Frisky Business

Hayes.

I’d like to tell you I have my shit together. That I have it all figured out.

But if you saw me standing here right now, on the sidewalk in my boxer briefs—for God and everyone to see—you’d know I’m totally full of shit.

My now ex-girlfriend stands on the balcony of her second-floor apartment, glaring down at me, dressed only in a peach-colored silk robe. Her hair is loose and her face is red with anger, but there are no tears.

“You bastard!” Samantha cries out and throws another armful of my clothing over the balcony. One of my socks gets stuck on a tree branch.

I grab my T-shirt from the sidewalk and tug it on. It’s May, but it’s still chilly in the mornings, and the cool air nips at my bare skin.

My shoes are thrown down next—one at a time. One bounces into the street, and I wait for a city bus to pass before I retrieve it.

I look back up at Samantha, bracing myself for what comes next. In her hands is my laptop bag. Fuck. Complete with my laptop, because I’d come here straight from work last night.

A few of the neighbors have stepped onto their balconies to see what all the noise is about. Swallowing my pride, I tip my chin at Mrs. Hendrickson from apartment 202 and smile. Her eyes widen in surprise.

“Jesus, Sam, be reasonable,” I call out.

My laptop bag comes sailing over the balcony next and lands with a loud crack on the sidewalk. There goes my laptop.

I have no fucking clue where this Samantha came from. She woke me up this morning with sex—seemed like a good sign, right? We’ve only been dating for two months, but I thought things were going well. Turns out, I don’t know shit about shit.

Maybe she wanted one last ride? Something to remember me by?

Fuck, I was so wrong.

I scrub my hands down my face.

“You’ll never commit,” Samantha says, her voice trembling with rage.

That’s not true. I’ve eaten the same brand of cereal for the past twelve years. I know a thing or two about commitment. But I decide now isn’t the right time to point this out to her.

After we had sex this morning, she curled up on her pillow, gazing at me with a soft expression. “Where do you think this is going with me and you?” She touched my chest, her fingertips tracing lazy circles on my skin.

I told her the truth, that I wasn’t sure but that I liked hanging out with her. Apparently, that was the wrong answer.

She sat up suddenly, tugging the sheet up with her to cover her naked chest. “That’s what you think this is? Hanging out?”

“No, of course not,” I said, instinctively backpedaling.

“I’m almost thirty, Hayes.” She squinted at me.

I’m almost thirty too, but I wasn’t sure what our ages have to do with anything.

“I want more,” she said, frowning. “A relationship. A real commitment. Marriage. Babies. A family.”

Things went south fast after that.

I’ve known her for two months, so I thought what we had was just casual. I haven’t even introduced her to my grandmother yet, who lives with me. Hell, Samantha has only been inside my apartment once. She’s never spent the night, a fact she reminds me of regularly with disdain.

Another neighbor peeks his head out of his window, a coffee mug in one hand, a yipping dog in the other.

Cars drive by, some slowing down to watch the drama unfold. I can’t say I blame them. This is certainly the most exciting way I’ve started a Friday morning in a long time.

Finally, my jeans are tossed over the balcony, and I rush to catch them. My cell phone is still in one pocket, miraculously intact. I tug on my jeans and shove my feet into the pair of Vans I rescued.

Without another word, Samantha marches inside and slams the sliding glass door.

Mrs. Hendrickson heads back inside too.

Show’s over, folks. Nothing more to see.

After snagging my laptop bag from the sidewalk, I head off down the street. I stop at the gas station on the corner and buy myself a shitty cup of coffee before I go find my car. Samantha’s neighborhood is in a bustling area of Chicago. There’s never any parking. But I got lucky last night, and my car’s only two blocks over. Wrapping a hand around the warmth of my cup, I head in the direction of my Lexus.

Once I reach my car, I chuck the laptop bag with my busted computer into the back seat. As I pull out into traffic, my cell phone rings. I assume it’s Samantha, thinking maybe she wants to continue telling me off, and I almost don’t answer. But the name on the screen says Wolfie.

I let out a silent groan and answer on speaker. “Hey, man. What’s up?” I ask after downing another mouthful of the awful coffee.

“Need you to do me a favor,” he says in his gruff voice. No hello. No good morning. Typical Wolfie.

But the bastard knows I’d do anything for him. Just like he would for me. Which is the reason why I let him get away with his caveman behavior.

“It’s my first day off in like two years, asshole.”

“I know, I know,” he says with a chuckle.

I roll my eyes. “What’s the favor?” It’s no use arguing with him. I’m going to do whatever it is he needs me to do.

“I need you to go check on Maren.”

Except for that.

Maren is Wolfie’s younger sister. She graduated last year with a degree in social work. She’s a good girl. Wants to help others. Make a difference in the world.

The problem is, I’ve never felt about Maren Cox the way I should have. I feel cagey when I’m around her, like a lion at the zoo, right before feeding time.

“You there?” Wolfie asks at my silence.

“I’m here.”

He lets out a long sigh. “She’s sick. Says she’s staying home from work today. Swing by her apartment and check on her for me?”

I’m reminded of all of the other times Wolfie or Maren have called me like this, needing a favor—like when she locked herself out of her apartment, or when her car broke down on the side of the road, or that time her pet goldfish died and she couldn’t bring herself to flush it. What a fucking hassle.

I remember her as a kid with a toothy smile and big eyes, always trailing a few steps behind us and calling out for us to wait up. Of course, Maren looks a whole lot different these days. She’s twenty-five now, and she’s grown into quite a woman. Every time I’m near her, I have to force my gaze away from her full breasts, her lush mouth, and those long, toned legs of hers.

I was there for her on the night of her twenty-first birthday, holding her hair back when she puked out the car window. I was there when she had her heart broken for the first time, when her fuck stick of a boyfriend dumped her after six months of dating. I pulled her to my chest with an annoyed sigh and she tearfully broke down, making me feel even worse.

But that was nothing compared to the pain I felt when I learned he’d broken up with her only after punching her V-card. I wanted to hunt him down and castrate him. I wanted to make him suffer. But of course I promised a heartbroken Maren I’d do no such thing. Instead, I had to watch her cry over that dick bag for weeks.

“Why can’t you go?” I ask, even though I already know the answer to that question.

Wolfie lets out a sigh. “Inventory day. Caleb, Connor, and Ever have all been here since five.”

I swallow, feeling shitty about it because I should be there too.

I own a toy company, Frisky Business, with my best friends. Yes, those kinds of toys. The very adult kind. Our business is my passion, but I haven’t taken a day off in years. My partners insisted I do it—take a long weekend to myself. Practically forced my hand.

“There’s no one I trust more,” Wolfie says.

He’s like family to me, and that means Maren is too. I made a vow to him, and I’d never break his trust.

They had it rough growing up. Wolfie did everything for Maren. When their dad drank away his paycheck, it was Wolfie who got a second job his senior year of high school. While the rest of us played video games and messed around on the basketball court, he was bussing tables at the diner to pay for her ballet classes and new school supplies.

“Yeah, I’ll go,” I say after a long pause.

As loyal as Wolfie is, he’s always been a loner. The dude rarely calls or texts unless he needs something, but he’d also be the first to sign up if you asked him for a favor.

“Thanks, man. I owe you one,” he says.

I grunt and end the call. Fifteen minutes later, I pull into the parking garage under my building.

My grandma and roommate, Rosie, smiles at me when I unlock the front door and enter the kitchen. “They actually talked you into it, huh?”

“What?”

“They made you take a day off.”

“Oh, right.” I push my hands through my hair. “Yeah, they did.” I let out a humorless chuckle.

She pours a cup of coffee and hands it to me. “Thought you’d be sleeping in. You’re up early.”

I nod and accept the coffee mug, deciding to spare her the story of my breakup this morning. “Wolfie asked if I’d go check on Maren. I guess she’s sick.”

Rosie makes a contemplative noise. “You’re a good friend.”

“I guess.”

She chuckles and pats my forearm. “I have plans with Marge later. We’re going to the farmer’s market.”

“Be careful.” My grandmother still drives, and I have mixed feelings about that.

She chuckles again. “Don’t worry so much. Are you going to see that girl of yours today?”

I shake my head. “We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

Rosie raises one thin silver eyebrow at me. “You go through ’em fast. I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”

Me? Not a fucking clue.

After I finish my coffee, I feel more human. You’d think Sam dumping me in such a spectacular fashion would have thrown me off, and it has a little. But it’s less about Sam and more about the fact that I’m starting to notice a pattern.

None of my relationships have lasted more than a few weeks, a few months at most. And the only common denominator is me. And Sam had a point—I am almost thirty, which isn’t exactly old, but it’s old enough.

Why can’t I ever seem to make things work? The answer to that question nags at me, but I’m not ready to hear it.

Inside my bedroom, I shut the door and head into the adjoining bathroom. I crank the faucet to hot and step under the spray of water. Soaping myself up, I wash the scent of Samantha from my skin.

After I’m dressed in a clean T-shirt and another pair of jeans, I grab my keys and phone. I press a kiss to my grandma’s cheek and head out.

Maren’s apartment is in a neat tidy row of older homes that were turned into duplexes in the eighties. The rent is reasonable, and street parking is plentiful. I park in front of the brick building and climb out.

I knock on her door, and after a moment, it opens. Maren is dressed in a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt, her long dark hair tied up in a messy bun. She’s five foot five, but barely comes to my chin.

“Hayes.” She smiles when she sees me, lifting up on her toes to hug me. Wrapping her arms around my neck, she pulls me close.

I touch the middle of her back, patting it once, and then release her, needing to put some distance between us.

If she knew all the dirty thoughts I have when she presses her soft tits to my chest like that, she wouldn’t come so willingly into my arms. But Maren’s always been affectionate. She’s like that with everyone. I don’t think she understands the meaning of personal space, so I try not to read into it.

Smiling at me, she asks, “What are you doing here?”

“Wolfie sent me. He said you’re sick.” But she doesn’t look sick. Her cheeks are rosy and she’s still smiling.

Maren’s eyes widen and her cheeks flush. “Um, no. I’m not.”

I shift my weight on her front porch. “He said you called into work sick today.”

She meets my eyes again. They’re the color of bright emeralds and golden autumn leaves with melted milk chocolate in the very center. Technically, the word is hazel, but it’s much too simple a word to describe all the life and depth I see when I look into her eyes.

There are a lot of things I feel about Maren. Confusion. Misplaced lust. And irritation—because I’ve never felt about this girl the way I should have.

“Well, that part’s true.”

“Care to fill me in?”

She groans. “You might as well come inside.”

I follow her into her one-bedroom apartment. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean and always neat. A gray couch sits in the living room on top of a colorful rug. Plants in mismatched pots are lined on the windowsill, and her tiny kitchen is spotless.

“Coffee?” she asks.

“I’m good.”

When Maren heads into the living room, I think I detect a limp, but she lowers herself to the couch before I can be sure.

I sit down beside her. “Talk to me, dove.” It’s a nickname I gave her ages ago because she’s as beautiful and innocent as a white dove, and it stuck.

“It’s totally embarrassing.” She frowns, pulling her plump lower lip between her teeth.

Her mouth is literally perfect. I want to kiss it. And then fuck it.

See my problem?

If Wolfie knew the thoughts I have about his sister, he’d cut off my balls and shove them down my throat. And I’d deserve every second of it. Everyone knows that sisters are off-limits, and we live by a strict bro code. We have to—we’re not only friends, we’re best friends, and we run a business together. Keeping things appropriate and PG are my only options.

I smirk. “You want to hear embarrassing? I’ll tell you about my morning and why I was nearly naked on Halsted Street, if you tell me yours.”

Her eyes widen. “What the hell,” she says with a laugh.

“Want me to go first?”

She nods.

I tell her about how Samantha pushed me from her bed, then banished me from her apartment when I was only in my boxers. I tell her about the neighbors who watched from their windows. The kids in their pajamas pointing and laughing.

But if I was expecting any sympathy from Maren, that’s the last thing I get.

She chuckles into her fist, her eyes dancing on mine. “I swear, Hayes, you have the worst luck with women I’ve ever seen.”

You can say that again. “Believe me, I know.”

She shakes her head. “One of these days, I’m going to take you under my wing and teach you how to be a proper boyfriend.”

A deep laugh falls from my lips. “Any place, anytime. But first, why don’t you tell me why you’re skipping work today and lying to your brother?”

Her gaze drops to the floor. “I had a little accident.”

My heart thuds once. “A car accident?”

Still avoiding my eyes, she shakes her head. “A waxing accident.”

Narrowing my eyes, I say, “A what now?”

She lets out a nervous laugh, and her pretty cheeks blush again. She touches one with her hand. “I wanted to save some money. So instead of going to the waxing salon like I usually do for my bikini wax . . . I bought one of those at-home kits. But I think the wax was too hot.”

Fuck. Me. If I thought my morning started out rough, it’s nothing compared to the agony of having to sit here and face this gorgeous girl telling me she burned her pussy with hot wax.

“Shit. Are you okay?” I ask, barely managing to get the words out.

She chews on her lush lower lip. “I’ll be fine. I’m just a little sore. And don’t you dare breathe a word of this to my brother.”

I hold up both hands. “Believe me, I don’t go around talking about your vagina with your brother, and I have no plans on starting anytime soon.”

This gets a grin out of Maren. “It’s mortifying enough that you know.”

I nod in agreement. Because now I’m picturing Maren’s smooth, bare pussy, and definitely feeling a little homicidal over the idea that she did this for some undeserving guy.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed around me,” I say, opening up my arms to her. “Come here.”

Maren moves nearer on the couch, sighing as she leans in close enough to rest her head on my chest. My heart thumps out an uneven rhythm as her scent—vanilla and fragrant shampoo—surrounds me.

Her trust in me is like a silent punishment, something I have to endure, because being near Maren isn’t easy for me. A thousand pornographic thoughts I won’t let myself entertain come at me from every angle. Shutting them down is like a full-time job, one I’m very good at.

When I release Maren from the hug, she sits up, and I raise one eyebrow.

“Want me to take a look?” I ask, mostly kidding.

“Are you insane?” She gapes at me. “No!”

I shrug. “Trust me, this isn’t easy for me either. I just . . . what if you have third-degree burns or something. You might need medical treatment.”

Her gaze darts away from mine again. “It’s not that bad. Just a little pink. And tender.”

I lick my lips. Hearing Maren use words like pink and tender to describe her pussy is actual torture.

Want me to kiss it and make it better?

I clench my jaw and fight for control. Years of pent-up sexual frustration churn in my gut.

“You want to talk about your latest breakup?” she asks, probably desperate to change the subject, and I know I am. “About . . . Samantha?” Maren says the name like a question, like she isn’t sure of herself.

I sigh and lean back on her couch. “Not really. What’s the point?”

She shakes her head and lets out a small sigh. “You go through women faster than I go through underwear.”

I lick my lips. “Well, not anymore I don’t. I’m done.”

She gives me a dubious look, like she can’t quite believe the words coming out of my mouth. To my group of friends, I have a reputation as a Casanova. Not a player, exactly, more of a serial monogamist, bouncing from one girl to the next. But that needs to change.

“I need a break. No more relationships. No more women.”

As I say the words, I know they’re true. I do need a break from women. If I can’t focus on a relationship, I shouldn’t be dating anyone. It’s as simple as that.

Maren’s posture straightens as though I have her full attention. “For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

Maren.

I’ve never felt about Hayes Ellison the way I should have. Maybe it’s because I’ve had a front-row seat to his revolving bedroom door.

That’s not to say he’s a manwhore, more like a serial monogamist, constantly dating someone new. Hayes is a romantic at heart, falling hard and fast, but most of his relationships seem to fizzle out after just a couple of weeks.

In the last few months alone, there was the massage therapist he started dating and loaned several thousand dollars to start her own practice. Then she dumped him. Then there was the wannabe chef he helped get into culinary school, only for her to break up with him once the semester started. It’s always been this way. I have no idea what happened with Samantha.

But even with all the confusing emotions I’ve endured, there’s one thing I always knew.

Hayes Ellison will never be mine.

My attraction to him is almost suffocating. To say we have a complicated relationship would be an understatement. When he’s near, I burn hotter than the sun. His big, broad body seems to suck up all the oxygen in the room until I’m dizzy and almost breathless.

And now he’s here, sitting on my couch, telling me he’s swearing off women, and looking at me with pity over my poor, damaged hoo-ha.

“Have you had breakfast yet?” he asks.

I shake my head. It’s nine in the morning. I made coffee but I haven’t gotten around to breakfast yet.

“Let’s go out and get something. Then I can tell Wolfie I fed you.”

I nod, feeling slightly ashamed. I’ve lived with the idea that Hayes is only nice to me to appease my brother, and only takes care of me out of familial responsibility. There’s no one I trust more, but Hayes isn’t an easy man to be around. He can be demanding and intimidating.

But when he looks at me, there’s a softness in his eyes. He’s always been that way with me. I’m his one soft spot, I guess. Like all the times I sought solace in his arms—when my high school boyfriend broke my heart, when my father died . . .

I shove those thoughts away because now isn’t the time to take that trip down memory lane. “Can I shower first? I’ll be quick.”

His square jaw clenches. Apparently, I exhaust him. Like a small child. “Sure,” he says finally.

And I do. With my hair up in a bun, I take the world’s fastest shower. The warm water stings the raw skin between my legs, but it’s nothing compared to the agony of having to tell Hayes about my injury.

Why did I tell him the truth? I could have easily made up some bullshit about pulling my hip flexor doing yoga. But instead, I came clean. One look into those whiskey-sweet eyes, and I’m suddenly confessing my darkest secrets. A tingling sensation twists through my lower belly.

Well. Not every secret.

If Hayes knew how attracted I am to him, it would go one of two ways. He would either laugh at me until he was red in the face, or he’d feel super uncomfortable and then avoid me for the rest of time. Both options sound like hell to me.

I sigh, scrubbing my skin a little harder than usual. But no matter how hard I scrub, I’ll never wash myself clean of my thoughts of Hayes. I’ve spent hours fantasizing about kissing that sensual smirk off his face, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders, pushing my hips against his rock-hard . . .

Okay, whoa. The more I let myself fall down this rabbit hole, the more maddening the pulsing heat between my heart and my core grows. My fingers run absently over my slick, tender skin.

Would it be incredibly sinful to masturbate in the shower with Hayes less than ten feet away from me, separated only by a thin door?

I push the thought away, dipping my face under the sudden blast of cold water coming from the showerhead and reaching for the knob. There’s always a brutal rush of cold water right at the end. I usually get out of the tub before turning off the stream, but this morning, I need the wake-up call, and to cool down my now overheated body.

With Hayes waiting, I finish getting ready in a flash. I pull on a T-shirt and a pair of leggings from the drawer, once again mentally kicking myself for skipping laundry day this week. Work has been somewhat stressful. I look at the row of polo shirts hanging in my closet, each with the embroidered Riverside logo, and a lump forms in my throat. Whenever I think about what’s happening to Riverside, Chicago’s oldest retirement home on the north side, all I want to do is curl up in bed under ten blankets, watch my favorite movies, and cry.

I don’t have time for this.

Precious moments wasted, I scramble to make myself look presentable. After a dozen swipes of mascara, a few corrective lines to my eyebrows, and a vigorous finger-combing of my tangled hair—now I’m ready to go. I reach for the doorknob, already preparing my apology to the patiently waiting Hayes.

And I stop short. Deodorant!

I swipe the stick under my arms aggressively, shaking my head at my own reflection. Twenty-five years old, and I still don’t have my morning routine down pat. Hayes’s presence this morning has turned me into a frazzled mess. I really wish Wolfie wouldn’t intervene so much in my life.

When I emerge from the bathroom, less than twenty minutes after I bolted inside, Hayes is still on the couch. But instead of looking at me with those big, warm eyes, he’s dozed off, his long lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones.

I tiptoe toward him, debating between each step which kind of little sister I’m going to be. Sweet and loving? Or an annoying pest? A thought as clear as Chicago’s summer sky warms me with both excitement and shame.

I don’t want to be Hayes’s little sister.

Gently, I brush his jawline with the back of my fingers. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

His eyes shoot open, blazing. His hand rockets up to mine in a shocking grasp, squeezing.

“Don’t do that.” His eyes burn with something intense, his pupils smoldering like honey dipped in molten lava.

“Sorry,” I whisper, my eyebrows furrowed in confusion at his reaction.

His gaze travels slowly down my body, like he’s taking his time before settling on my face once again. His expression is bored, disinterested, as he says, “You know better than to wake a hungry man.”

And then his expression changes. There’s that infuriating smirk, stretching soft smile lines from his plump lips and his impossible-to-read eyes.

It’s my turn to blink. I can’t look at him for too long before I run the risk of doing something incredibly stupid like kissing him.

“Being angry is no excuse for being mean.” I pout my lower lip, flexing my hand as if it’s been injured.

No, he didn’t hurt me. But that doesn’t mean I won’t let him think he did. I look down to the floor, and back up at him through my mascara. I’m an expert eyelash batter. It’s the first thing you learn when your brother has hot friends.

But Hayes is immune to me. He’s already standing, fishing in his pockets for his wallet and keys. Eliciting a response from this emotional seesaw of a man only ever gets me knocked on my butt. And my ego has been bruised enough by him over the years.

“Ready?” he asks.

I give him a weak smile. “Yep.”

“After you, dove.” Hayes flashes me a grin, and we head out together.

My brain is a traitorous bitch. Things I shouldn’t let myself imagine pop into my head without my permission, and usually at the worst moment imaginable.

When he opens the door for me to the corner diner, I find myself visualizing his big body moving on top of mine. When he takes his first precious sip of steaming coffee, I feel his hot mouth pressed to my throat. When he reads his favorite menu items to me from the laminated tri-fold menu, I hear the dirty words falling from his lush lips as his fingers work between my thighs. All that sleek, male muscle claiming me, owning me, using me . . .

“Maren?”

I realize with a jolt that Hayes is waiting for me to respond to something he just said.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” My gaze meets his, and whoa, Hayes looks ticked off. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d be seriously concerned.

“Savory or sweet?”

Sweet. Always sweet.

“Sweet, I guess.” I shrug, dropping another sugar cube into my coffee.

The tension etched in his clenched jaw relaxes as his expression eases into a smirk. How he goes from zero to sixty, and back again to zero, will always remain a mystery to me.

“You haven’t changed a bit since you were eight, have you?” He sighs, leaning across the table. Even just a few inches of space eliminated between us feels like the weather in this dingy little diner has shifted. Tropically.

With flaming cheeks, I roll my eyes. “Whatever, Hayes.”

I both love and hate when he brings up our history. Love, because it makes me so happy that we know each other’s personalities probably better than anyone else ever could. Hate, because I’m selfish. I want the chance to make a new first impression. Too often, I wonder if I’d turn his head while walking down the street, if he didn’t already see me as his best friend’s little sister.

What would our first date look like?

“Just because you’re angry doesn’t mean you get to be mean,” he says with mock offense.

Taking in his wide eyes, downturned lips, and hand placed over his heart, I can’t help but laugh. I quickly lift my coffee mug to my mouth to hide my rogue lips from smiling.

“Very funny,” I whisper, rolling my eyes for the umpteenth time today. We’ve been together for what, an hour? I don’t think either of us have gotten a word in edgewise without teasing.

If he really liked me, he wouldn’t make fun of me so much.

That’s in direct contradiction with one of my dad’s favorite “no boys allowed” lectures. When boys tease you, that means they like you, Maren. But I shut his voice out of my head with a scalding sip of coffee. That’s only my subconscious, trying to salvage a crush that’s two decades stale. No, Dad. When a boy teases you, he’s just teasing you.

When a server appears, we place our orders. I ask for my usual French toast with a side of fruit, and Hayes settles for scrambled egg whites with spinach. We’re creatures of habit, so when Hayes asks for a side of pancakes, my eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.

“I’ve had a rough morning, okay? First, I practically got thrown out of a window. Then I discover that you’re deathly ill.” When I scoff, he levels me with a pleading glare. “I deserve this. Okay?”

His tone is stern, begging me to disagree with him. Not that I would. Eating a carb once in a while won’t kill him, despite what he might think.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you eat pancakes in a decade.”

Hayes is pretty vigilant about his physique, which shows to an annoying degree. Meanwhile, I could probably find room in my bottomless belly for both of our meals. Especially if I could lick the syrup off of his—

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Hayes mumbles into his coffee, his eyebrows waggling. He’s trying to be silly, but it’s undeniably sexy.

I cross my legs, self-conscious about the ache between my thighs. “Can we not do this for like five minutes?” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.

Hayes lifts an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Play games. Tease, make fun, et cetera.” I’m the one mumbling now. I’m known to start a fight and then wave the white flag of surrender within the first round. I’ve always been a peacemaker. It’s just my personality. “Can we just be nice to each other?”

“Okay, we can do that. We can be nice.” Hayes sits up straighter and whips his cloth napkin off the table, the silverware inside clattering everywhere, just to tuck it into his shirt collar.

I snort with laughter, covering my face and praying that no one in this diner is staring.

He waves my napkin in front of my face. I snatch it with a giggle, tucking it into the neckline of my polo.

“Tell me, Miss Maren, how are you on this fine morning?”

“Is this supposed to make us feel proper? Because I just feel dumb.”

“You’ve never looked better. How’s work?”

I don’t have time to react to his compliment. My smile falls into a solemn frown. “It’s okay.”

“It doesn’t . . . look okay.” Whether he means to or not, Hayes matches my frown, his forehead furrowed with deep lines of concern. He pulls the napkin from his collar, then reaches to pull mine out too. Suddenly, the joke is over. “What’s wrong, dove? Talk to me.”

I sigh. I haven’t told anyone about this yet. I guess it’s fitting it should be Hayes. How can I say no to those honey-colored eyes?

“There was a meeting at Riverside yesterday morning. I guess one of the big donors we usually count on to make a yearly contribution decided to give it to the art museum instead. Which is, like, great for the art museum. They need money too. But . . .”

“Is Riverside going to be okay?” he asks, knowing how important it is to me.

I shrug, blinking back tears. “I don’t know. The meeting was so serious. Usually, Peggy brings coffee cake or something, but yesterday . . . she was wrecked. I could tell she’d been up all night, crying. They outright told us to start looking for other jobs.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Now there’s snot dripping from my nose, so I wipe it away with the cloth napkin.

Hayes reaches across the table, almost as if he’s going to take my hand. But his fingers halt inches from mine. Close, but not close enough.

Sadness stews deep inside me, ready to bulldoze right through me again.

In that moment, our server reappears with plates of steaming food that make my mouth water. I wipe my tears away with a sheepish smile, accepting my plate. It smells delicious, and as I inhale, my sadness fades.

“Note to self. If Maren is sad, bring her sweet things,” Hayes says with a chuckle.

I don’t even care that he’s making fun of me again, because these pancakes are amazing. And as concerned as I am about Riverside, I know worrying right now won’t solve anything.

But that place is so much more than just a job to me. It’s almost like a second home. And I do it all, whatever needs to be done . . . answer phones, return emails, follow up on insurance claims, the list goes on. But my favorite thing to do is to talk with the residents. Find out their stories.

“Hey,” Hayes says, pulling my attention from my plate until I refocus on the man across from me, whose expression is strange. Beneath the concern, there’s something like . . . determination? “We’re going to figure this out. I’ll help you save Riverside.”

I blink back my surprise. “Are you actually going to help me?”

“I said I would. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This isn’t going to be like that time you ditched me at the movies to go get some with Missy Carter?” I smirk at him.

“Okay, I did ditch you, but back then, seventeen-year-old me wanted his dick sucked by Missy more than I wanted to live through senior year. I did go back and get you when the movie ended,” he adds with a smile.

Reaching across the table, I swat him with the back of my hand. “Jerk,” I mutter, but I’m grinning back at him.

This time when Hayes reaches across the table, our hands clasp and my heart skips a beat.

“I promise I’ll help,” he murmurs, his eyes locking with mine. “Whatever I can do and however I can help, I’ll do it for you . . . for Riverside. You have my word, dove.”

My heart goes splat.