Christ on a cracker.
It truly will be one ofthosenights. I should’ve said no when the call came in.
And missed meeting the lioness?Caden’s voice says in my head.
I instruct myself to unclench my jaw. My work ID is attached to my hip, which she could clearly see if she’d look down. But she doesn’t, so I unclip it and show it to her.
She leans in, squinting at it while she angles her body just outside the car enough to reach for the chicken.
Like she’s being subtle. Like I won’t notice that she’s trying to grab the poultry on the pavement.
I sigh and bend to grab it for her but pause when she straightens.
“Oh.You’reHolt.” Her wide blue eyes light up as if me being Holt is the best news she’s had all day, and her smile?—
Fuck me.
That smile says I’m better than the chicken.
And given the way she was eating it up—literally—the thought has me temporarily disoriented.
Soul. Mate. Called it.
My brother’s been gone for almost nine months, and much as I miss him, his memory still manages to annoy me sometimes.
She starts to extend a greasy hand, looks down at it, and pulls it back into the car. “Hi. I’m Ziggy Barnes. The new sommelier? Brydie said I should find you to help me unload the wine. And here you are.”
My left eyelid twitches.
I started doing security one or two nights a week while Caden was sick to get out of the house in the off-season. Theoretically to make a little extra cash too, since rugby in the US doesn’t pay a lot. The Pounders’ owner hooked me up with a company he uses regularly. This is the kind of catering company that handles events for the bigger teams in the city. Political events. The most exclusive weddings for the richest of the rich here.
And their newsommelieris sitting outside her first event, gnawing on a whole chicken. Wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt and a ring of grease around her mouth. In a rental car.
Definitely a rental. The paperwork is sitting in the cupholder.
There’s a story here. Likely a fascinating story.
A fascinating story that’s none of my business. Work and pleasure don’t mix.
It’s a rule. A good one at that.
I clear my throat. “Didn’t know we were getting a new wine person.”
“All I know is that Michael is no longer with the company. I didn’t ask questions.”
I don’t know if I believe her, and I don’t know how much of my doubt is because she’s pretty and how much is because it’s been months since I’ve thought a woman was pretty so I don’t trust my own gut.
“What’s with the chicken?”
She grins again. “I was hungry, and it sounded good.”
“Normal people use forks and plates.”
“Why be normal when you can trap yourself in your car without napkins on the first day of a new job?”
“How’d you get into the parking lot?”
That bright, sunny smile finally drops away.
