling lips. Joshua’s jovial laugh for Devlin’s silence. Joshua’s cold, still body, the color of clay, for Devlin’s sun-kissed skin and thick black lashes.

  “What table?” he asked.

  My forehead pulled in confusion.

  His nostrils flared, his beautiful face growing as hard as stone. “Diet Coke. What table?”

  Oh. Right. I pursed my lips to speak, but no sound came. A few seconds later, I was able to utter, “Twenty-nine.”

  I watched him leave while I remained, metal bowl filled with whipped butter cooling my hand, my jaw slack. I followed, my newfound bravery wilting. Maybe tomorrow would be better. I yanked the door open and headed into the bustle of the kitchen, nearly plowing into one of the servers yelling for butter.

  Then again, maybe not.

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