“Um, yeah.” I blink a few times at the speedy shift of gears. “I love it.”
“You like scallops?” She drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Off-menu item.”
“I would kill for scallops.” My mouth is already watering, and my empty stomach is already thanking her.
“Your server will be over in a sec, but I’ll tell her to hook you up.” She winks at me before turning back to Grip. “I’m singing in a little bit. They’re finally letting me on stage.”
She gestures to a small space set up for live music.
“Nice.” Grip’s smile reflects genuine pleasure. “’Bout time.”
“Don’t leave before I’m done.” She squeezes his shoulder. “I may have a gig for you.”
“For real?” He glances down at his beeping phone, a frown wrinkling his forehead before he returns his attention to Jimmi. “My money isn’t nearly long enough. I’ll do anything but strip.”
Jimmi gives him a head tilt and a come-on-now twist of her lips.
“Okay, you got me. For the right price, I probably would strip.” A devilish smile crinkles his eyes at the corners. “But not my first choice.”
“It’s deejaying at Brew. Maybe tomorrow night.” Jimmi crosses her arms over the menus pressed to her chest. “Could be a regular gig, for awhile at least.”
“Cool.” Grip’s glance strays back to his phone, his tone distracted.
“Everything okay?” Jimmi eyes the phone in his hand.
“Yeah.” Grip lifts his eyes, splitting a look between the two of us. “Sure. Let’s chop it up after your set.”
“Okay. How long you here, Bristol?”
“Just a few days. I leave Friday.”
“Good!” Jimmi beams. “We’ll get to spend some time together.”
“I’d like that.” Now that I’ve gotten past the breasts stuffed into the bikini practically assaulting me, I mean what I say. She seems cool. “Good luck on stage.”
We’ve bonded a little over scallops and tits, so my smile for Jimmi comes more naturally.
“Thanks!” She squeals and wiggles her fingers in a wave. “Gotta go get ready.”
“So you and Jimmi went to high school with Rhyson?” I ask, watching Jimmi teeter off on her wedge heels.
“I’m sorry. I thought you knew that.” Grip shakes his head. “I really did just kind of grab you and toss you in the car.”
“It’s fine. I appreciate your help.” I peel the paper from the straw Jimmi left on the table, focusing on that instead of looking at Grip. “I actually know very little about my brother’s life since he left.”
“What do you want to know?” Grip relaxes, stretching one arm along the back of the booth.
“Lots I guess.” I shrug, keeping my voice casual. “I’ll let Rhyson tell me his stuff, but what about you? If you were at the School of the Arts, you must be . . . a musician? Dancer? What?”
“I’m Darla, your server,” a petite girl says before Grip can respond. “How you guys doing today?”
“Fine, Darla.” Grip flashes her a smile, not even trying to be sexy, but Darla melts a little right where she stands. I practically see the puddle. The lashes around her pretty, brown eyes start batting, and I might be too nauseated to eat my scallops.
“I’m fine, too, Darla.” I wave a hand since she seems to have forgotten I’m here. “And actually really hungry. Jimmi mentioned scallops. How are they prepared?”
“Scallops?” Darla’s brows pinch. “We don’t have scallops on the menu.”
“No, she said they were an off-menu item.” I hold onto my patience even though my stomach is starting to feed on itself as we speak.
“No, we don’t—”
“Darla.” Grip grabs her hand, stroking his thumb over her palm. “Maybe you could double check on the scallops because it seemed like Jimmi knew about them.”
After Darla visibly shudders, her smile widens and she leans a little toward Grip.
“I am new,” she admits shyly. “I could check on it for you.”
“I appreciate that.” I give her a gentle reminder that they were actually for me, not the man she’s salivating over.
Darla’s smile slips just a little as she uses the hand Grip isn’t holding to retrieve the pad from her back pocket. Obviously reluctant, she drops Grip’s hand to pull the pencil from behind her ear.
“And to drink?” She sounds like she’ll have to trek to Siberia to fetch whatever I order.
“Water’s fine.” I look at the tight circle her irritation has made of her mouth. “Bottled please.”
I wouldn’t put it past her to spit in it.
“I always get the Mick’s Mighty,” Grip pipes up. “And fries. Let’s just stick with that. And that new craft beer you guys got in.”
“A beer?” Darla squints and grins. “Are you twenty-one?
“I don’t know.” Grip doesn’t look away, seeming to relish how mesmerized our girl Darla is. “Am I?”
Darla eyes him closely . . . or rather even closer, her eyes wandering over the width of shoulders and slipping to crotch level where his legs spread just a little as he leans back. Darla bites her bottom lip before running her tongue across it. This is just sad. Exactly the kind of behavior that could set the women’s movement back decades. In Rochester, New York, Susan B. Anthony is turning over in her grave as Darla licks her lip.
“Um, were you still going to check on the scallops?” I give her a pointed look. I mean seriously. How does she know Grip and I aren’t a couple? I’d be insulted if he were mine. Hell, I’m insulted, and he isn’t.
Darla shifts hard eyes back to me, heaving a longsuffering sigh and straightening.
“Yeah. I’ll go check on the scallops.” Her face softens when she looks back to Grip. “And I’ll get your order in.”
“The beer?” His smile and those eyes wrapped in all that charisma really should be illegal.
“Okay.” Darla giggles but still doesn’t ask for ID. “The new craft coming up.”
“Well, that was sad for women everywhere,” I mumble.
“Don’t blame Darla.” Grip’s cheeky grin foreshadows whatever outrageous thing he’s about to say. “Blame all this Chocolate Charm.”
My laugh comes out as a snort.
“I’m guessing that’s a self-proclaimed moniker.”
“I see you’re immune to it, but you do catch more bees with honey.” Grip offers this sage, if unoriginal, advice. “Or in my case, with chocolate.”
“Where’d you read that? The Player’s Guide to Catching Bees?”
“No, I learned it the way I learn most things.” His eyes dim the tiniest bit. “The hard way.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything for a few seconds, and neither does he. It should be awkward, but it isn’t. Our eyes lock in the comfortable silence.
“So before Darla buzzed through,” I pause for effect, waiting for his quickly becoming familiar grin. “You were telling me about the School of the Arts. You’re a musician?”
“I write and rap.”
“As in you’re a rapper?”
“Wow, they said you were quick,” he answers with a grin.
“Oh, sarcasm. My second language.” I find myself smiling even though it’s been a crappy day with too many complications and not enough food. “So you rap. Like hoes, bitches, and bling?”
“At least you’re open minded about it,” he deadpans.
“Okay. I admit I don’t listen to much hip-hop. So convince me there’s more to it.”
“And it’s my responsibility to convince you . . . why?” he asks with a grin.
“Don’t you want a new fan?” I’m smiling back again.
“I just doubt it’s your type of music.”
“We’ve known each other all of an hour, and already you’re assigning me ‘types’. Well, I’m glad you have an open mind about me,” I say, echoing his smart-ass comment.