Page 70 of You Don’t Kiss Your Brother's Best Friends

His concern wasn’t just genuine, it was heartfelt. It made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“I’m fine,” I assured him. “Really.”

“Because that pig deserved what happened,” he pressed. “You know that, right? It’s not like you should feel bad, or responsible, or—”

“Bishop?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

With that I smiled and kissed him, before gently pushing his hands from my hips. Pity was the last thing I needed. Comfortable shoes, yes. An outfit that didn’t make me look like I worked at the Olive Garden, sure. But not pity. Not when there was still so many ways we could get ourselves killed.

“C’mon,” I urged the three of them. “Cocktails are at six, and we’re nowhere near ready. Joe needs help setting up the tables. And you,” I pointed specifically at Kayden, “have about a thousand hors d’oeuvres to prepare.”

They didn’t move at first. Maybe because they were too busy staring back at me admiringly, maybe even in ways that no one had ever looked at me before.

“What the hell did we do to deserve you?” asked Kayden.

In my stupid server’s outfit, I curtsied.

“I’m not too sure, actually. But if we ever get out of this?” I winked. “The three of you can make it up to me.”

~ 41 ~

JOCELYN

“Beefsteak. Heirloom. San Marzano.”

Bruschetta Joe didn’t even look up from what he was doing. He continued pouring and mixing drinks, his two thick arms moving with fast, practiced ease.

“It can’t be cherry, can it?”

The man frowned. He rolled his eyes.

“Joe—”

“No respectable Italian would use cherry tomatoes for anything but a salad,” he admonished me. “The water content is too high. Everything turns to mush.”

“Fine, then,” I conceded. “Plum.”

He laughed, mockingly.

“Brandywine?”

I saw him stiffen, visibly. For a moment, he actually looked up.

“Brandywine!” I practically shouted. “You use Brandywine tomatoes because they’re sweet! And because the skin is thin and delicate, so they make good—”

“Here,” Joe grunted, shoving the serving tray in my direction. “Get these drinks to that table on the end. They’re getting antsy.”

“Let’s talk about garlic,” I half pleaded, half teased. “Iknowyou did something magical to that garlic, Joe. And I know you—”

“Garlic’s garlic!” he boomed, angrily. “Now get back to work! Or do I have to make the drinksandserve them myself?”

I slid the tray into my arm and shuffled away, satisfied I was getting somewhere. In truth, there were a thousand other things I should be worried about besides Joe’s secret recipe for bruschetta. But sometimes, and especially in a room full of assholes like these, you needed a little levity to take the edge off.

On the other side of the room, poor Dorothea was lost in a sea of crude remarks, errant pinches, and attempted grabs. I felt terrible for her. Having worked as a waitress in college, I’d grown adept at dodging such unwanted advances. But this wasn’t a diner, or your normal group of customers. This was an entire testosterone-fueled mercenary company, packed under a single roof, with barely a woman in sight. These men were high on their own inflated egos, and emboldened by alcohol. They were on a field trip to an island of lawlessness, in a self-absorbed world where the rules already didn’t apply to them.

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