Filthy Secret

For a second, Sawyer was certain she’d say no, and maybe that was just as well. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was single, especially since she’d mentioned being a mom. He didn’t much see the point in bullshitting himself, and the truth was, she was fucking gorgeous. Sure, he wanted to thank her for her help, but he also wanted her to stay for less gallant reasons.

Jo tilted her head, a smile blooming over her pretty, pink mouth, and Jesus, less gallant was a colossal understatement. “You’d better hope you can live up to the hype. I’m Italian, through and through. We take our food very seriously.”

“You’re a woman after my own heart,” he said, gesturing toward the dining room. “Please. After you.”

Pushing the stroller down the wood-paneled corridor, Sawyer made his way to the bar with Jo. He found her a seat at the end of the wood, right next to an empty two-person bar table that he slid out of the way to make room for the stroller. Before he could get to the business end of the bar, though, Kellan appeared a handful of feet away from Jo.

“Hey,” Sawyer said, lifting his chin in greeting. “The little guy just fell asleep.”

He pointed to the stroller, and Kellan gave up a grateful smile. “Thanks, man. I appreciate you looking out for him until I could get here. I know it was kind of a big ask.”

“I’d say it was no big deal, but to be honest, Jo here did all the hard stuff.”

“Jo Rossi,” she said, waving from her spot at the bar. “And it was teamwork.”

Kellan’s dark brows lifted. “Rossi, as in, related to Frankie?”

Jo’s hands went up as she smiled. “Guilty as charged. She’s my sister.

I’m here from Savannah for a few weeks.”

“Ah. Well, work emergencies aside, I hope you enjoy your visit.”

A flicker of unease moved through Jo’s eyes, gone so fast it could’ve been imagined. “Thanks. I hope so, too.”

Sawyer waited until Kellan had wheeled a blissfully sleeping Elijah out of the restaurant before placing a glass of the best merlot they had on the bar in front of her. “Here you go, ma’am.”

Jo winced. At his lifted brows, she said, “Sorry. ‘Ma’am’ makes me feel about a hundred years old.”ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

Great, now he’d insulted her. “I can promise, that wasn’t my intent at all. It’s a habit I’m sure I’ll take to the grave.”

“Were you raised by nuns?” she asked, and he had to laugh. “The Marines.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh. Are you still on active duty, then?” Sawyer dodged the pinch in his chest. “Retired.”

“Wow? You’re so young.” Again, Jo winced, clamping her teeth over her bottom lip in a way that made Sawyer want to bite it, too. “And I’m going to shut up now, since clearly, my brain-to-mouth filter is malfunctioning.”

Her self-deprecating honesty loosened something inside his chest, allowing him to breathe. “No, it’s okay. You’re not wrong. It’s unusual for someone my age to retire. I was injured in the line of duty.”

“God, I’m sorry,” she said.

But her words held no syrupy pity, only truth, and hell if that didn’t make him find her even more attractive. “I am, too. But in the end, it led me here, so I guess I can’t complain.”

“Did you always want to manage a restaurant, then?”

Curiosity sparked in her stare, but there was something else there, too, and it made him open his mouth. “Yeah. My old man owns a bar not too far from here, in Charlotte. He’s run the place for over thirty years. He loves it.” Sawyer couldn’t help but smile at the thought. “So, I guess I come by it honestly.”

“Well, if it helps, you’re a natural.” Jo lifted her glass of merlot for a sip. “Not a lot of people could convince me to stick around for dinner by myself when my pajamas and Netflix were calling.”

Sawyer knew that flirting with her was probably a dumpster fire of an idea. So, naturally, he didn’t fucking hesitate. “Ah, but you’re not having dinner by yourself. You’re having dinner with me, remember? And I promise, it’ll be way better than pajamas and Netflix.”

He placed a menu on the glossy surface of the bar, giving her some space to look it over while he took care of a few drink orders and checked in with both their hostess, Evie, and the waitstaff. The height of the dinner rush had passed, which allowed him to hand off the rest of the bar patrons to one of the servers whose section had lightened up-Sawyer knew the guy needed the tips more than he did-and return his attention to Jo.

“Anything look good?” he asked, his blood heating up at the blush pinking her cheeks in the soft bar light.

“You piqued my interest with your bragging. I’ve got to see if this Cuban sandwich lives up to the hype,” she said, sliding her menu over the bar.

Sawyer wrote up a bar ticket and handed it off to a passing server. “It’s not bragging if it’s true.”

“Well, I hope it is, because I’m starving.” Jo took a sip of her wine. As if their earlier conversation hadn’t skipped a beat, she asked, “So, are you from Charlotte?”

“Born and raised. I went all over while I was in the Marines, but after my injury, I came home.” He didn’t add that it was partly because Remington Memorial had an excellent Traumatic Brain Injury rehabilitation program, and at the time, his migraines had been so brutal, that his neurologist had bumped him to the top of the mile-long waiting list. Not to mention the crushing PTSD he’d been suffering from at the time.