There’re more than one million signed dollar bills papering this place. Because everybody leaves a dollar bill here with their John Hancock on it. Even me. On my first day, my very first dollar of tip money came from Finn.
He was running me through possible drink orders, pretending to be a customer. When I passed his tests, the crazy werewolf tipped me and made obnoxious drumroll noises until I took his marker and signed my dollar bill.
He pasted it to the door that leads to the management’s office, where previously, only Pack members’ signed money made the space.
Kelly makes a bah noise. “Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed!”
Not wanting to have this conversation, I spin around and lay it out for her. “Finn’s a nice guy. I’ve literally watched him give the shirt off his back to people—”
Kelly smirks. “Women. He likes to give his shirt to ladies who get spilled on.”
Yes, he does, and he’s become sort of famous for it. Especially around New Years when he made everybody laugh by bringing a box of shirts to put on then strip off for the unfortunate. Now it’s become something of a schtick. Fewer and fewer of the spills are accidents—and who can blame these women? For a chance to watch Finn work the bar half-naked, it’s worth getting beer stains on your blouse.
But the first time he did it, he was just being nice.
That’s Finn.
“Like I was saying,” I say to Kelly. “Finn’s great. He’s also got some serious animal magnetism working for him, no pun intended. But that charm he sprinkles like confetti for everything with XX chromosomes makes me nervous.”
Kelly’s nose wrinkles. “This about that dirtbag you divorced?”
My shoulder raises up in a half-hearted shrug. “After my ex-husband dicked around with everything that had a clamshell, I’ve kind of been soured on the handsome, charming type, yeah.”
Kelly frowns. “So, what? You’re only going to consider ugly, unappealing men?”
I grimace. “I’m not considering anyone. I don’t have it in me to trust anyone again.”
“Not even Finn?” Kelly asks sadly.
I move past her, picking up my tray and towel. Bills flutter along the walls as I pass them. My eye clocks the signatures absently, celebrities and average joes named on endless rectangles of green. “Tell me this: if he were yours, what would it do to you to watch him flirting up the bar every night?”
Kelly makes a hissing noise.
My smile is grim. “It’d make me mental. No matter how awesome he is, he’s not for me.”
***
By the end of my shift, I’m dead beat. At one point today, I stepped into the kitchen to grab someone’s fried pickles that didn’t make it onto their plate. The moment I latched on to the fryer handle, lava-hot oil spat up at me good, burning my cheek and my arm and staining my blouse with grease.
I didn’t think anything could kill my love for fried pickles. Apparently, I just need to wear their juice around for about six hours.
The highlight of my afternoon—heck, my month, maybe more—was getting the text from Charlotte with the most heart-melting picture of Maggie asleep on her new best friend.
I’d laughed for a full solid minute at what she did to his fur.
And then I’d profusely thanked the Good Lord and struggled not to tear up as I mentally ran a montage of all the worried, angry, frustrated text messages and calls I’ve gotten from my girls who are stuck under the fickle rule of women who I pay to boss my kids around unfairly and abuse their employment.
It’s only day one, I know, but man—there are babysitters so bad, I’ve wished I could fire them within the first two hours and would have if I weren’t stuck at work with no way to do my job, bring home the paycheck and be the one at home to watch and protect my kids.
Pulling up in front of the house, I do a double-take when I see the vehicle near my spot. I guess you can say of the garish paint job that it’s recognizable. Finn’s car. I park on the street right behind the blindingly purple and acid green monstrosity. I don’t wonder why Finn is here. He said his job was to watch out for Deek while he’s here, and it’s the first day. It makes sense to me that he’d be here at the end of his workday.
Which also happens to be at the end of mine. With a groan, I shove open my car