Diary of a Bad Boy(13)

I’m ten minutes early, so I won’t really interrupt his meeting. I’ll just be a prelude to it, so it won’t be too bad. But still, it makes me nervous.

What I hate most about this whole situation is realizing how much my polite southern charm has forced me to skip out on being ruthless. I don’t think there’s a ruthless bone in my body, and that’s exactly why I’m having a hard time walking into the restaurant.

A cold breeze lifts my jacket, sending a deep chill right to my bones. Okay, I didn’t dress to stand outside all day. Mustering my courage, I make my way inside, welcoming the warmth as I look around, trying to spot an irritable Irishman.

“Sutton Grace, what are you doing here?”

There is only one person on this planet who calls me that. It’s the only voice that can calm the nerves running rampant through my body too.

I spin around and find my dad, standing and buttoning his suit jacket. His tall, broad frame makes the entry of the restaurant seem small, and his large hands that have gripped many footballs reach for mine.

“Dad, oh my gosh.” I walk into his arms, reveling in his embrace.

“I tried to call you a couple times to tell you I’m in town. Are you really so busy with your new job that you can’t find time for your old man?”

And this is exactly why I need my phone.

“No, someone else has my phone, it was accidently switched, and I’m here to get it back.”

“Is this someone, you know . . . someone special?” My dad wiggles his eyebrows and in return I give him a giant eye-roll.

“No Dad, he is not—”

“Oh, it’s a he,” he drags out, shaking my shoulder. “Does he catch your eye?”

Yes, but I would never admit that. To anyone.

“Not even in the slightest.”

“I don’t know. I can contest that, lass.”

Whipping around, Roark stands behind me, wearing a thick black jacket, hair tucked under a beanie, and a fading swab of purple under his eye.

Damn it, why do I have to be attracted to him?

“Roark, good to see you, man.” My dad steps forward, lending out his hand.

Excuse me?

As if time stands still, I watch Roark and my dad exchange handshakes that turn into a hug, followed by some teasing back and forth. My mind flies to his calendar, the initials hitting me right in the stomach.

FG.

Foster Green.

Good God, my dad is meeting with the guy who has held my phone hostage for the last few days.

“What happened to your eye? You didn’t get in another fight, did you?” my dad asks, a hand on his hip, a worried look in his eyes.

As if I’m not standing there, Roark says, “Got twisted the other night and ran into a wall. Fucking almost took my head off.”

Throwing his head back, my dad laughs and pats Roark on the back. “The old Irish tongue got ya, didn’t it?”

“That’s not what happened,” I interject, surprised at myself. Both men turn toward me, a lift to my dad’s brow, a mirthful look on Roark’s face.

“Yeah, you have a different story, lass?” Roark folds his arms over his chest.

“Uh, yeah. A very different story, besides the drunk part.”

“Wait a second”—my dad motions between us—“you know each other?”

“Unfortunately,” I mutter. “He’s the guy who stole my phone.”

“Stole is a harsh word. Accidentally took, and it wasn’t even me who took it, it was my friend.”

“Oh, that’s right.” I nod. “That’s because you were too busy pummeling some guy in the face over ketchup.”

Grunting, my dad turns to Roark. “Pummeling?”

Uncomfortably, Roark shifts, and I can’t help but wonder how the hell my dad knows Roark. Was Roark someone he helped over the years? One of my dad’s charity cases? There have been quite a few men my dad has helped along the years, mentoring them and helping pull them out of a dark place. Roark seems like he could have been pulled from a dark place.

“I might have gotten in a fight.”

Turning toward me, my dad says, “Will you excuse us, please?”

Awkwardly, I cringe and move toward Roark, knowing what it feels like to be on the receiving end of one of my dad’s lectures. “I’ll just grab my phone and be on my way.”

I hold out my hand, but Roark doesn’t move. Instead he keeps his eyes on my dad.

“Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her. Don’t really know her and won’t see her again.”

Brow creased now, my dad pulls me in by the shoulder. “Roark, this is my daughter, Sutton Grace Green.”

“Your daughter?” Roark looks shocked, but only for a second, and then that cool fa?ade slips over his Irish green eyes. “What a fucking coincidence.”

“Yes, well.” I wiggle my fingers, hand stretched out to him. “I’ll take my phone and be on my way so you two can get back to your mentoring.”

Rocking on his heels, Roark smiles at me, a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Mentor? I think you’re mistaken, lass. Your dad isn’t my mentor, he’s my client.”

“Client?” I look at my dad. “What could you possibly have hired this guy for? Bartending lessons? Oh God, please don’t tell me he’s going to be your wingman.”