Page 39 of Blame it on the Bet
My tone is more than a little suspicious.
“Yes. I’m looking for someone impartial. Someone who isn’t related to anyone here in Mayhem and who doesn’t have any specific ties to the community.”
“What, do you want me to judge a beauty contest?” I laugh.
“Close, my boy! Close!” he declares jovially, patting my back so hard that I wince. “Come now, fetch your coat and join me across the street.”
“Wait… Across the street…in the pub?”
“Of course, son! Come now, get your things. You’re holding up the proceedings.”
I look past Father Romance and realize that something is, indeed, going on at O’Halloran’s. Something that didn’t make my events calendar. Every single spot along Main Street is taken, on both sides of the street, and there are several cars driving past slowly, hoping to find an open space. The lights in the building are ablaze, and I’ve just been extended an invitation by way of Heaven.
Chapter Fifteen
HENNESSY
“Have you seen Father Romance?” I holler over at Walker, who’s concentrating on serving customers three-deep at the bar. She just shakes her head.
Frustrated, I climb atop a barstool and scan the crowd. And I do mean crowd. This Chili Cook-off thing grew some serious legs, and now about half of Mayhem is crammed into our pub. I might be concerned about the fire marshal showing up, were he not already here, stirring his own crockpotted entry of spicy, steamy goodness.
Bailey and Walker spent the afternoon arranging several long folding tables end-to-end to accommodate the fifteen entries into this first annual event. Now, each contestant stands guard over their so-called “secret” recipes, ribbing one another and knocking back beers faster than we can serve them. I mean, I knew this thing would get some interest, but I never anticipated it’d draw a crowd this size.
We offered tickets at ten-bucks a pop, covering a bowl of O’Halloran’s own secret chili and a beer. I figured maybe we’d sell an extra beer or two on top of that, but I’m starting to think I’ll need to call my distributor in the morning to get an extra delivery of inventory. Thank God for Walker, who’s moving effortlessly behind the bar, keeping track of multiple tabs, concocting several drinks at a time, and collecting every penny without missing a beat. As I watch her, I can’t help but think how proud our Pops would be to see her. To see this…
“Henny!” I turn around to see Bailey running back to the kitchen with a tub full of dirty chili bowls. I brace myself for the torrent of whining she’s about to unleash on me. “Oh my God! Do you believe this? I can’t keep up with all the chili! Donovan is in the back working on another huge pot! I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy!”
I’m stunned. My youngest sister, the most narcissistic, self-absorbed little beauty queen I’ve ever seen in my life, can’t stop gushing. I grab her beautiful face with both my hands, lean in over the tub of dirty bowls, and give her a big, sloppy kiss on the forehead.
“Hey!” she protests, wrinkling her nose and giggling at the same time. “What’s that for?”
“Because I love you, Bailey. And because we couldn’t do any of this without you, little sister,” I explain softly. She’s so much younger than me, and in such a different place in her life, that I can’t always relate to Bailey. But since Pops died, I find myself pulling her closer—the opposite of what I did when we were all living together at home. I suddenly find myself simultaneously proud of Bailey and protective of her. We’re all she has now. My youngest sister’s cheeks redden, and her unexpected bashfulness makes her look like a little girl again. I’m about to comment when I see her catch sight of something behind me that makes her eyes widen.
“Holy. Crap,” she murmurs, forgetting I’m standing there.
“What?” I ask, twisting and struggling to see through the crowd.
“Over there, by the door. Look who Father Romance just came in with.” I follow Bailey’s nod and find myself, once again, shocked to see Bryan Truitt walk into our pub.
“What the hell?” I hiss. “I was so careful to keep this thing word-of-mouth only, hoping he wouldn’t get wind of it. Why would Father Romance bring him here?”
Bailey shrugs, smiles, and beats a fast path back to the kitchen as my soon-to-be-ex priest and soon-to-be-deceased nemesis make their way toward me through the crowd.
…
Bryan is sans suit, wearing jeans and a button-down flannel shirt in a shade of blue that sets off his dark hair. And I’ll be damned if he hasn’t tossed the tasseled loafers in favor of a pair of boots.
“Wow,” I say loudly so he can hear me over the chatter around us. “Someone got himself a new outfit.” I mean it to be snarky but am surprised to hear it ring as more complimentary.
He grins. “You should see the parka. I left it hanging on the rack by the door.”
“Nice,” is all I can think to reply, and we experience
an awkward moment of silence amid the din. That is until Father Romance throws a Molotov cocktail my way.
“Henny, dear, I’ve asked Bryan to replace me as judge of the chili cook-off,” he informs me as he puts a heavy hand on Truitt’s shoulder.
“What?” I practically shriek. “Wait, wait, wait… You agreed to do this last week, Father. You can’t back out now.”
