“He was bothered by my dinner order, honey.”
“Really?” Frankie looked down at her plate, over to the dipshit, and then right at her. There was no missing the devil in his eyes right before he turned his attention back to the other man. “What’s wrong with what my girl’s eating?”
Mr. In Her Business blanched. Literally. The color drained out of his face so fast that he resembled one of those swipe right before and after photos on makeover blogs. How in the hell she managed to not laugh out loud she had no frickin’ clue.
“N-n-nothing,” the man stuttered.
Nope. He was not getting off that easily.
She looked up at Frankie, still standing next to her chair, his big hand braced on the back of it, and said in the clueless voice that anyone with a brain would know meant there was danger ahead, “He said I should have ordered a salad, then I might have a chance to move from a five to an eight. I’m a five because I have great tits.”
Thunderous didn’t begin to describe the dark look of pure vengeance that crossed Frankie’s face, making even the freckles that crossed over the bridge of his nose look scary. Mr. Buttinsky made a little squeaking noise that reminded Lucy of the sound of air coming out of a balloon when someone pulled the tip taut as it was deflating. Frankie took a step forward, menace vibrating off of him in waves. The other guy didn’t bother to say a word, he just took off, weaving his way at a fast clip through the crowded bar and out the front door. Lucy liked to imagine that he peed his pants a little as he did so.
“Thanks, Frankie,” she said to the man still staring at the departing figure of Mr. Peed His Pants. “I owe you one.”
Her ginger knight in well-fitting jeans and a T-shirt made some kind of noise that maybe was a response in the affirmative. It sounded kinda like “no problem.” Whatever. She was used to that from guys. She was only of interest until a hotter, skinnier, or prettier woman came along. It was the universal fat chick cloaking device.
Determined not to let it annoy her as much as it usually would, she turned back to her jalapeño cheeseburger, spicy fries, and soda. Now she could finally enjoy her dinner in peace.
Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. Frankie clunked down a three-fourths filled mug of beer on the other side of her table, pulled out the chair across from her, and sat down. Before she could even ask what he was doing, he waved the waitress over and told her he wanted whatever Lucy was eating, plus an extra order of fries and another beer. Once she’d left, he turned his attention to Lucy and gave her what could only be described as a vibrator smile. She named it that in her head—thankfully only in her head—because she now had a desperate need for her vibrator and maybe a fresh pack of batteries.
“You’re not gonna make me eat alone now that we’re on a date, are you?” he asked, swiping one of her fries.
She hated to stereotype, but he was really hot and, well, pretty people weren’t known for being the smartest in the room. And add to that the fact that his muscles had muscles and she decided to speak a little slower than usual. “We’re not on a date.”
He cocked his head to one side and blinked his blue eyes at her and gave her a wink, obviously sending the message that he was just messing with her. “But that’s what I told that chucklehead.”
Her interactions with the oldest Hartigan had been limited to large get-togethers that involved her bestie Gina and her fiancé, Frankie’s brother, Ford. They hadn’t really talked before. In fact, he was the kind of hot that meant he was usually surrounded by whatever single women were there. But still, she was sure he had someplace else to go.
“I appreciate what you did. Seriously, I am going to hold that memory tight for the next time some asshole decides that he or she needs to impart unsolicited advice about my body, but you don’t have to eat with me. I’m a big girl. Obviously.” Yes, because making fat jokes before anyone else could was a habit ingrained since grade school, when Jimmy Evans asked if she’d make the Pillsbury Doughboy giggle if he poked her in the stomach. She’d punched him in the stomach instead. That had gone over about as well as expected.
“No really, can I stick around and eat with you?” he asked, leaning forward as if he was about to impart a deep, dark secret. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Long story that should take at least as much time as it does for us to eat our burgers.”
Now how could she say no to that?
…
Frankie took a dramatic pause at the end of his story about the cops-on-firefighters brawl at the end of the last charity hockey game—one that his smack talk had started but his right hook had finished. “And that’s why I was banned from Marino’s unless accompanied by my brother.”