Not that I’m a hideous, stooped, wart-ridden hag, but I’m…well. Perhaps I’m a bit…tall? But isn’t tall in? The fashion designers love tall women, the Scorpion Bowl tells me. I snort. Maybe women who are thirty or forty pounds lighter than I am, but still. Better five-eleven and three-quarters than four foot nine. And yes, I’m strong. Healthy. Strapping. Muscular. Teamster-esque.
I sigh. No, Mr. New York Times Fashion Section would never even notice me. It’s a pity, because I’m getting a little turned on just watching him chew. It’s sexy. Sexy chewing. Listen to me! And yet it’s true. I’ve never seen sexier chewing.
Someone slides in next to me at the crowded bar. Trevor. Great. He looks at me, does a double take, and one gets the impression that he wouldn’t have chosen this particular spot at the bar had he known the O’Neill girl was sitting here.
“Hey, Chas,” he says amiably enough. “How’s it going?”
“Hi, Trevor, I’ve been dumped,” I announce, regretting it immediately. It was supposed to sound self-deprecating and wry, but it falls flat.
“Who dumped you?” he says. “Not that skinny pale guy?”
I nod, not looking at Trevor, who is neither skinny nor pale, but brawny and chocolate-eyed and irresistible.
“Are you kidding? He dumped you?”
A small smile tugs at my mouth. “Yes,” I acknowledge. “And thanks.”
“Well, you’re better off without him,” Trevor says. “He was an idiot.” Trevor met him only once, but his assessment, I must admit, is spot on. I don’t answer, and Trevor looks at me carefully. “You want me to walk you home, Chastity?” He glances around the bar. “I guess none of the boys are here.” The boys being my brothers and dad, of course.
“No,” I sigh, a bit wetly. “I’ll just sit here and watch the Yanks.”
“Right. Well, I’ll hang out with you,” he says, dutiful as ever.
“Thanks, Trev.” I blink back the pathetic tears that his offer—and probably my beloved Scorpion Bowl—invoke, then mentally slap myself. Jason is not worth any angst or woe. It’s just that what Jason said…it hurt. Even if he was a patchouli-reeking jerk.
“Come on. There’s a booth.”
Trevor grabs the nachos, I grab my Bowl.
Trevor—five foot eleven and a half—occupies an odd spot in my heart. On the one hand, he’s like my fifth brother. I’ve known him since I was in third grade, and he’s the best friend of both Mark and Matt, two of my four brothers. In fact, Trevor has spent more time with my family than I have in the past ten years. He works with—and reveres—my father, who is Trevor’s captain. He’s godfather to one of my nephews. He’s arguably my mother’s favorite child, biology be damned.
On the other hand, and this is probably the hand that matters, he’s Trevor. Trevor James Meade. Beautiful name, beautiful man. And though he’s a longtime, very close family friend, and though I find him very, very attractive, Trevor is not a possibility. Don’t dwell on it, Scorpy advises. Scorpy has a point.
I try not to look at Trevor, turn my eyes to Jeter—sixthree, God bless him—and the other boys, but the score is, oh, heck, three hundred and twelve to two or something and the Yanks are on their eleventh batter of the inning, so it’s not exactly a nail-biter. I glance across the table. Trevor gives me a perfunctory smile, but he looks a little uncomfortable. I can’t remember the last time that he and I were alone together. Oh, shit, yes I can. When he came down to New York City and told me he was getting married. How can a girl forget? Another grim, embarrassing memory. I sigh, sip and take another layer of nachos.
Trevor signals effortlessly to the waitress—being female, she noticed Trevor the minute he walked in, and she stumbles to a halt at the joy of being summoned. Typical.
“Is that your first drink, Chas?” Trevor asks.
“Yes,” I reply. “Just one little Scorpion Bowl. They’re kind of cute, aren’t they?”
Trevor smiles more genuinely. “Hope you won’t mind if I walk you home tonight.”
“Not at all, Firefighter Meade.” I grin back a little sloppily.
“What can I get you?” the waitress breathes in a Marilyn Monroe sex-kitten voice. “Would you like a beer? The wine list? A few kids and a mortgage?” Actually, she didn’t specifically say that last one, but it was clearly implied.
“I’ll have a Sam Adams,” Trevor says, smiling up at her.
“I’d like another Scorpion Bowl,” I tell her.
“I’m Lindsey,” she breathes, ignoring me. “I’m new here.”
“Nice to meet you, Lindsey,” Trevor says. I don’t bother to reply, since I’m not part of this conversation anyway. On the television screen, Jeter clips the ball over the first baseman’s head and flies off down the first base line, stretching the hit into a double. I get the feeling he knows I’m feeling down and is doing his utmost to cheer me up. Oh, now he’s stealing third. Yes, it’s clear. Jeter loves me.
The waitress is slipping a piece of paper to Trevor. Her phone number, no doubt. Possibly her bra size and the preferred names of their unborn children. What am I, bleeping invisible? How is a woman who is five foot eleven and three-quarters invisible? And what if Trevor and I were on a date? We’re not, but it could happen!
Trev has the grace to look sheepish, and my irritation fades. It’s okay. I understand. Trevor is, though not exactly handsome, one of those guys who renders women helpless. His features taken one by one are not so special. Put them together and you have the male equivalent of death by chocolate. An utterly appealing, absolutely luscious man. Damn him.
I eat some more nachos and finish my beloved Scorpy. Maybe I should try being as bold as Lindsey, the sex-kitten waitress. After all, she’s been here for a minute and a half and a really nice, good-looking firefighter has her number.
“Sorry about that,” Trevor says.
“Sorry about what?” I say casually, looking out again at the restaurant half of Emo’s. There’s the New York Times model. He is so handsome. His bone structure suggests an icy reserve, if such a thing is possible, not like Trev’s instantly loveable face.
Another Scorpion Bowl appears before me, as if by magic. No, not magic. Stu, the bartender—who noticed me when Lindsey the waitress did not. Good old Stu. Too bad he’s married and sixty years old. Otherwise, I’d be all over him. I take a grateful sip, wince as my taste buds protest, then swallow. I need the booze, frankly. It’s not every night that I nearly choke to death and get dumped, after all.
“So what did your dumb-ass boyfriend say, anyway?” Trevor asks, taking a slab of nachos for himself.
I pause. The Scorpion Bowl demands that I answer honestly. “He said I’m not attractive enough.”
Trevor stops chewing. “What an asshole.”
I smile. Another show of loyalty. “Thanks.” Taking a chip devoid of any cheese or olive, I break it into crumbs and arrange them in a pattern
