Bang on Loosely Page 3

  She rolls her eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Fine. This is where you come in, dear Theo.” I press her now toasty hands together between mine. “If Megan thinks I’m engaged to a smart and savvy good girl like you, she’ll be forced to see my amazing stepfather potential.”

  “Cutter, I get that you think this is a solid plan…” Theo exhales with a slow shake of her head. “But it just isn’t. If you really care about Megan, then you should be honest with her. Later. After she’s officially divorced and her mob husband won’t decide to poison you for going after his woman.”

  “They use guns, not poison. Poison is a woman’s weapon.”

  Theo rolls her eyes. “Well, that’s so much better.”

  “And honesty isn’t always the best policy. I don’t have time for a long-drawn-out trust-building exercise. I’m leaving for the European leg of the tour in three weeks.” Theo’s lips part on another protest, but I push on, “I need to change Megan’s opinion of me quickly, fast enough to establish a connection we’ll be able to maintain while I’m abroad. Then when I come back to Hidden Kill Bay at the end of the summer, you and I can experience trouble in paradise, I’ll realize I can’t spend my life with a cranky shrew beast who criticizes me constantly, and we’ll break up, leaving me free to reunite with Megan.”

  “That won’t work,” Theo says flatly.

  I mimic her eye roll. “Fine, then you can have an affair or something. Or dump me because I’m too nice and you want a bad boy.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she says, tugging at her hands again. “Let me go. I need to find someone sane to talk to.”

  “I’m perfectly sane,” I say, sensing it’s time to play the rest of my hand. “I’m also the owner of the abandoned oyster cracker factory on the east side of town. The one you’ve been scouting for that restaurant you want to open next year.”

  Theo goes still, and her hands relax in mine. “You’re kidding. How did you know about that?”

  “I know lots of things. And I’m not kidding. I bought it a few years back. The contractors are almost done converting the top three floors into loft apartments, and they’ll start work on the ground floor shops next month. I’m going to make a shit ton of money on condo sales and set myself up for a life of leisure when I’m done being a rambling man.”

  “That’s smart,” she says, sounding surprised.

  “I’m crafty, Theodora. And when I put my heart in something, it has a way of working out—one way or another.”

  She shifts her head, studying me from the corners of her big eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that either you help me, and in return, I’ll grant you a lease to whichever ground floor space makes your chef’s heart sing, or…”

  “Or what?” She arches a challenging brow.

  I shrug. “Or I get what I want another way. But really, I’d rather deal in rewards than punishments, wouldn’t you? Blackmail is such an ugly business.”

  Her lips curve in a hard smile. “Yeah, it is. So you’d better not try that crap with me, Comstock, or I’ll tell Megan and all of our friends what you’re up to. I don’t know Megan well, so she might not believe me, but Shep, Zack, and Colin will rip you a new butthole for abusing our friendship.”

  “We don’t have a friendship,” I say calmly even though I know she’s right.

  The guys in the band would hate me for this, but they’re never going to know about it. The ace in my back pocket will make sure of that.

  I lean closer, adding in a husky whisper, “We’re just two people who had a sexy sleepover one night. A sleepover I’m pretty sure you don’t want Zack to find out about, am I right?”

  Her face falls, and for a second I feel like shit for hitting below the belt—she’s had an unrequited crush on Zack since we were kids—but an instant later, she’s ripping her hands from mine, and hissing, “Of course I don’t. Because you’re repulsive, and I can’t believe I touched a single hair on your disgusting body.”

  The flash of empathy vanishes. I’ve been turned down by women before, but not until Theo have I had the unwelcome experience of feeling like a dog turd dropped in a girl’s shoe the morning after.

  I thought we’d had fun, and waking up with her curled against me had been unexpectedly nice. Really nice.

  I’d kissed her forehead and gone downstairs to make her breakfast in bed, for Christ’s sake, and I don’t do that kind of thing. But I’d been so certain we were on the same page, that we’d transformed our personality-based friction into a more enjoyable kind and that we would be fucking happily ever after whenever I came into town.

  I was even working on a good nickname for her. I usually christen my fuck buddies after the city where they live—St. Louis, Tampa, etc.—but calling Theo “Hidden Kill” just sounded wrong.

  And creepy.

  I’d thought “Hometown” might work—cute, but edgy, like her, with a whiff of nostalgia that felt right. I love traveling, but I love coming home, too. No matter how much I bitch about my dad being a grumpy fun-killer and all the girls I used to bang getting married or pregnant, home is still home.

  But Theo did not become my “Hometown.”

  She’s not my anything.

  At least not yet…

  She sticks out her tongue with a full-body shudder. “I’d say I can’t believe you’re threatening me, but of course you are. Because you’re the worst. You were the worst when we were kids, and you’re the worst now. You’re just better at hiding it, which is sneaky and wrong and even worse than the worst.”

  “You can’t be worse than the worst. The worst, by definition, is the end of the line.” I push on before she can light into me again. “And I’m not threatening you. I’m just…threatening to threaten you.”

  Her dark eyes shoot daggers into mine, but I don’t look away. I’d face down an army of zombies with nothing but a baseball bat for Megan. One furious childhood nemesis is child’s play.

  Literally.

  I’m acting like a child, and Theo has every right to be pissed, but she’s making this so much harder than it has to be, just like she does with everything else.

  “Seriously, any space in the new building you want,” I wheedle, bobbing my brows up and down. “And I’ll throw in a free sign. We’ll get your name up in lights before Christmas, and you’ll be booked solid by Valentine’s Day. You know how the cheesy bastards in this town like to do it up for the most romantic night of the year.”

  “There are a lot of nice men in this town,” Theo says, still glaring at me as though she’d like to cover me in honey and unleash killer ants on my ass. “Too bad all of them are married or dating other women. It would be awesome to have a boyfriend I could call and tell all about this shit you’re trying to pull.”

  “He’d probably kick my ass,” I admit.

  “I haven’t ruled out kicking your ass,” she says, rolling her shoulders back at my dubious look. “I can hold my own in a fight. Especially if I have a cast-iron skillet handy.”

  I lift my hands in surrender. “Okay, so a free sign, two month’s free rent, and you get to hit me—once and only once—with a cast-iron skillet. How does that work for you, deal-wise?”

  She blinks. “Do you have any idea how heavy those skillets are? I could kill you.”

  “Aw,” I say, pushing my lips into a pout. “Are you worried about me? That’s sweet.”

  “I just don’t want to go to jail.” She crosses her arms beneath her breasts, causing the luscious orbs to bob higher on her chest.

  I try not to look, I really do, but the two glasses of champagne I’ve chugged have gone to my head, and before I can stop them, my eyes dip down to the lovely sight of Theodora’s incomparable cleavage. A beat later, she punches me in the stomach, sending the air rushing from my lungs with a grunt.

  “Eyes up here, pervert,” she says, pointing two jabby little fingers at my face and then back to hers. “That’s the second rule of Fake Fiancé C
lub, no ogling my boobs. Or touching my boobs. Or even thinking about my boobs. My boobs are not for you.”

  Knowing better than to debate whether thoughts about boobs should be as forbidden as actions—if a boob bounces through my brain, but I keep my eyes and hands to myself, has any real-world breast been harmed?—I nod. “Done. And rule number one?”

  “No talking about Fake Fiancé Club.” She brings her finger so close to my nose that my eyes start to cross a little. “But that isn’t a yes. I need time to debate my options.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re going to say yes, and it’s going to be amazing. For both of us.” I wink. “And who knows? We might even have a little fun while we’re at it.”

  Her eyes go frosty as her lips purse. “I’m not sleeping with you, psycho. Not now, not ever.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” I scoff. “I meant darts and pool. Like last time. Or movies on the couch while I rub your feet after a long day slaving away in the kitchen. I don’t normally rub feet, but for you, I’ll make an exception.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she says snarkily. “Is that part of my blackmail package?”

  “No, I just like your feet.” She scowls, and I shrug. “They’re cute. Petite, but not too petite. Skinny, but not too skinny, and your toes are perfect. Do you know how many gorgeous women have crooked goblin toes? A disturbing number. You’ve been genetically blessed.”

  She blinks. “Thanks. I guess.”

  “You’re welcome.” The slow song lilting from the speakers finally shifts into something bouncier, and I raise my voice to be heard over the wedding band’s take on “Don’t You Forget About Me.”

  “Want to dance?”

  “No, I don’t want to dance. I want to stab you repeatedly in the spleen.”

  “The spleen’s not a vital organ. I’d probably survive.”

  She shakes her head, her eyes sliding closed as she mutters under her breath. I reach out, gently but firmly reclaiming her hand and giving it a squeeze. When her lashes sweep back up, I murmur, “Dance with me, Theodora. I promise I’ll be a complete gentleman.”

  “No. I have to pee,” she says.

  “Liar,” I whisper. “You’re afraid to dance with me.”

  “I’m not afraid to dance with you.”

  “You are,” I insist. “You’re afraid you’ll like it so much you’ll never want to stop.”

  “Ha. Ha,” she snaps. “Not bloody likely, psycho. Now let me go. My bladder is small and angry.”

  “Like the rest of you?” I tease.

  “The worst—you’re just the very worst,” Theo hisses, pulling her hand from mine and spinning on her heel.

  “Okay, babe,” I call after her retreating form. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  And I will. I’m not going anywhere until I get what I want.

  The sooner Theo realizes that, the better.

  Chapter Three

  Theodora

  I need to talk to Bridget, but I can’t talk to Bridget.

  I refuse to taint her beautiful, romantic, lovefest of a wedding with my stupid boy problems. And I don’t want her to know about that night with Cutter, either. That night is a mistake I thought I’d put behind me, but I should have known better.

  Some mistakes, especially those involving a male of the species, refuse to stay in the past where they belong.

  As I make my way to the bathrooms inside the lobby of the botanical gardens’ main building—leaving the porta potties for the guests not wearing floor-length gowns—I try to find comfort in the fact that I didn’t get an STD or, God forbid, end up pregnant after that night with Cutter.

  The thought is enough to make my stomach drop.

  Having a baby with Cutter…. Is there anything more terrifying than that? He’s a disaster; an overgrown child who has no idea what it takes to raise a healthy, well-adjusted human. The best thing I could do for mankind is hunt down Megan, warn her to stay away from Cutter Comstock, and go back to business as usual.

  And I would—Bridget and Zack both love me, and they would still love me after learning I was dumb enough to get naked with a douchebag—if it weren’t for that beautiful carrot Cutter has dangled so temptingly in front of me.

  My job is intolerable—a golden opportunity that turned into a pile of rotten lemons too foul to use to clean the microwave, let alone make lemonade.

  I knew being the first female head chef in Claudio’s fifty-year history wouldn’t be easy, but it’s been so much worse than I ever imagined.

  Gene, the owner, is constantly on my ass, insisting every change I make to the menu is going to ruin the restaurant’s “history of tradition,” even though my male predecessor, Trevor the Terrible, changed the menus every season. My staff only listens to my orders half the time, and the meanest restaurant reviewer in New England put a target on my back.

  It’s hardly my fault that Francois Boucher came to dinner on the third night of a howling Nor’easter when half my servers and busboys were snowed in and our food delivery service couldn’t fill our order due to shipping delays.

  Hell, half the restaurants in town were closed that night.

  If we had closed, if I hadn’t insisted on staying open in a misguided attempt to show Gene that I was as tough as any male chef and stomped through three feet of snow to work after the buses stopped running, I could have avoided at least part of my personal hell. Instead, The Butcher—Francois’s surname in French suits his brutal negative reviews—received stringy green beans instead of tender grilled broccolini with his roast duck and subsequently lost his mind on me in The Boston Post.

  We haven’t seen a decline in business since the review stating that Claudio’s new chef gave a “mediocre and uninspired performance,” but Gene hasn’t looked at me the same since. Neither has the kitchen staff, though it was hardly my fault that green beans were literally the only vegetable we had left in the kitchen by the time The Butcher dragged his skinny ass through the door just after nine o’clock.

  My co-workers seem to be waiting for my failure instead of hoping for my success, and no matter how many flawless dinner services I pull off in a row, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll always be on probation in that kitchen, even if I lead the team with grace and excellence for another decade.

  But I won’t last another decade.

  I doubt I’ll last another year.

  I’m not a person who thrives in a hopeless work environment, and life is way too short to spend it surrounded by people who hope you fall on your face.

  Still, there is one bright spot in the gloom. My time as head chef, no matter how fraught, has made me confident that I’m ready to steer the ship of a fine dining establishment. I’m ready to start my own restaurant, blaze my own trail, and shake up the old guard in our sleepy little tourist town. And thanks to excellent credit and a killer business plan, I’ve already been approved for a loan to get my operation up and running.

  All I need is the perfect location.

  I’ve had my eye on the east side and its burgeoning hipster population for a while, but it wasn’t until I saw the condos going into the old cracker factory that I knew I’d found my sweet spot. With its view of the water, central location, and ample parking at the post office across the street—which will be closed by the time I open for business each night—it couldn’t be more ideal. Add in the steady flow of young, successful, too-busy-to-cook-every-night clientele and I’m positive I’d be turning a profit within the first six months.

  “But you’re going to have to get in bed with the devil to do it,” I murmur to my reflection as I wash my hands at the row of sinks in the ladies’ room.

  “Theo? Is that you?” a familiar velvety voice calls out from the last stall.

  “Colette?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” she says, her breath rushing out with a relieved sound. “Thank God you’re here. Would you happen to have a tampon? I’ve already gone through all of mine, and I’m afraid to leave the stall to find more. A wad of toilet p
aper just isn’t going to cut it at this point in my personal period journey.”

  “Let me get you one from the machine. Just a second,” I say, my heels clicking on the tiles as I cross to the dispenser and fish for quarters in my tiny handbag.

  “Thank you so much,” Colette says, her voice echoing in the otherwise empty space. “I swear, I thought I was prepared, but this stupid thing just gets worse and worse every month.”

  “I’m sorry, babes.” I plunk the coins into the slot and wrestle with the knob. “I know it’s been shitty for a while. Are you still anemic?”

  “No, I’ve been taking supplements, but my doctor is worried. She thinks I should consider a hysterectomy.”

  I cross back to her stall. “But you’re so young,” I say, bending down to hold the tampon under the door.

  Colette takes it with another sigh. “I know. And I really want to have a baby. But Fernando is being difficult about it, so I’m trying to hold off on making any big decisions for as long as possible.”

  “Fernando is being old-fashioned?” I ask, guessing that my friend’s hard-core alpha-male Spanish boyfriend isn’t the kind to be on board with having a baby before marriage.

  “He is. But I’m not ready to get married, and I don’t know that I’ll ever be. He knows I like to take life one day at a time, and that I’ll keep choosing him as my partner as long as we’re still in love and treating each other with kindness and compassion. What more does he want?”

  The toilet flushes, giving me a moment to consider the question before Colette emerges, looking flawless in her lavender gown and artfully relaxed updo. With her silvery blond hair and dazzling eyes—one blue and one a deep green—she’s the most exotically gorgeous person I’ve ever met. Looking at her, you wouldn’t think someone that beautiful has problems—not any real problems, anyway. Not a uterus that’s trying to kill her or a controlling boyfriend or a job with such unpredictable cash flow that she sells sex toys on the side to make ends meet.