The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

He even had a pornstache he was unaware made him extra sexy. There wasn’t a woman within the town’s limit who didn’t want to see her juices on that ’stache.

Even his attire of a blind senior CPA, consisting of khaki pants, pristine white socks, and polo shirts, couldn’t take away from the fact that the man was ride-able to a fault.

Luckily—and I use that term loosely because there was nothing lucky about my life—I was so appalled by Cruz’s general existence that I was pretty much immune to his allure.

I stopped at their table, leaning a hip against the worn-out booth and popping my gum extra loudly to hide the nervous hiccup from being touched by that kid. Whenever the occasional urge to speak up for myself rose, I remembered my job prospects in this town were slimmer than Gabby’s waist. Raising a thirteen-year-old wasn’t cheap, and besides, moving back in with my parents was not feasible. I did not get along with Momma Turner.

“Top of the mornin’ to you. How can I help Fairhope’s Bold and Beautiful?”

Gabriella scrunched her button nose in distaste. She wore casual skinny jeans, an expensive white cashmere shawl, and understated jewelry, giving her the chic appearance of effortlessness (and possibly French).

“How are you, Nessy?” she asked without moving her lips much.

“Well, Gabriella, every morning I wake up on the wrong side of capitalism, I’m pretty sure my car’s about to die, and my back’s not getting any younger. So all in all, pretty good, thanks for asking. Yourself?”

“I just got a big contract with a cosmetic company that will probably gain my blog a lot of traction, so really good.”

“Wonderful!” I cooed, doing my best not to notice Cruz.

Gabriella did that thing where she posted pictures and videos of herself on Instagram, trying out new products, making you believe you could look like her if you used them too.

She dragged her plate across the table like there was a dead rat on it.

“Look, I don’t want to be that person, but I don’t think my turkey burger is … you know …”

“Cooked?” I curved an eyebrow. Or turkey …

“Organic,” she whispered, shifting uncomfortably.

I had a Sherlock on my hands.

Did she think she was at The Ivy? She should be happy her lettuce was washed and that the bun didn’t come from a can.

“It’s probably not,” I agreed.

Her eyebrows slammed together. “Well, I specifically asked for organic.”

“And I specifically asked for a winning lottery ticket and a hot date with Benicio del Toro. Looks like we’re both having a bad day, hon.” I popped my gum again.

Cruz was quiet as he usually was when I was around. The elephant in the room was that Gabriella Holland was my baby sister Trinity’s best friend. And my sweet baby sister was engaged to Wyatt, Cruz’s older brother.

Sounds super Jerry Springer? Why, I think so too.

Which meant that, technically, I had to play nice with both of these uppity gassholes. But while Cruz made a deliberate effort not to acknowledge my existence in any way, I was perfectly happy to show him what I thought about him.

“Do you think that kind of attitude will help you get a tip?” Gabriella asked incredulously, folding her arms over her chest. Some best friend to my sister she was, treating me like I was a dry horse turd on the bottom of her stiletto shoe.

“I don’t think I should be given attitude over a diner burger’s origin story,” I supplied.

“Maybe if you were nicer and more conscientious, your poor son could have more opportunities.”

Yup. She went there. She actually mentioned Bear.

A bullet of anger pierced my gut.

“Well, if you were just a little bit prettier, maybe you wouldn’t have come in third on Miss America.”

I smiled sweetly.

Clearly, I was willing to go there too.

Gabriella’s eyes watered and her chin wrinkled and danced like Jell-O as she fumed.

“I would like to speak to management!” she cried out.

“Oh, you mean the big boss?” I asked. “The one in charge of this entire culinary empire?” I made a show of moving half an inch to turn to Jerry. “Management! Table three wants to speak to you.”

Jerry rounded the counter, spitting his tobacco into a nearby trash can, already looking alert while I turned back to the happy couple.

“Anything else I can do for y’all?” My silky smile was as big and fake as Gabriella’s breasts. “Maybe offer you some complimentary white truffle oil while you wait? Perhaps some foie gras?” I made sure to pronounce the ‘s’, to keep that uneducated bimbo label alive.

I definitely wasn’t doing myself any favors. But dang, getting sexually harassed by a kid my son’s age and patronized by my baby sister’s friend just about hurled me to the breaking point.

“Yes, actually. I can’t believe Trinity—”

Gabriella’s scathing remark was cut off when a choking sound came from booth number five, the one occupied by Grabby McHandson himself.

“Oh my gosh!”

“Jesus! No!”

“He’s choking! He is choking on the straw!”

Karma must’ve heard my prayers and decided to intervene, because the guy who’d pinched my ass was now lying on the floor, clutching his neck, his eyes wide and red as he kicked his legs about, trying to breathe.