Page 11 of The Wrong Guy

I don’t need to look at the menu. I knew what I wanted as soon as Charlene said “chili.” “Can I get chili nachos? And a water with lime?”

Oliver stacks his menu on top of mine. “Sounds good. I’ll do the same, Charlene.”

She nearly melts at Oliver saying her name, and I can’t help but smile. I like Charlene. She’s bold, honest, and makes no apologies for taking care of her needs and wants. But when she walks away to put our order in, Oliver turns back to me, and there’s more than humor in his eyes. There’s heat. “Nachos? Are you my soulmate?”

I find it hard to believe that the man sitting across from me has ever eaten nachos in his life. Messy finger foods don’t seem like his type at all, and I wonder if I’m about to witness him eating nachos with a knife and fork. But to my surprise, he digs in a few minutes later, though he wipes his fingers on his paper napkin instead of licking them clean, but he does seem much more relaxed as we chat. And while he wasn’t particularly interested in Charlene’s aggressive moves, he’s definitely dropping all pretense of professionalism between us for this dinner, making it feel more like a first date than a work deal.

“What’s Cold Springs like? Other than the whole family thing, what makes Wren Ford want to live here?” he asks.

Oh, he’s done his homework on me alright. And now it’s my turn to do a little on him.

Chapter 4

JESSE

“Nah, I’m not playing tonight,” I tell the guy asking if I want to call next on the table he’s owning. Almost literally, he’s at five games in a row, and even Etta’s given him a glance to see if she wants to take on a challenger. “Eating and heading home after a long day.”

“Sure thing, man. Maybe next time.” He’s off to play with someone else before I shove another fry doused in Tayvious’s famous fancy ketchup into my mouth.

I need the simple comfort of the fry, which is God’s perfect food as far as I’m concerned. Forrest Gump might’ve waxed poetic about shrimp, but he should’ve focused on potatoes—chips, fries, baked, mashed, soup, salad, and more. Today physically sucked. My crew is busting ass to meet deadlines, and the overtime is taking its toll on us all. Tonight, my plan is to eat, shower, and sleep. In that order, as quickly as possible before my five thirty alarm goes off.

I’m basically face down in my plate of steak and fries, trying to hurry because my bed has been calling my name since quitting time.

“Did I hear you turn down a game? That’s not like you.” I lift my eyes to see Hazel looking at me curiously. “If nothing else, the money’s always sweet.”

Hazel and I have played pool since Etta taught us how as kids, and we’ve both made more than our fair share betting on games. We don’t hide our skills—no sharking and conning people—but if they want to take us on, knowing what they’re getting into, far be it from me to refuse their cash. Except tonight.

“Not feeling it,” I grunt.

She hums thoughtfully, and I brace myself for whatever she’s gonna say. Hazel isn’t exactly gentle with her words, especially with me. She prefers to punch me in the face with whatever she wants to express. “Have anything to do with a certain someone sitting over there with a guy who’s not you?”

That gets my attention. “Huh?”

When I drag my head up and meet Hazel’s eyes, she nods to the right. I look that way, and my heart skips a beat in my chest. “What the fuck?”

It’s not a rhetorical question, I really want to know what’s going on because Wren Ford is sitting at a table with some asshole. I don’t need to meet him, don’t need a “get to know you” conversation or anything else to know he’s an asshole.

One, he’s having dinner with Wren. Automatic asshole.

Two, he looks like the type of douchebag who gets his eyebrows waxed, has a multistep skin-care regimen, and has never worked a day of hard labor in his life. Extra asshole-y for sure.

Hazel props her drink tray on the table, leaning over it, to share, “Charlene said his name’s Oliver, he’s Chrissy’s lawyer, and Wren said things are strictly professional. Buuuut ...”

She trails off, and I look over again. They’re both eating nachos, and Wren licks her finger, her red-painted nail disappearing into her mouth for a moment. I have a flashback of her doing the same thing, but in a much different situation, and take a deep inhale to steady myself when I see this Oliver asshole zeroing in on Wren’s mouth too.

Strictly professional, my ass.

“Hazel, getchur ass up here for this Fat Pussy!” Tayvious yells from the window to the kitchen. He’s serious about his food and won’t let one of his infamous burgers die in the window because Hazel or Charlene is too busy chitchatting to deliver it. “Or else Harold can get it himself, and you know he won’t tip for shit if he has to get off his ass.”

“Keep your panties on, Tay Tay. I’m coming as fast as I can,” Hazel shouts back. She taps her tray to the table, letting me know her work with me is done, and strides off, weaving her way through the tables and people with expert ease, though she warns, “Coming through.”

A lady bumps into Hazel, and rather than apologizing, Hazel glares at her until the customer apologizes.

Customer service isn’t exactly first priority around here, but nobody seems to care much.

My attention returns to Wren, and I watch closely.

What the fuck is she doing here? With another man?

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