Page 23 of Morally Black Betrothal

“Hello,” I said, more cheerily than I felt. The man’s gaze was fixed downward onto his drink. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Brendan Black looked up at me, dark eyes full of green-flecked onyx. “Hello, Simone.”

I stumbled back, making a shelf of tumblers clink behind me. The force of the man’s gaze was that strong. “Hi. Hello. Um…it’s nice to see you again. What are you doing here?”

He tipped his head, reminding me of a big cat on the hunt. Or maybe not a cat at all. Maybe a wolf.

“I’d like to thank you for your kindness today with my father,” he said before taking a long sip of his drink. “And to make you an offer.”

6

THE SENSE OF HUMOR UPSTAIRS

Brendan

It was fate. It had to be.

As a nominal Catholic, I didn’t believe in predestination. Providence was another thing altogether. Our Sunday school teachers taught that God plans our choices, but it’s up to us what we do with them.

Simone Bishop was clearly my choice for today.

I considered tracking her down after watching her catch the bus downtown. It wouldn’t have taken much. A small donation to the CARE program in exchange for her contact information, or another well-placed bribe with one of the nurses for the exact location of her bar. But when Mac picked up, the directive froze on the tip of my tongue.

Instead, I’d told Mac to keep me updated and had asked my driver to take me for a quiet drink away from Beacon Hill. Figured it would be better to weather a few shots of whiskey than my family’s sniping.

Now she was here. In a basement lounge in Back Bay, a beacon against the mahogany wainscoting, maroon leatherbooths, and bowls of peanuts that had probably been there since 1976. From a jukebox, Dean Martin serenaded men who looked like they had probably attended some of the Rat Pack’s original shows. All of them lit up like Christmas trees whenever she stopped by.

The scrubs were still gone, of course, along with the big gray coat. Here, she wore black jeans, a black button-down, and a black apron. Simple clothes that couldn’t do a damn thing to hide hips that swayed like tall grass and tits the size of ripe peaches.

Yeah, God clearly wanted me to do something with this one.

I couldn’t stop looking, but I couldn’t figure out why. She wasn’t anything special. Shorter-than-average height. Smaller-than-average size. Yes, her blue eyes shimmered like aquamarines even through the bar’s dim lighting. And all right, every time she smiled at one of her customers, it seemed like a spotlight was turned directly on her.

But lots of people had blue eyes. Plenty of people smiled.

Neither fact explained the twinge in my chest where most people would swear I didn’t have a working organ.

I had watched from my corner as she made her way down the bar. Everyone was eager for her attention. She knew several of the patrons by name, and others seemed keen to learn hers. A brief touch on a hand put a customer immediately at ease. A quick smile lessened a coworker’s load.

So it wasn’t just me. Simone had a gift for putting people at ease. An incredibly undervalued talent in this cold, cruel world.

There were other things to learn about her as she chatted. Words like “sister” and “debt” floated my way. Darned holes in the knees of her jeans told me she probably fixed her clothes because she couldn’t afford to replace them. She was sweet, yes. But poor.

That I could use.

Now, those ocean eyes blinked slowly, and for a split second, I wondered if I’d made a mistake putting an offer out there.

This should have been an easy sell.

And yet…I paused.

“Have a drink with me,” I said, instead of asking the question that immediately came to mind. “On me. Consider it my thank you for this afternoon.”

Simone blinked, and I wasn’t surprised when she shook her head, causing wisps of hair to sway around her heart-shaped face. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m working.”

I peered at the other bartender, a greasy-looking man with a handlebar mustache and paunch that threatened to split his shirt, who tossed back tequila shots with another customer.

Simone followed my gaze, then sighed. “Okay. But I still don’t drink with customers. It, um, gives them the wrong idea.”