That Secret Crush (Getting Lucky #3)(51)

Voice rising, he says, “Are you trying to tell me that I came all this way—”

“It was four hours.”

“Four and a half,” he corrects. “I came all this way, pumped you up, helped you practice what you were going to say—”

“We did not fucking practice.”

“Uh, I asked you what you were going to say, and you said you didn’t know.”

“That’s not practicing,” I reply, exasperated.

“It is in my book—don’t take that away from me.” Pushing me in the shoulder, he says, “I helped you practice and prepare. I listened to you cry and wiped your tears.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. “And you’re not going to let me—”

“Reid?”

At the sound of Eric’s voice, we both swivel around to find him stepping outside of the restaurant’s back entrance, wearing his chef’s coat and a confused look on his face.

Tall, maybe an inch taller than me, with broad shoulders and the same eyes as Eve, Eric stands there like he’s frozen in place, disbelief etched in his features as he takes in two blasts from the past.

I stuff my hands in my pockets, feeling awkward and wishing Brig wasn’t here to soak up every moment of this “reunion.” “Hey, Eric. How’ve you been?”

He takes a step forward, expression still dazed. “Uh, good.” He looks around. “Are you hanging out back here for a reason? Are you looking for someone?”

I’m about to answer when Brig pipes up. “Yes, you. We’ve been waiting for you.”

I pull on Brig’s shoulder, trying to tamp down the excitement that’s basically pouring out of his mouth like a rainbow, and step in front of him. “Do you have a moment to chat?”

“Yeah, I’m on my break.” Eric’s brow crinkles. “Is everything okay?”

I nod and swallow hard. “How much time do you have?”

“Half an hour.” He looks between us. “Want to go to the pub?” He tilts his head to the side.

“That works.” Turning to Brig, I say, “Give me half an hour.”

He leans in and whispers, “Promise to tell me everything?”

“Yes, now beat it.”

Like the good brother he is, Brig reaches out to Eric, takes his hand, and gives it a good shake. “Good seeing you again, man. Have fun.”

Once he takes off, heading back around the building, probably hoping that he’ll run into bike-tour girl, Eric and I head on over to the pub next door. We slide into a booth in the far back, where we both order waters and a plate of nachos to share. I’m glad we’re in a secluded spot, just in case things get heated.

Hopefully they won’t.

In no time, the nachos are placed in front of us, and after we each grab a chip and take a bite, Eric asks, “What brings you to Boston?”

“You, actually. I wanted to talk to you.”

“You still have my phone number, unless you deleted it. You could have called.”

“This isn’t a phone call kind of conversation.” For a brief moment, I consider starting the conversation with So, I’ve been banging your twin sister out of sheer nerves . . . nerves and guilt. Despite our falling-out, I still have a sense of loyalty when it comes to Eric, and I’ve been breaking that loyalty, being with his sister. Then again, I’ve been there for her when he hasn’t, so maybe I’ve earned the right to call her my girlfriend, to call her mine. There’s a war of right and wrong raging in my head over what to do, but thankfully I hold my tongue and cut right to the chase. “My dad is starting a restaurant in Port Snow.”

Halfway through chewing a chip, Eric pauses and stares back at me, blinking a few times.

Damn, I should have started out a little softer. Maybe given us time for a little catch-up. Then again, I don’t have much time, and we have to flush out a bunch of bullshit between us.

“He’s starting a restaurant?”

I nod. “Yeah, the old warehouse next to the Lobster Landing where Dad used to make the T-shirts.”

“When he ‘hired’ us to help?” Eric asks, using air quotes.

I laugh, thinking back to when my dad thought paying us under the table to do random tasks was a good idea. It definitely wasn’t, because all Eric and I would do was fuck around. “Yeah. I guess it’s been a dream of his to have a restaurant by the Landing. People can get something to eat and then go and shop.”

“Like Cracker Barrel,” Eric suggests, eyebrows raised.

“I guess so. Didn’t think about it like that, but yeah, similar vibe.”

“Okay, so what does this have to do with me?” Eric doesn’t beat around the bush either.

I grip my glass of water, the condensation running over my fingers as my nerves eat me alive inside. I just need to fucking say it and get it over with. “He wants me to partner up with him, develop the restaurant, the menu, everything . . . and he wants me to do it with you.”

“With me? Why?”

“He can’t think of a better duo.”

“Does he have amnesia? Does he not remember what happened to our last restaurant?”

“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “I mentioned that, and he said something about how failure is a stepping stone to success. Either way, he wants us, and it’s not a pity ask. He really thinks we’re the best guys for the job. He’s always loved our food, our style. He wants what we can offer—our classic New England cuisine with a twist.” I smile nervously. “He has an architect already working on the building and is planning for indoor and outdoor seating, as well as a short menu and take-out window. He’s moving forward, with or without us—he just offered the job to us first.”