Page 5 of Books and Hookups

“What if there was an accident?” I raked my hands through my hair, then secured it into a low bun with the elastic on my wrist. I’d been looking out for my brother since he was three and his dad had left our mom, so she had to pick up a second job. Poor Mom had never had any luck in love. Not since my father died when I was a year old. Though Leo’s dad stayed longer than our sister Giuliana’s had.

“Pishposh. It’s much more likely he lost track of time in the kitchen than a mishap on the road. Your little brother might be scattered, but he’s safe.”

“I know.” I pulled out my phone. There were plenty of texts in our sibling group chat, but nothing from Leo. “I just?—”

“You worry, Mother Hen,” she said. “About everything. It’s why I trust you with my bar.”

A feeling like carbonation bubbled through my stomach. If all went according to plan, it’d bemybar this time next year—mine and Leo’s.

“Won’t you miss this place?” I asked, scanning the polished wood, the well-worn high-top tables, and the vintage movie posters on the wall.

Barb’s gaze fell on her most prized possession in its place of honor next to the bar, theBreakfast at Tiffany’sposter signed by Audrey Hepburn. “Of course I will. But when I’m on my world cruise looking out at the Sydney Opera House, I don’t think I’ll be worrying about cockroaches in the dry storage or the rising price of tequila.”

I chuckled. “Fair.”

“And look.” She tipped her head toward the swinging door behind me. “There he is.”

My brother barreled into the tight quarters. He was a couple inches taller than me and rounder around the middle, and he always seemed too big for the back bar. He held one of his biodegradable clamshell containers in front of him.

“You have to try this, Danny. And Barb.” His round cheeks were pink, either from the February chill or from delight. He opened the box, and a mouthwatering aroma drifted out.

“You were late because of french fries?” I wiped my hands on the towel that hung from my front jeans pocket and reached into the box.

“Be sure to try the garlic aioli.” Barb and I both dipped a fry in the sauce and took a bite, then he said, “They’re fried in truffle oil. And I shaved a little truffle on top.”

I chewed the delicious morsel and swallowed. It was the best thing I’d eaten since our mom’s Bolognese last Easter.

“Oh, my stars,” Barb said. “My taste buds are singing.”

“Good, isn’t it?” Leo’s tentative smile was full of hope.

“Let me try one, Leo.” Walter, one of our regulars, beckoned. Leo held out the box to him.

“Shaved truffle sounds expensive,” I grumbled.

“Well, yeah. The truffles cost about fifty an ounce, but there’s only a tiny amount on these. And the truffle oil is a little pricey. I paid two hundred for a gallon, but I could probably get a bulk discount.”

“Twohundred?”My voice rose to an outraged squeak. “You mean it’ll cost agrandto fill up the fryer? For that kind of money, we could replace the leaky faucet in the ladies’ room with the fancy touchless kind.”

“I’ll try to oven-bake the next batch,” he said. “That’ll use a lot less oil.”

“You gonna eat the rest of those?” Walter said.

Leo handed them over. “They’re good, right?”

Walter nodded, his mouth full.

I lowered my voice. “I thought we were saving money, Leo.”

“It’s for the bar. We’ll add them to the menu.”

“Walter,” I said, “would you pay twenty bucks for those fries?”

He stuffed the last one in his mouth. “Twenty bucks? I could buy a burger and a beer for that. You’re not going to charge me, are you?”

I hit Leo with a glare as I poured a fresh glass of water and set it in front of Walter. “The fries were on the house. Thanks for being our guinea pig.”

“You boys can do whatever you like with the bar when it’s yours,” Barb said gently, “but the customers here are middle class. They might have truffle-oil taste, but they’ve got a peanut-oil budget.”

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