Page 4 of Sirens
Maggie nudged in beside Kurt’s bony shoulder, peering through a rack of kitchen tools to locate her target.
And promptly had to steady herself against an industrial-sized whisk.
The man was…perfect. A goddamnGQad cut from the fabric of the universe and pasted into this chaotic everyday scene.
Most males of her acquaintance “got dressed.” This dude put together a whole-assensemble. The kind she could easily see one of those Ken-doll-perfect mannequins wearing in a display window on Fifth Avenue.
Crisp, tailored shirt. Expertly cut trousers.
But it wasn’t just the clothes. It was the way he wore them. Like they were the elegant but totally unnecessary wrapper of a ten-course meal, and the rest of the world would be lucky to get a single bite.
Which, judging by what she could see of his body, was an empirical fact.
Mr. GQ didn’t justwork out. He had aregimen.One that made his shoulders just the right kind of broad, his torso the perfect sort of cut to fit a tux he’d be wearing to swagger up to a roulette table on the French Riviera. Probably sit his equally perfect ass down across from a Bondian super-villain with an intriguing characteristic scar, eyeing him cooly across the green felt.
No wonder he was so goddamn picky about his drinks.
“Not today, James.”
Maggie hadn’t realized she’d spoken or that she’d begun moving in GQ’s direction until Kurt’s hand clamped around her wrist, panic plain on his features.
“What are you doing?”
Maggie attempted a mild smile. “I’m going to go talk to him.”
“Talk to him?” Kurt’s eyebrows and voice lifted simultaneously. “Why? Why would you do that?”
“Because I’d like to know what he finds so objectionable.” Maggie slipped past him, only to have Kurt leapfrog back into her path.
“Can’t we just assume it’s everything?” he asked.
Several acidic replies burned their way up her throat but were promptly neutralized by the chance glimpse of the antique mermaid masthead mounted on the wall, hair very nearly the same shade of scarlet as Maggie’s, a secret smile playing about her painted lips.
The kind of smile that might advertise to lonely nineteenth-century sailors arriving in Townsend Harbor from ports across the known world that convivial companionship might just be on offer—for a price.
“The sooner I get this little conversation out of the way, the sooner I can get back to making the rest of your drink order,” Maggie said.
“You know he’s”—Kurt’s words snapped off mid-sentence—”one of our regulars, right?” he said, speed-walking to catch up with her. “And kind of an important one at that. Please don’t piss him off.”
“Piss him off?” Maggie snorted, rolling her eyes. “What on earth would make you think that I’m going to piss him off?”
“Maybe the Manhattan you managed to dump into the fire chief’s lap earlier?”
A fresh wave of irritation heated Maggie’s skin at the memory. “That was an innocent accident and had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that hairy-knuckled letch spent almost an entire hour ogling my cleavage.”
“I mean, it’s kind of hard not to.”
Maggie stopped so abruptly that Kurt clipped her shoulder.
“And what do you mean by that?” she asked.
A single bead of sweat slid down Kurt’s forehead as his eyes tried—and failed—to find a safe place to land.
Ever since hitting puberty, Maggie had been blessed—cursed?—with very large, very real breasts that had her confined to beige boulder slings when the rest of her middle school classmates were flitting around the PE dressing room like fairies in their delicate lace bralettes.
Galvanized by the memory, Maggie tugged down the neckline of her fitted Sirens t-shirt to reveal a whole extra inch of cleavage before fixing Kurt with a smug look. She marchedpast him and directly up to Mr. GQ’s table, where she cleared her throat and waited for him to look up from his paper.
And then he did.
