Page 3 of Airhead

Before Katie could say anything to mitigate her face-that-held-no-secrets, Connie turned in the direction of Sandy O’Shea’s perfect pert ass and let out a shocked gasp. She pivoted back around to stare at Katie with a look of pure horror. Even Jamie Lee Curtis fighting off what’s-his-name in a mask couldn’t have done it better.

“Do not tell me you’re making that face,” Connie hollered, in what her pickled brain probably thought was a whisper, “because of that man.”

Katie looked down at the scarred wooden table and tried to play it cool. “What man?”

Her sister snorted. “The one ignoring Sandy’s bad impression of a Solid Gold dancer and staring right at you.”

Katie jerked her head up. “He is?”

“Ha!” her sister squawked. “You’re the worst liar in the whole world. Of all the guys in Waterbury, why would you ever pick him? I mean yeah, he’s got stellar reviews on the bathroom stalls, but you aren’t really into guys like him.”

“I’m not,” Katie said, maybe a little too fast, but Connie wasn’t likely to pick up on that in her current state. “I’m just out of beer money until payday, and he offered to buy me one.”

“Uh-huh, shure Katherine Allishon Madigan,” Connie said, slurring just enough to warn that the countdown to the second part of phase one (emotional breakdown waterworks) had begun. “Whatever you shay.”

Sisters. No one allowed a person to get away with less bullshit than a sister. Katie was a half a second away from reminding Connie that she was here to drown her sorrows over that preppie poser asshole who, for reasons unknown, she kept going back to and not to pointing out the flaws in Katie’s love life (or lack of one), when the redheaded wall of muscle stopped at their table.

Frank Hartigan set one bottle of beer down in front of Katie, and the other in front of Connie.

“Heard about Blane,” he said to Connie, with a commiserating grimace that held enough sincerity that Katie couldn’t help but wonder who’d screwed him over. “You ever want me to take him behind the firehouse and knock a few of his teeth loose, you just let me know.”

Connie blinked at the mention of her ex, and then stared, wide-eyed, up at Frank. She looked at him as if he were some sort of god, rather than the guy she’d just been warning her sister off of. Her fuzzily focused eyes went watery, and her chin trembled.

“That’s...the...nicest...thing,” she said between tipsy hiccups, “anyone…has…ever…said…to…me.”

Connie whipped around and grabbed her sister’s hand. “This man is one of the good ones. You know you like him. Don’t let him go.” Then she burst into tears, flopped her head down onto the table, and wailed loudly enough to cut through the jukebox rendition of Physical by Olivia Newton-John.

Katie loved her sister, but she was going to kill her.

First, however, she had to get them both away from this man and his boneheaded (but honestly very sweet) offer to beat up The Creep before she started to like him. Or something worse than like him. Her and Frank Hartigan? It was impossible. It was unthinkable. It was the last thing in the world she should ever consider.

So she wouldn’t.

She.

Would.

Not.

Chapter Two

Frank had made women cry before. It hadn’t been on purpose, and he wasn’t proud of it, but it had happened.

However, it had never been because he’d given someone a beer and offered to punch out an asshole on their behalf.

“I’m…uh…sorry,” he said, after searching and failing to find something better to say.

Connie’s only response was another wail, muffled by the table. Unsure of what to do—growing up with all brothers had not prepared him for this—he awkwardly patted her shoulder and looked to Katie for a hint as to what to do next.

“It’s not you,” Katie grumbled as she offered a handful of wadded up bar napkins to her sister. “It’s all part of the process.”

Connie lifted her head and used the napkins to wipe the dark mascara lines streaming down her face, smearing them and giving herself an about-to-hit-the-gridiron look. Then she swiped the handful of napkins under her nose, leaving a black line across her top lip.

It took everything Frank had not to cut a smile—even the dumbass he was when it came to fully-clothed women knew that would be the wrong thing to do. This was confirmed with a glance over at the not-crying-in-the-middle-of-Marinos version of Connie. The sisters might be identical twins, but he could always tell them apart, unlike a lot of people could when it came to him and his twin, Paul. Yeah, both Madigans had the same curly red hair, dark eyes, full lips, and bodacious bods. But while Connie always had a sense of high drama around her, Katie was more serious, more in control, and had a more—to be blunt—scary-as-fuck attitude. She would definitely cut you if you crossed her.

Most of the men in Waterbury saw the danger sign and kept their distance. Was he an idiot for not being able to look away? Probably. But what fun was life without a little fire?

“The proshess?” Connie tossed back most of her drink in one gigantic gulp. “You shay that like it’s ever been like thish before.”