Butterface

“You are such a dumb fucker,” Frankie said, his words sounding funny because of the right hook Ford had delivered to his big brother’s mouth.

Ford was too tired and achy to sit up and smack Frankie around for the comment. “How’s that?”

Frankie snorted, then let out a pained groan. “Because instead of being here trying to kick my ass—which you’ll never be able to do, by the way—for insulting your girl in order to get a rise out of you so that the dim bulb above your head would go off, you should be out there begging and groveling and doing whatever it takes to get the woman you love to give your scrawny ass another chance.”

Because there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about what Frankie got right in that little speech, Ford focused on what his brother got wrong. Just because he didn’t shop in the giganto section didn’t make him a pipsqueak. He was six foot two, for the love of Mike. “I’m not scrawny.”

“But you are wrong.”

Ford opened his mouth to argue—a move that made his sore jaw ache—but he had nothing to say to that, because his oversized doofus of a brother was right. “I know.” Damn it. He hated it when that happened.

“So go get your girl, Ford.”

“What if she won’t listen?” His voice cracked on the last word, as though his fears had been ripped from his throat. He’d be lucky if she didn’t swing that sledgehammer at him, let alone actually hear him admit what a dumbass he’d been.

Still laying down beside him, Frankie swung his arm in a wide arc, and his massive paw of a hand landed with a hard thunk on Ford’s chest. Both men let out an oof of pain before Frankie said, “You mean the guy who bucked three generations of tradition by bypassing the fire department for the police department is scared of doing something hard? Don’t fool yourself, little bro. You’ve got what it takes to make this happen. If anyone can beat the odds, it’s you.”

Ford lay there, his breaths still coming out as big puffs of air, trying to figure out what to say, because that was probably about as close to an “I love you man” and “you aren’t a total dipshit for becoming a detective” as he’d ever heard from his oldest brother.

“If you ever tell anyone I just said that,” Frankie said, “I’ll deny it.”

“All the way to the grave,” Ford said with a laugh, even though it made his ribs hurt like hell, but not nearly as much as the idea of spending the rest of his life without Gina.

So, he ignored how much his entire body ached and got up, so he could go get his girl.

Chapter Twenty

Ford walked into the hotel on Bleaker Street out of breath and a little out of his mind. Okay, a lot out of his mind. He’d tried Gina’s house, but she wasn’t there. He’d tried Vacilli’s Bakery. No dice. He’d braved Lucy’s house and had to remind her that maiming was a serious offense as she put a mean-looking claw hammer down on her kitchen counter when he asked her if she knew where Gina was. Finally, Fallon had taken pity on him—thanks to intel from Tess—that Gina was working a wedding at the very hotel where they’d first met.

And that’s how he’d ended up here with no fucking clue what to do next.

He didn’t have to be a detective to find her once he got to the lobby. He just followed the sound of the Cha-Cha Slide to the right ballroom.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked an old lady in head-to-toe black standing next to the door like a gargoyle.

“I need to talk to the wedding planner.” And he didn’t have time to play good cop and chat with this old biddy.

He started to walk through, and the old woman whacked him right in the shin with her cane. Pain ricocheted up his leg, and he stopped dead in his tracks before she took a whack at his head with that thing.

“My fool of a great grandson is in there celebrating a marriage that’s not going to last past thirty days, and I know you weren’t invited, so go find another party to crash.”

Since hip checking an old lady wasn’t on his to-do list, Ford turned and reached down deep for the Hartigan charm that had thus far eluded him his entire life. “You look like a woman who knows what she’s talking about, so I’m sorry in advance for your great grandson’s doomed wedding. But I only need to talk to Gina. I promise I’m not crashing.”