out the dishes that need plating up, glad for a busy night to keep my mind occupied. Just as the height of service starts to wane, Rosalee comes in and tells me I’m wanted in George’s office.
My heart jumps into my throat. “Did he say what it was about?”
She shakes her head. “He just said to come and get you. Said it’s urgent.”
Fuck. I run my hand over the top of my head before I remove my apron and get someone to take my place so I can go and face the music. I don’t know how the hell he found out what was going on, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say I upset his daughter a little too much and she’s broken down and told him. Great.
I was already an asshole. And now I’m going to be a jobless asshole.
I should’ve just claimed her like I wanted to. Then at least I’d have something worth losing my job over. Because she is worth it. I’m miserable without her.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask, tapping on George’s door to get his attention.
“Ah, yes, Cillian,” he says, barely glancing up at me. “Your brother called. Said you’re needed urgently at the pub.”
“The pub?” I frown. As much as my brothers give me shit for leaving the pub kitchen to work in a fancy restaurant, they’ve never called me away from work. Now my stomach is bottoming out too.
“Did he say—”
“He said nothing,” George says. “But he sounded concerned. You should probably get there fast. And take tomorrow off if you need it. Family first.”
“Thanks,” I say, backing away from the door before practically running out of the restaurant, the apron still in my hand as I sprint towards Kelly’s hoping to god nothing terrible has happened.
When I get inside, the strings of Irish pop music hits my ears, coupled with crowded chatter. The place is as busy as it always is, Branagan standing behind the bar pulling a beer like I didn’t just get an urgent call and come racing here in a fecking panic.
“Bran!” I gasp, out of breath as I place both hands on the bar and meet his eyes in question. “What the fuck?”
He holds up a finger as he finishes serving. Then he grabs a shot glass and a bottle of Grey Goose, filling the glass and placing it in front of me. “Drink,” he instructs.
I frown. “You pulled me out of work on a Saturday night to come and get drunk on top-shelf vodka?”
“No. But once you see why I called you, you’ll be wanting that to calm you down.”
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” I barely finish my sentence before a squawk of laughter catches my attention. Bran nods to the space over my shoulder and I turn toward the noise, half knowing what I’m about to see before my eyes find it. Still, I’m not quite ready for the vision I’m delivered. “What the actual fuck, Bran?”
“Want this yet?”
When I turn back to him, he’s holding the vodka out to me. I take it and down it in one gulp, the back of my throat burning as I try to calm the seething rage building inside me. “Jesus, Mary and…” I stop and close my eyes, pressing my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose. “How could you let her get like that? She’s eighteen.”
“Wasn’t me, brother. She was like that when she got here. I called you right away since I’m assuming this is your mess.”
“Fuck,” I breathe, my entire body shaking as I try to get control before I approach her.
“You need to get her out of here, Cill,” he states. “She’s making a scene.”
“OK,” I say, taking one last deep breath before I turn around and face the music. She shouldn’t even be here.
Sitting in a booth with a group of leering young men is Hazel. My beautiful, sweet Hazel, who is far too young and naïve to understand what she’s doing turning up to a pub, drunk off her face and dressed like she walks the night. She’s lucky it was Bran working tonight, because if it’d been one of my parents, they wouldn’t have called me, they would’ve called her father. And then we’d both be screwed.
Now, I’ve got nothing against women showing off their bodies or wearing as much makeup as they like. But that tight, revealing dress is not her. She wears pastel colors and looks like she