“Nothing,” he said with a sigh, because how did you explain a unicorn to a woman who’d just told him he wasn’t ever getting one?
Shannon shook her head at him and strutted down to the other end of the bar to take some fresh-out-of-the-academy kid’s order. Annoyed with the fact that the zinger she’d delivered had hit a little too close to home, Frankie turned around and perused the crowd at Marino’s. Going east to west, it pretty much went cop and a badge bunny, several cops and one hot badge bunny, a group of sad-sack cops with no badge bunnies, a shitbird in a suit who looked totally out of place, and one Lucy Kavanagh, who looked like she was about to punch the guy’s lights out. Now this could get interesting. Frankie got up off the barstool and strolled on over to provide the zaftig firecracker best friend of Ford’s girlfriend some help should she need it.
…
If one more person told Lucy that she’d be so pretty if she just lost some weight, she was going to set them on fire.
All she wanted to do was sit in Marino’s in peace and enjoy the jalape?o cheeseburger with a side of spicy fries and a Coke—yeah, that’s right, full-calorie Coke, suck it Judgey McJudgeyPants—as her own special treat after the week from hell.
Instead, the concern troll in the shitty suit had invited himself over to let her know that if she’d only ordered a salad that she might actually walk out of the bar with someone instead of with a few additional pounds.
“And what business is it of yours what I eat?” She punctuated the question by slathering a fry in Sriracha and popping it in her mouth.
“No need to get defensive there, I’m just trying to help,” said the guy—who hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself or—wait for it—say hi before launching into his unasked-for monologue about her eating habits. “I mean come on, no woman comes into a bar alone unless she plans on walking out with someone.”
Now that was just some sexist bullshit right there. Who in the hell ever said that to a guy? Answer: no one.
The truth was she was there to meet up with her friend Gina later—her boyfriend already hit the dartboard in the corner—but she’d texted she was running late and eat without her.
“Really?” She pushed her steak knife farther away from her plate so she wouldn’t be tempted to stab him with it. “You don’t think I might just want a Coke and a burger?”
The guy went on as if she hadn’t said a thing. “I’m serious. You have a great face, if you just upped the veggies and eliminated the carbs, high-fat protein, and sugar, you’d be a solid seven instead of a three.”
She eyeballed the guy who wouldn’t stop flapping his gums about things that had nothing to do with him. He was balding and wore a bad suit that only emphasized his beer belly—and he wanted to give her tips about how to look good? Of course he did.
“And,” he continued, totally clueless about how close to death he was, “I’m only rating you as a three because your face is nice and your tits are fucking fantastic.”
That was it. She was going to have to kill a man in the middle of a cop bar. They better have chocolate cake in prison, but even if they didn’t it would probably be worth it.
“There you are, honey,” a man said just as a very large shadow fell across her table.
She looked up—way up—into the beyond-handsome face of Frankie Hartigan, who was built like a redwood tree and, rumor had it, had one between his legs.
“I’m sorry I was late for our date.” He glanced over at the dipshit veggie pusher. “Is this guy giving you a hard time?”
…
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