Page 15 of Wife Number One

Liam gave an overexaggerated groan. “You have to sell yourself, little brother! Do I need to hire a marketing firm to pimp this place out?”

I swallowed thickly. “I just want to cook good food that people like. And make an honest living. I don’t want to be shoving my Instagram posts down some random lady’s throat.”

We both looked over at the woman Liam had accosted. She was busy talking to two others, all three of them shooting not-so-secretive glances my way.

When they noticed us watching, one broke away from the group and strode over, holding out her hand to me and staring me up and down with an appraising eye. “Pamela Lexington. My friend just told me you’re bidding on this place?”

Liam elbowed me, and I started, taking the woman’s hand and shaking it. “Hey, yeah.” Fuck, I was so awkward. When had I become like this? I used to be full of swagger with a confidence that rivalled Liam’s.

It had all been for show, a voice whispered in my head. That was never you and you know it. What you did to Kara and her friends fucked you up so bad you—

I cut it off, my skin crawling at the thought of Kara and the other women held captive with her.

I wasn’t that man anymore.

I cleared my throat and tried again. Pamela was attractive for an older woman. She probably had twenty years on my twenty-nine, but she was well-dressed, her hair neatly brushed, makeup expertly applied. I would have put money on the fact she was a bored Providence housewife. But that meant she knew people. Had friends who would talk. Like Liam said, these people were not necessarily here to bid but to gossip.

I needed to be able to market this place, and maybe that started now. I cleared my throat. “Hayden Whitling. It’s nice to meet you. I’m looking forward to bringing you and your friends a hot new restaurant. I hope you’ll give us a chance once we’re up and running.”

Pamela continued to hold my hand, long after an appropriate amount of time for a handshake had passed. Her gaze lingered on my face, her eyes turning heated. “Indeed,” she practically purred. She stepped in closer so her tits brushed my chest and her warm breath tickled across my neck. “I do hope you win the bid today. It would be nice to have some…new blood around here. You aren’t a local, are you?”

I shook my head, even though it wasn’t exactly the truth. But this woman didn’t want to hear that I was from the ghetto just across the town border. I didn’t want to be known as him either.

At least not today. Not here.

Pamela smiled. “Good luck, Mr. Whitling.”

She backed off, and I took a deep breath, though I immediately wanted to cough it all back up since it was heavily laced with Pamela’s expensive-smelling perfume.

Liam laughed under his breath as we moved forward. “Oh, Brother. How hard it must be to have that whole ‘dirty bad boy’ thing going for you.”

I whipped my head around to him sharply. “I don’t have that look. I ironed my damn jeans this morning.”

Liam snorted on his amusement and flicked my chin-length hair. “You think actually doing your laundry hides your muscled arms, your tattoos, and your come-fuck-me eyes?”

He said it in the mocking way only an older brother could and finished the sentence with near hysterical laughter.

Even though I knew he was joking, it bothered me. “Do I really come across like that?”

Liam sobered and gave me a shrug. “You can’t help it. Women like your face.”

I sighed. It wasn’t even just women.

I’d spent years skating by on my looks, using them to avoid the things I didn’t want to do, and playing on them as a strength when I did want something. I wasn’t smart like Liam. I could barely fucking read long enough to stay in school until I’d dropped out in the tenth grade. My face was all I’d had.

It had led me down a path I didn’t want anything to do with.

It was why I liked working in kitchens. Most of the time I was in the back, surrounded only by pots and pans, knives, and fresh ingredients.

Nobody could see my face. Or considered if I was intelligent or dumb as a doormat.

I was judged on the plates the waiters set on the tables.

I was praised because of the work I put into my craft, not just because I’d been lucky enough to be born with a pleasing facial structure.

Every time someone commented on my face, I just felt cheap. It reminded me of every lame come-on line I’d used on women, barely putting in the effort because I knew I didn’t have to. It freshened the memories of everyone praising Liam for winning another award, or graduating with another degree, while I fell further and further behind, always in his shadow unless I was picking up someone at a bar who would make me feel better.

Cooking had given me something more. It had opened a different part of me, one I didn’t want to lose.

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