Dirty Thoughts - Megan Erickson Page 0,24

talking about the recent construction to the local high school while Jenna’s father contemplated her idea. But Dylan was watching their conversation with one eye, she noticed, and a frown on his face.

“Dad, we don’t have to talk about this now,” she said. “I’m working up a proposal with ideas on what we can do.”

He blinked and then nodded. “No, I wanted to get a feel for what you’re working on. I do like this idea, and I think you’re right. I want my employees to feel secure in their jobs and proud of their company.”

Jenna nodded. “And I do think this will help.”

An uproar of laughter came from a table in the back. Multiple restaurant patrons craned their necks toward the sound as the noise continued. Jenna appreciated the reprieve from her father’s scrutiny and chugged more wine. Her mother was fingering her necklace, her face pinched. “Heavens, they are loud. In a place like this? Maybe I should say something to the manager.”

Jenna hid her eye roll. “Mom, they’re talking and laughing, not pole dancing.”

Her mother gasped, and Dylan let out a bark of laughter.

Jenna felt the blush rise in her cheeks. Damn wine.

“Jenna Marie,” her mother said. “Since when do you talk like that?”

Since forever? “Sorry, Mom.”

Karen straightened her cardigan and murmured under her breath, probably contemplating where she’d gone wrong that her daughter mentioned pole dancing at a nice family meal.

Jenna wished her mom would say, We can’t take you anywhere, and actually mean it and not make her suffer through these family meals.

Midway through their meal, the loud voices from the back of the restaurant drew closer. Jenna took another sip of wine and what she saw over the rim of her glass nearly made her spit out the liquid across the table.

Jack Payton, striding through the crowd, wearing a pair of old jeans and plaid button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows. Behind him was Cal, head down, fingers fiddling with a toothpick in his mouth. Then Brent, and a young man who looked like a grownup Max, arm linked with a small, dark-haired woman.

Jenna set down her glass gently. The restaurant grew a little quieter as the family passed, like the calm before the storm.

Jenna’s mother looked up, making a small gasp. She’d never liked Cal. Not one bit. He didn’t fit in with their family, according to her, never mind that Cal loved Jenna and treated her with respect. Dylan muttered something as the family passed, but it hadn’t been quiet enough, because Brent jerked his head up, eyes widening a fraction, before settling into his smirk. “Hey, look who it is! The MacMillans. Man, just who I’ve been waiting to see.”

Jenna watched Cal as he lifted his gaze and swept it over the table—and over her. He wore his boots and a pair of dark blue pants with a light-colored button-down shirt. His hair was actually combed back, so his eyes glowed in the dim light of the restaurant. He looked handsome, although if Jenna was hard-pressed, she might say she liked his garage-look better. Because that was Cal.

He lowered his head, clearly avoiding all contact. He nudged Brent with his elbow, but his brother didn’t move.

“Hey, Jenna,” Max said, stepping out from behind Brent, ignoring the tension surrounded the table.

She smiled at him. “Wow, look at you. I haven’t seen you since you were twelve or thirteen.”

He gestured to the girl on his arm. “This is my fiancée, Lea.”

The girl beamed. “Hello.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jenna said.

“Hey, Dylan,” Brent said, and Jenna braced herself when she saw the quirk of Brent’s mouth. “Gotta little sauce, uh . . . ” He gestured toward his own cheek and coughed. “You know.”

Dylan lifted his napkin, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with stiff movements. And then his eyes narrowed, and Jenna stifled a groan, because she knew what that look meant. It was the same look he’d get when he tattled on her when she didn’t clean her room. “Ah, that must be the pasta pescatore. It was delicious. Did you have it?”

“Nope,” Brent drew out the word, popping the p.

Dylan’s smile was hard. “Of course not. The menu said ‘market price.’ You would have wanted to be sure you could cover the bill.”

Brent didn’t even hesitate. “God, I know. It was awful. I could only afford butter with spaghetti, and I’m starving.” And then he reached across the table, as nonchalant as could be, and picked a piece of asparagus