12. Brian
CHAPTER 12
Brian
Confused, I read the email again and again while I lean against the car and wait.
When hell freezes over.
Wow. Clearly, Sydney Sun has some serious issues. Or maybe I’m the one with the issues because I’ve never been so confused yet turned on by a woman in my life. And I don’t even know her.
The front door to Harrison’s house swings open, and out marches Connor, looking suspiciously green around the gills. Literally. I squint at him. “What’s on your face?”
“Dad’s camo paint. Does it make me look sicker?”
I tilt my head, taking it in. “You’ve nailed that ‘I just crawled out of the grave’ aesthetic.”
“Cool.” He grins and hops into the front seat.
Ollie trails behind, already perfecting a raspy cough, while Little Snooki-Pie arrives cradled in Harrison’s arms, her big eyes wide and innocent. She looks at her father, all sweetness and light. “Do we get ice cream if we do a good job?”
“Only if you get Uncle Brian out in under an hour.” Harrison kisses her on the forehead, and I open the back door as Ollie and Snook slide in, hacking up a storm.
“No acting on the road,” Harrison reminds them, his voice stern but eyes full of mischief. “Save it for the restaurant.”
I shut the door and flash him a grin. “I’ll have them back in a few hours. Want anything from Salvatore’s?”
He shrugs, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Sure. Surprise me.”
As we step into the restaurant, the ma?tre d’s nose twitches like he just caught a whiff of something that doesn’t quite belong in his five-star establishment.
His gaze lands on the kids, sniffling and coughing like they’ve been cast in a flu medicine commercial. The guy looks like he’s debating whether to call security or a hazmat team.
“Can I help you?” His tone is as warm as a New York City winter.
“Reservation for Bishop,” I say, keeping my voice casual.
He frowns, checking his system. “I only have one reservation for Bishop, and it’s a VIP table for two. Unfortunately, we’re fully booked. We won’t be able to seat you tonight.”
I smile, catching sight of the half-empty restaurant behind him, and lean in. I tap his screen with a casual confidence. “Yes, you have a table for Bishop. Me. And it was for two, but now it’s for five. Private dining.”
His horrified eyes flick back to the kids, who are doing their best impressions of a grand arrival at death’s doorstep, then back to me.
“And we’ll need kids’ menus,” I add with a smirk.
Bewildered, he stammers, “W-we don’t have kids’ menus.”
Why am I not surprised?
I mean, come on. It’s an Italian restaurant. Pasta, butter, cheese, and breadsticks—this place practically is a kids’ menu.
I give him a grin that’s all teeth. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
He exhales sharply, nodding like a man about to walk the plank. “Right this way.”