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

The whole diner was in a frenzy. People ran back and forth, chairs toppled, women screeched. Someone called 911. Another suggested we flip him on his stomach. And one of his friends was recording the entire thing on his phone, as if we needed more reason not to put our trust in Gen Z.

And there he was.

Dr. Cruz Costello, running in slow-mo to the kid, his sandy hair swooshing about like a Baywatch montage.

He performed the Heimlich maneuver on my assailant and made him cough out the piece of straw he was choking on, saving the day once again.

The jukebox, on cue, started belting out Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long.”

It wasn’t like I genuinely wanted the kid to die.

Being a gasshole was not a sin punishable by death. But the fact that the entire diner glossed over the overt sexual assault I’d been subjected to was jarring, if not completely depressing.

And then there was the fact that Cruz Costello was standing there, tall and muscular and alive, bathing in the compliments everyone around us showered upon him.

“…saved the boy’s life! How can we ever thank you? You are an asset to Fairhope, Dr. Costello!”

“…told your mother when you were three that you were going to become someone important, and whaddaya know? I was right again.”

“My daughter is coming back from college next year. You sure you’re set on Gabriella, sugar? I’d love for you to meet her.”

I leaned against the counter, narrowing my eyes at the scene.

One of the teenager’s friends called his mother, who was going to pick him up. Jerry tried to calm everyone down by announcing everyone would be getting complimentary ice cream, and Gabby clung onto her boyfriend’s arm like she’d been surgically glued to it, fussing in his ear, urinating all over her territory.

Cruz tried to pay Jerry, but Jerry shook his head exaggeratedly.

“Your money’s no good here, Dr. Costello.”

Luckily for Dr. Costello, his money was good and welcome in my pocket. I pushed off the counter and strutted toward him, stretching my open palm up.

“I’m ready for my tip now.”

Gabriella’s mouth fell open.

Something mean was about to come out of it—the fact that my sister and she were best friends, that we were both going to be Trinity’s bridesmaids in less than two months, didn’t matter.

Today had reinforced the notion I was fair game in Fairhope, and everyone had the agency, the God-given right, to be mean to me. But Cruz stopped her, patting her flat ass with a lazy, lopsided grin.

He knew I loathed his golden boy act.

“Go on and wait in the car, honey.”

“But Cruuuuuuz.” Gabby stomped her foot, dragging his name out with a pout.

“I’ll handle it,” he assured her.

“Fine. But don’t be too nice,” she sulked, catching the car keys he threw into her hands, and sauntered out of the diner.

Cruz and I stood in front of each other. Two cowboys waiting to draw their weapons.

“Aren’t I going to get a thank you?”

His whiskey-soaked voice stirred something warm and sticky and unwelcome behind my ribcage. He had that Justin Hartley kind of body you just wanted to feel pressed against you.

“For what?” I mused. “Being alive, being a doctor, or being a royal pain?”

“Saving that kid.”

“That kid pinched my butt and took a picture of my panties.”

“I didn’t know that,” he said evenly.

I believed him, but so what? My hackles were so high up, I couldn’t even see past them.

“Tip me or get gone,” I huffed.

“You want a tip?” he asked tonelessly, his dark-blue eyes narrowing on my face. “Here’s one: get some better manners. Pronto.”

“Sorry.” I pouted, making a show of examining my nails. “Fortune-cookie advice is not a currency I accept at present. Cash or Venmo work, though.”

“You don’t actually expect a tip after your argument with Gabriella, do you?” He looked a little concerned for me. Like maybe on top of being a bimbo, I also possessed the IQ of a peanut butter sandwich. Sans the jelly.

“I do, actually. She knows we don’t carry organic meat—or arugula. Why does she keep asking?”

If he was going to tell me the customer was always right, I was going to add him to my ever-growing list of people to murder. Actually, he was already in the top ten for every time he’d run into me at social gatherings and pretended I didn’t exist.

“Why don’t you give her a straight answer?” he quipped back. For a moment—for a small, teeny, tiny fraction of a moment—I could swear his good ol’ boy mask cracked a little, annoyance seeping through it.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?”

I noticed his eyes dropped to my lips when I said that.

I was aware I had enough makeup on my face to sculpt another life-size figure of myself and way too much pink lipstick for anyone’s liking. But Cruz being Cruz, he never said anything mean or demeaning about anyone. Not even me.

I could see the nostrils of his straight Roman nose flare as he drew in a calming breath and tilted his chin up.

“Very well, Tennessee.” That was the other thing. Everybody called me Messy Nessy. He was the only one to call me by my given name, and it always felt like punishment. “I’ll mind my own business. Let’s start now, shall we? Did you book our tickets for the cruise yet?”