Fighting for Devlin (Lost Boys #1)

by Jessica Lemmon

  Fighting for Devlin is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Jessica Lemmon

  Excerpt from Forgotten Promises by Jessica Lemmon copyright © 2015 by Jessica Lemmon

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Forgotten Promises by Jessica Lemmon. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9781101884706

  Cover design: Georgia Morrissey

  Cover photograph: Julia Gurevich/Shutterstock

  readloveswept.com

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Jessica Lemmon

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Forgotten Promises

  Chapter 1

  Rena

  The first time I’d seen Devlin Calvary, I held my breath until my chest inflated like a party balloon. Today hadn’t been any different, considering the moment I saw his profile as I strode in, I ducked my head and ran for the kitchen. He was like the sun: hot, and he made me squint if I looked directly at him.

  Other than the flooring good looks of the man who was my boss, my new job had started without a bang. Oak & Sage hadn’t hit a dinner rush yet. My Nazi-like trainer, Melinda, and I were attempting to stay occupied while (according to her) out of shift manager Chet’s sight.

  “How can anyone take him seriously with that lisp?” she spat. Melinda spat everything. She reminded me of an angry cat most of the time.

  I frowned, dusting the broad leaves on one of the fake plants lining the top of the empty booths where she and I were cleaning. Well, where I was cleaning. She was gossiping about everyone she laid eyes on. I didn’t like her all that much, but she was the only co-worker I really knew here. I missed my friends at the recently gone-out-of-business Craft Palace. Right about now, we’d be opening a shipment of new scrapbook paper and dishing about the cute delivery guy.

  “What if he dated a girl with an ‘S’ at the beginning of her name?” Melinda said, an evil smirk on her face. “Like…Sarah. ‘Sthara, you’re stho sthexthy.’ ”

  I tried not to laugh, but it was funny. Mean, but funny.

  “Nervous about tonight?” she asked as I moved to the next plant. “It’s your first time alone.”

  “No, I think I can do it.”

  “It’s a lot of pressure. Don’t underestimate a Thursday. It’s usually twice as busy as Friday but in fewer hours. Plus, you have a three-table section.”

  I glanced at her uneasily.

  “And your tables aren’t in the direct path of the kitchen, so you’ll be double-timing it back there most of the evening.”

  I blinked at her. “Are you trying to freak me out?”

  She smiled, her eyes holding a lazy-cat look, then her gaze slid over my shoulder. I watched as her smile turned…something. Almost lusty. Then I realized why.

  It’s him.

  Crazy as it sounded, I could feel whenever he approached. I clutched my dust rag when his low, commanding voice washed over the air and etched into my skin.

  “Melinda, help the hostesses roll some more silverware, will you?”

  Devlin Calvary. General manager of Oak & Sage, though I would swear he couldn’t be much older than my twenty-two years. The youngest man I’d ever seen in charge of my paycheck was dressed in a suit. He always wore suits rather than the khaki-and-button-down-shirt combo Chet wore. I guess to show he was in charge. But let me tell you, Devlin didn’t need a suit to alert anyone of his authority.

  I ran a gaze up and down the length of his lean body, appreciating his height, broad shoulders, and the air of power and control emanating from him like expensive cologne.

  When his long, dark lashes gave me a once-over, I felt my throat close off. I’d been introduced to him in passing when Chet hired me. Devlin hadn’t done more than tip his chin in acknowledgment then.

  And he hadn’t spoken a word to me since.

  “Sure thing.” Melinda started, then pointed to me. “Unless you’d rather Rena do it. She really doesn’t know how to do much of anything else.”

  I glared at her, but she didn’t see me, as she was attempting to blind him with the bazillion-watt smile pulling her shiny, red lips. Devlin’s bored expression remained; his chiseled jaw stayed firm.

  “Just you. Rena’s…” He lifted his brows and studied the rag I’d clutched against my chest like a handkerchief. “…petting the plants.”

  Melinda snapped her head toward me, her dark blond ponytail flicking behind her like the end of a very short whip. He walked away, and I continued “petting” the fake orchid in front of me as I watched his legs eat up the long aisle leading to the kitchen.

  “You may as well forget about whatever fantasy you’re cooking in your head.” She sneered at me.

  I shook my head in fervent denial—like I suffered any delusions that someone as hot and powerful as Devlin might look at me twice. I knew who I was. I wasn’t the type of girl who snagged the attention of a guy like him.

  “He doesn’t date the help,” she continued. “He flirts with me, but I’d never.” She cut a look in the direction he’d disappeared, biting her lip. A brief flicker of longing lit her hazel eyes before she muttered, “I don’t have any interest in him.”

  Oh, the lies she told. I rolled my eyes as she turned and walked to the hostess station. I knew damn well that Melinda, or any of the other females in this restaurant, would trade an ovary to be under Devlin’s intense blue-eyed stare for fifteen minutes.

  To be under him, period.

  Devlin

  I cut through the clatter of silverware and tinkling of crystal glasses wearing a smile on my face. Oak & Sage restaurant had been my second home for as long as I could remember. My dad opened it when I was in diapers, and I’d cut my teeth on the corner of table 31. You could say I was born into this life. Along the way, I had inherited another.

  We were busy tonight, even by Thursday standards. I smoothed my tie and buttoned my jacket. As I stepped out of the way of an incoming server with a platter of ribs, I nodded at the guy sitting at table 31. Benny was one of the regulars, his shirt buttons nearly popping as he polished off the end of a very large piece of chocolate cake. He lifted his fork to signal he had money for me, but my sights were set on Sal Crawford: the older man at table 36.

  Mr. Crawford sawed into an overcooked rib eye—why patrons insisted on ruining a forty-dollar steak by ordering it well-done was beyond me—and gestured at his wife who primly flaked her sal
mon and listened with half an ear.

  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 cool few 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 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 batc
h of soft-shell crabs into a basket.

  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.