2. Jess
“Have you seen Tyler?”I ask, standing a respectable distance from the customer side of the bar.
Anita frowns as she side-eyes me while flipping a shaker with finesse. “I thought you were off.”
I shrug. “I am.” Though I have no idea why. I pause for a beat. “But I wanted to pick up my check.” I can’t help my envious stare at her nametag. Anita Mae, Bartender.
She nods, her smile knowing. “And call dibs on my job?”
I scrunch up my face. “Too obvious?”
“Uh, it’s called initiative. You’re a Bishop. I’d expect nothing less.” She notices the space I’ve created between me and the bar. Bartending in the great state of New York at eighteen? Totally legit. Taste-testing even one drop of alcohol? Not so much.
And as I am the last of the Bishop children to work in this establishment, let’s just say I don’t want to be the one to eff it all up with the liquor authority.
“You’re not a kid anymore, Jess. Step on up!”
Proudly, I do. With a lighter, she demonstrates a technique called flaming an orange peel. With the strike of a match and the flick of her fingers, a fireball showers the drink, then vanishes behind a small trail of smoke.
“Doesn’t that burn?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “You’re not really lighting the peel as much as spraying the orange oil against the flame into the glass.” She walks me slowly through the motions. “See?”
I nod. Rumor is, her promotion is in the bag, which leaves her job up for grabs. It’s a long shot, but I’ve been practicing. Thank God for YouTube.
She peers over thick-framed glasses. “Master this trick. People eat it up, and the tips flow like water.” She gestures grandly to the wall of liquor and art-deco accents. “This will all be yours someday.”
Fascinated, I glance around. “There’s so much to learn.”
She tosses a small notebook on the glossy wood. “Here. You want the job? Memorize this.”
Flipping through, I realize it has to be fifty pages of customized cocktails from the Adirondack Sunset to Donovan’s Deadly Twist. But when my gaze hits Bishop’s Breeze, I pause, and my eyes well up. I expected it to be a drink created by Brian, Rex, or Cade—any one of my brothers—but it’s not. It was written by Henry.
Henry James Bishop, my father. My fingers skim across the page as I inhale pride and exhale sadness. Vodka. Lemon. Honey. Club soda with a splash of Moscato. I choke up. I can almost see him making it for mom.
Anita’s warm hand covers mine. “Anything I can do?”
Rewind time. Stop them from getting in that car.
“No,” I say softly. Not unless you can bring my parents back. It takes a breath before the pain subsides and a few blinks to dislodge an annoyingly stubborn tear.
“Lunch?” she says kindly.
I decline with a hopeful grin. “Rain check?” Considering I’m blowing all my money on my gift for Brian, I will absolutely take a free lunch IOU.
Sharp, jabbing pains erupt in the lowest point of my gut. Not now. I suck in a breath to stave it off. A hard pinch comes again, a tight twist. I hug both arms against my belly, wrestling the pain away, grateful that Anita’s too busy to notice.
“Hmm ...” She fills a thick glass mug with whatever’s on tap. “Tyler?”
She thinks for a moment while I try not to double over in pain. Or cry out “Mercy” to the gods of pain.
Month after month, my periods are ten times worse, and over-the-counter medications are barely making a dent. With any luck, the extra-extra-strength medication I got at the drugstore will kick in any second now.
While I bite my lip like a bullet, Anita ponders on. “Tyler ...”
Maybe it’s the repeated knife jabs to the gut talking, but if one more person says they haven’t seen Tyler Donovan, I’ll throw down like a toddler. I’m two seconds from unceremoniously face-planting onto the questionably clean floor, arms and legs flailing about in full-on meltdown mode.
Anita sets a pink-and-purple drink at the pickup station and a mug of beer next to it before sliding her glasses to the tip of her nose.
“So, you have to see Tyler?” she sings suggestively. Or hopefully. I swear, the woman is vying for the official title of Cupid.
The knife jab below the belly subsides to a dull ache enough for me to play along. “Obviously, because Tyler knows how to make a girl truly happy.”
She gives me the hairy eyeball. “You’re lucky you’re legal,” she says, smirking as she waggles her brows.
“All I need is a few minutes alone with him. Just me and Tyler so he can”—I deadpan— “pay me.” I lower my voice and clasp my hands in prayer. “And pitch him a dozen reasons for why I’d be perfect for your job.”
By her outrageous yawn, she’s underwhelmed. “Boring.” She leans in confidentially. “Moment of truth ... which one?”
“Which one what?”
“Which one of the Donovans melts your butter?”
Which?How can she ask me that? I mean, they’re all friends with my brothers. Which makes it weird.
Wide-eyed, Anita smiles expectantly as I think it through. Anything to take my mind off the pain, though it’s eased up enough that I’m no longer tasting blood from my lower lip.
Ignoring my childhood faux pas of a wish, I run through the list.
There’s Tyler, who’s inherently sexy because he has my paycheck. He’s the older, wiser, kinder of the Donovan brothers. His sandy-blond waves are always as carefree as his soul, and his twenty-seven-year-old smile warms you from the inside out. One day in the not-too-distant future, this business will be his kingdom, an attractive quality that the vagina of every eligible bachelorette in the tri-county region has zeroed in on.
Hunk-worthiness? A ten and a half. On the date-worthy scale, I can’t even go there. He’s almost paternal. Or a really hot uncle you hope will find his forever match. Whenever I come in, he’s always checking to see how I’m doing and if I’ve eaten. Thanks to this place, I have.
Then there’s Zac, the youngest and three years older than me. A young McDreamy in his own right; his looks are totally wasted. The man has been my BFF since forever ago, but he never dates. Between studying at New York University and launching his own mogul career, you’d think the man was thirty-one, not twenty-one.
Over summers and holiday breaks, he returns to Saratoga Springs to shake things up. Moving the inventory system from the caveman era into the next millennium. Shifting the ordering to the cloud and ensuring it takes everything from Venmo to Bitcoin. And launching a spruced-up website with candid shots that always manage to blow up Instagram, which he often credits me for.
Every chance I get, I snap outrageous photos and videos, and at Zac’s insistence, they’ve posted every single one. Food photos. Tyler clowning around, serving a bachelorette party in nothing but a black apron. Well, he had shorts on, but you couldn’t tell from the front. Even simple things like Anita plopping dry ice into drinks at Halloween.
Zac says I have raw talent. I call it an obsession with Mrs. D.’s food.
Zac will forever be my biggest cheerleader and best friend, but something more? Let’s just say our one and only test-the-waters kiss was all we needed to be eternally friend-zoned. Plus, I’m not sure he’ll ever settle down. Core-of-the-Earth-level hotness? A thousand percent. A compulsive workaholic? Ten-thousand percent.
And last, but not least, there’s Mark. The very same Marcus Evan Donavon my child mind thought I could marry. Silly girl. I couldn’t possibly marry an ass, and make no mistake, that man is an ass.
As if reading my thoughts, Anita asks, “Ooh, is it Mark?”
Heat flares up my neck to my cheeks as I scoff. “Mark? Mark hates me.”
“He does not.”
“He even gave me that stupid nickname.”
Anita coos at me. “It’s adorable.”
My palm is affronted before I am, and it flies in her face. “Don’t even.”
Her hands raise in surrender as she smartly backs up a step. “Okay, okay. Just saying, he’s not terrible on the eyes.”
When Anita gets googly-eyed for Mark, I gag. She grabs a ticket and pulls a highball from the shelf to work on her next drink.
All I can think is…Mark? Really?
I mean, to look at, yes. Agreed. If Mark had a mute button, he’d be the perfect man. The problem with him—or rather, the biggest problem with him—is that his looks far overshadow his tiny, little pea-brain. That and his two-sizes too-small heart.
Have you ever seen a man too beautiful to exist? Sure, in and of itself, it’s not a reason to hate him. What I hate is that Mark wields it like a weapon. Whenever he walks into a room, I feel the need to dispense chastity belts with reckless abandon.
Again, I’m not talking about your garden-variety good looks, as in he looks great in a pair of jeans with an insta-swoon dimple that could launch a thousand ships. I’m talking about a legs-locked, knees-weak, heart-stopping level of sex appeal that would stand out in a sea of Hemsworths. The irony is that with all that heat, Mark is too cold.
Anita pops the cork on a bottle of Moscato and works on a Bellini. “Well, if your heart’s set on Tyler or Zac, you’re SOL. I just remembered that Tyler isn’t here. He and Zac went fishing with their dad before Zac returns to school.”
I nibble my lower lip again, worry twisting my gut.
“Nope. Don’t do that,” Anita says, frowning.
“Huh? Do what?”
She waves an accusatory strawberry-margarita painted fingernail in my face. “That thing where your brows pinch so hard, they nearly touch. Trust me, you’re too young to start with the permanent angry line.” She wipes down the bar. “You worried about Brian leaving?”
“No,” I lie, lifting a defiant chin. “Brian has been here long enough. Having him take care of me since my parents?—”
My mouth dries, sand filling my throat before I can say the words. I breathe through it until words come out.
“Anyway, the military gave him all the leave they could. I’m an adult. I’ve graduated. I’m a big girl, and my brother’s a big boy. We can take care of ourselves.” I say this out loud at least a dozen times a day, because any day now, I’ll believe it.
Anita places a bowl of mixed nuts between us and pops a few into her mouth. “Then what is it?”
Deflated, I sigh. “I have five days to get Brian his going-away gift before his deployment.”
“That should be plenty of time.”
“I need to be able to afford it first. It costs my entire paycheck.”
She lifts a brow. “All of your paycheck?”
I nod. “Along with the engraving, yes. I caught him drooling at the jewelers over some stupid-expensive tactical watch. After an insane amount of searching, I found a pre-owned one, but I have to pick it up today. The owner already has other buyers.” I’m about to show her on my phone, but my battery’s already low, and I still need to use it to find this guy. Wiggling my fingers at her, I say, “Give me your phone.”
Anita hands it to me, and I pull up the Laney Jewelers website, then scroll to the right photo. With a two-toned whistle, she approves.
I smile. “And then hopefully, I’ll have time to get it engraved before Brian leaves.”
“You mean Brian and Mark. What, no gift for his bestie?” she teases.
My lips quirk as my narrowed eyes respond for me.
“Hey, if push comes to shove, girl, I’ve got you.” She holds up a paring knife. “Seriously, how hard can it be to scratch two Bs on the metal band?”
“What I had in mind is a little more than his initials, and this watch is worth weeks of my life,” I say indignantly as I lower her knife-wielding hand. “As skilled as you are with slicing and dicing, how about we leave the pretty letter carving to the experts.” I tap the counter, not sure what to do. “Who can I get my check from?”
“You can get it from Mark.”
“What? Mark’s here?” My brows pop up as the name of my arch-nemesis rings through the air. Or is it just nemesis? “Mark never comes here. And why isn’t he fishing with everyone else?”
Smiling, she shrugs. “Mrs. D.’s working out the details for the Whitney wedding. I guess he’s filling in.”
“Perfect.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “Any idea where he is?” Anita shakes her head as I slide off the leather stool. “I guess I’ll stop looking for Tyler and hunt down Mark.”
“Hang on.” She fishes cash from the tip jar and hands it to me.
Blinking, I stare at her. “What’s this?”
Her hands grab mine, shoving the bills into it. “A bunch of tourists went all out at brunch. Take it. I don’t want you not to have a paycheck. You’ll be working this side of the bar soon enough.”
Emotions overwhelm me as I stare down at the twenties, tens, and fives. This isn’t just how Anita is. It’s how everyone is here. Always looking out for me when I suspect it least and need it most. Everyone here cares for me. In return, I have to care for them back.
Counting it quickly, I split it right down the middle and toss half back in the jar. “Thanks,” I say, rushing out of there before I’m a blubbering puddle in the middle of the floor.
Sternly, I wipe my cheeks and make my way down the hall. I can cry when I’m at home. That’s what showers are for.
Scowling, I mutter under my breath. “Yoo-hoo ... Satan. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Where Tyler and Zac are wholesome goodness wrapped up in sunshine and smiles, Mark is the polar opposite, ready to fight, run, or fornicate at a moment’s notice. His brothers are easygoing sails on tranquil waters, while Mark is a storm. And those eyes. Shamefully, I’ve stared at them more than once.
Some men were meant to build castles while others were born to slay dragons. That’s Mark. A hot-blooded fighting machine who can’t turn it off. It’s what makes him the best. And the broodiest.
When Brian entered the Army, Mark rushed in after him, besties since their stupid blood oath in the fifth grade. Seriously, how deep did they need to cut? They both required five stitches each. But that was them. Two beautiful idiots pridefully counting every last scar.
It’s the reason why no matter how hard I try, I can’t avoid Mark. Like my brother’s shadow, he’s always around. A personal tormentor, ready and eager to strike at will.
I pop my head into the break room. A few waitresses are eating a late lunch and gossiping about customers.
Gasping, Kara looks up at me. “I thought you were off,” she says, offended at my very presence. “Tyler said you needed a personal day.” Her eyes roll to a resentful stop. “Must be nice.”
Why would Tyler tell them that? I ignore her, and not just because Kara’s an ass, but because convincing Kara that Tyler is wrong would be as fruitful as convincing Mark I should be a bartender. There’s no point. It’ll never happen. But I still need to pick up my check. “Have either of you seen Mark?”
“Oh my God,” Starr says as she whips back her pink hair. “Is Mark Danger Zone Donovan here?”
Kara claps and squeals like a seal, while I rub my temple, praying that the migraine she just spurred up goes away. High-pitched and hopeless, she carries on. “He’s so lickable. I heard he now holds the record for the most confirmed kills.”
Confused, I stare. “How does that make him hot?”
She smirks. “You wouldn’t understand.” She scans me up and down before dismissing me with her eyes. “You’re too young.”
“I’m only a year younger than you, Kara.”
She scoops her breasts into her crossed arms, forcing cleavage that even her overstuffed push-up couldn’t tackle. “There’s a world of difference in a year.”
Perhaps to a dog.
“Trust me,” Starr says. “His brothers are princes, but Mark Donovan is a full-fledged demi-god.” She licks her spoon suggestively. “I’ve got something that sharpshooter can aim at.”
She sucks her finger, amplifying the point. I dry heave and leave the room. Only God knows where that finger’s been.
Kara calls after me. “Tell him we’re looking for him, too, okay?”
Their giggles echo wildly as I shake my head. Sure. Why not? Because maybe if I offer two semi-virginal sacrifices to your demi-God, he’ll give me that promotion I desperately need.
“Jess?” I hear Mark say. His deep, gravelly voice flows effortlessly down the hall, though I don’t see him.
As I approach his office, the door is ajar. I slide a hand on the handle, pausing as soon as I hear, “What about her?” Because Mark isn’t talking to me, he’s talking about me.
The door is cracked ever so slightly, an obvious invitation to listen in. His heavy footsteps move farther away, and I nudge the door a hair, wide enough to peer inside.
Framed by the large picture window at the other end of the office, Beelzebub stands in all his glory: dark blue jeans, crisp white shirt, and chestnut-brown hair mussed to perfection. The million-mile stare he sports is fixed somewhere off in the distance as he presses the cell phone to his ear.
It’s wrong of me to stare. But I can’t not stare. I mean, it’s hardly the first time I’ve seen Mark Donovan. It’s just the first time I’ve dared to unapologetically stare at his ass.
He shifts in place, and the move is hypnotic. Did he bulk up ... his butt?
I knew he did some heavy lifting, but this is ridiculous. I mean, once, when traffic was blocked, he and Brian lifted a fallen maple to the side of the road. By themselves. So, yeah, I get it. Muscle mayhem. But now, his arm bulge alone has his shirtsleeves within an inch of their lives. It’s as if he graduated from bar-belling trees to tanks.
“What?” he snaps indignantly.
I shouldn’t hang on his every word, but I do. Who’s he talking to? Is someone complaining about me? Because I’ve been crushing it. Taking double shifts. All smiles. Amped up like an Energizer bunny. Nobody works as hard as I do, and not just for the tips. I have the Bishop legacy to maintain.
And yes, I may have mixed up an order here and there, or spilled one tiny little kid’s milk. But I fixed every last mistake. And the milk spill Boomerang clip the kids posted got a ton of love on TikTok. Granted, the putrid dairy after-smell was wafting about for weeks, but thankfully, it’s gone. Almost.
“No. No way,” I hear Mark say, chuckling. I frown hard. I know that laugh. That’s his evil laugh.
It’s the laugh he had when he and Brian set a rope snare and trapped me in it, which, in my defense, I was eight. It was also the laugh that accompanied that nasty bowl of foul-tasting jellybeans and his insistence that girls couldn’t eat them. He knew what he was doing. Throwing down a double-dog dare in the face of the female race. Well, I ate every last one. And whoever decided that vomit and boogers were palatable should be shot.
He also had that very same annoying laugh when he came up with that stupid nickname?—
“Choir Girl?” he says with a scoff.
Fire fills my face as my grip on the door handle tightens.
This is the same man who tosses nicknames like babe or princess at every walking vagina in town, but for me, I’m simply Choir Girl. I mean, sure, I was in the church choir. And not just because everyone there was nice or that they handed out cocoa and cookies after every performance, which I lived for, but because Mom was there, too. It was our space as much as anyone else’s.
“Me with Choir Girl?” He says it as if disgusted. By this point, I’m already inappropriately one foot in the office and charging straight at him. But Mark doesn’t notice and just keeps going.
“Not with a ten-foot pole,” he says with another scoff, and half of my heart shatters as he goes from being cold to cruel. “Make that a hundred-and-ten-foot pole. She’s too”—he pauses for a moment for just the right word, the wheel in his mind landing on—“Jess.”
Seriously? It’s bad enough that he’s banished me like a dwarf planet in my own brother’s solar system. Why talk about me at all? Oh, that’s right. Because he’s Mark.
I bite my cheek, my face burning with more emotions than I can count. Frozen with indecision—to leave or to knee him in the groin—I blink away my stubborn tears just as he turns around. “Not even if the fate of mankind was dependent on my dick connecting with her vag?—”
His mouth snaps shut, and I narrow my eyes.
He hangs up. For the longest second in history, I stare down the first man to make my Vow to Hate for All Eternity list. And that’s not just my period talking.
“Jess,” he says with a huff, annoyed. “Ever hear of knocking?” He walks over to his desk.
He did not just say that. Ever hear of not talking shit behind someone’s back, butt-munch?
My mouth falls open, and I can feel every last one of my freckles catch fire. “Oh, I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness. Is that the proper etiquette? Knocking so I don’t disturb you being an asshat?”
“Asshat?” His steps stop cold. He spins, facing me. “Well, this asshat happens to be your boss for today, Jess. That is, if you were working, which you shouldn’t be. How about you come back tomorrow?”
Is that why Tyler told me to stay home? Because of Mark? When I could’ve used those tips? I feel my anger rise to a dangerous high as I stand my ground. “How about you give me an apology?”
When he rolls his eyes, I poke him in his dumb, stone-hard chest. What am I doing?
His eyes dart to my finger, then to my eyes. “I—” I take a breath, my chin defiant. “I deserve an apology,” I snap.
He edges closer into my space. “Haven’t you heard? In life, you never get what you deserve, Jess. Only what you can negotiate. Move it along, Choir Girl.”
Again with the name?“Make me,” I say in total stupid-brazen disregard for my stand-in boss. But I can’t back down. Instead, I step up to him, toe-to-toe. I’m keenly aware of the childishness of my action considering the man has, oh, I don’t know, a yard of height on me.
My stare-down is feeble, pathetic, really. I blame his eyes. They’re gold now—charged and deadly—like some wild exotic cat I’m stupid enough to be in a staring contest with.
Two knocks chop at the door.
“Come in,” he barks.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Brian’s voice is too familiar to both of us, but neither of us budges. My brother wraps a casual arm around me as if the death-glare crossfire isn’t happening at all. He pulls me back and leans over to Mark. “I thought we had a talk about this.”
I whip my head to Brian. “A talk about what?”
“Nothing.” Mark’s reply is quick. Too quick. He retreats behind his desk. Coward.
I turn my attention to Brian, breaking down his resolve with my angriest angry eyes. “What talk?”
He shrugs, his guilty smile on full display. “Nothing,” he says, rushing me out of the room with both hands on my shoulders. “Mark and I need to chat, sis. See you later.”
Before I get too far with a protest, the door slams in my face.
“Argh.” I stomp my foot. I still need my check. Maybe if I’d taken Anita up on that lunch, I wouldn’t be consumed with hangry rage. Between my hunger and my period, there’s only one solution: full-blown annihilation. Crazed, I plow down the door, guns blazing.
“Why’d you hang up on me?” Brian asks Mark.
“What?” I glare down my enemies, Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Asshat, trying to make sense of why Mark’s dick and my vag would ever come up in their conversation.
What the hell?
When Anita asked me about Mark, did I say, “Me? With the dildo of the century? Not even if my vagina was on fire and his dick was the only way to put it out.” Wait, that came out wrong. And of course, I didn’t. At least, not with my outside voice.
Instead of being a half-decent person, Mark clasps his hands and cocks his head in that arrogant way he always does. “Remember our little talk about knocking, Jess?”
It’s as if his balls are begging to be kicked so hard, they lodge in that vacant space where his brain should be.
Fire licks at my good senses. I’m so ready to hand him that perfect ass of his on a platter, but the second I open my mouth, he adds, “I’d hate to see you lose your job for something as trivial as manners.”
Stunned, I stare. He’d really fire me over this?
And what about Brian? Instead of standing up for me, my idiot big brother is just standing there. Like a big, dumb oaf, he’s doing nothing but warning me with his eyes and a slow shake of his head.
Brian’s right. I know he’s right. He’s leaving in a few days and taking this worthless sack of shit with him.
I should stay calm because I don’t want this job, I need it. And not even for the money. Without it, I’m more or less alone. Rex is stationed in New Jersey. Close, but never close enough. And Cade is away in some god-forsaken part of the world that feels as unreachable as the moon.
Tears threaten fast. Too fast. As soon as he says, “Well, what do you know? Even choir girls have manners,” no-holds-barred atomic anger wins.
I see the stack of checks on the desk, miraculously in alphabetical order. Mine’s right on top. I snatch it up and stuff it in my pocket.
“Go to hell, Mark Donovan.” And once again, when faced with the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, my brain snaps in two, and I do the unthinkable. “I. Quit.”
Pulse racing, I rush out of the room, determined not to cry like a girl or beg for my job. How did today end up like this?
I should’ve spent today planning the sendoff of the century for the brother of the year. Instead, I’m stuck spending the better part of it finding a new job and hating the both of them.
Asshat, one.
Choir Girl, zero.