Butterface

If Ford had been one of his brothers, he would have been able to cajole the other men into not being such giant assholes. However, Ford had long ago accepted that he wasn’t like the rest of his family. Brusque. By the rules. No-nonsense. That was him, the boring, dark-haired, odd man out of the wild, fun-loving, rough-and-tumble Hartigans—the guy who had women sprinting away from him after a single kiss. Yeah. He was a real catch.

Chapter Two

Gina’s stomach was still going all woozy whenever she thought back to that kiss, but the wedding reception had finally wound down and the happily-wedded and sloshed couple had disappeared into their honeymoon suite. That meant Gina’s time in hell was done. Thank you, baby Jesus.

She loved her job as a wedding and event planner—really, she did—but nothing was ever as sweet as the moment she walked away from a job well done. In T-minus twenty minutes, she’d be out of these heels and cute-but-not-revealing green dress and back in her own home, with nothing but the creaky silence of the old Victorian for company. She couldn’t wait.

It wasn’t the most exciting life—she owned that—but it was hers, and she was determined to make the most of it. No sitting around waiting on Prince Charming, who only existed in storybooks. Forget that pampered dweeb. What she needed was a handyman who wouldn’t run screaming from her home renovation to-do list. Well, that and more clients for her start-up business. Orgasms would be nice, too, but she’d found her vibrator was a hell of a lot more reliable for that than the few men who’d been in her bed.

Purse in hand and gaze locked on the hotel’s front door so she couldn’t get flagged down by any drunk guests, Gina almost slammed right into one of the cops who’d been the source of the newly married couple’s tequila supply. Way to go, Regina.

The guy—what was his name, it was something with a G, Gerry? Gionni? No. Johnnie—had stepped away from the hotel’s reception desk and directly into her path. How she managed to stop in time, she had no clue.

“How you doin’ tonight, Miss Wedding Planner?” Johnnie asked, trouble brewing in his slightly unfocused eyes.

Great. This was the last thing she needed right now.

Okay, the real last thing was getting called back to duty by a more-than-tipsy bride, but a run-in with a drunk guest was a close second. Blowing him off wasn’t an option, though.

She had her reputation to consider, and her fledgling company didn’t need the bad word of mouth because he perceived her as being rude. Add to that the fact that her brothers, Paul and Rocco, were known to have had multiple run-ins with the cops, so giving the detective a reason to give her—or her family—a hard time wasn’t a smart move. Sure, it wasn’t like her brothers were top-level guys in the Esposito organization, but they had plans—the stupid kind of ideas she’d spent her entire adult life trying to talk them out of.

The only good part of them being the neighborhood loan sharks was the fact that they actually helped a lot of people who were struggling, much to the detriment of their bottom line. They were the softest loan sharks that ever existed. Her brothers would help anyone with a sob story and give terms that didn’t involve broken legs for late payments. It wasn’t the usual route for loan sharks and that meant their profit margin sucked. They hadn’t told her directly, but she’d heard they were trying to get a better position with the Espositos so they could get someone else to do the debt collecting. Her brothers were sofities, but they also wanted to make a buck.

So while she didn’t have anything, even peripherally, to do with the family business, pissing off the cops and making her brothers targets was not an option. Damn. Some days there really was no winning.

“I’m doing fine, thanks,” she said, using her I’m-here-to-help work voice. “Did you need help with something?”

“I’m good.” He paused, seemingly for effect. “However, there is something that I could do for you.”

There was an awkward pause as he continued to stare at her, and her brain went on the fritz when it came to coming up with inane conversation—because she highly doubted there was anything this guy could do for her. And in her experience, when someone told her they wanted to do her a favor or gave her an I’m-interested look, there were ulterior motives at play. That lovely reminder of how her life worked brought back the old familiar clammy hands and tight chest feeling that hit her hard.