Page 42 of Blame it on the Bet
“I–I…I mean, considering our…you know…our arrangement…” she stammers.
“Which arrangement?” I ask innocently. “You know…our wager…”
“Oh, that arrangement. Yes, you’d think things might be awkward between us. But they’re really not, are they?” I muse. She doesn’t reply—nor does she make a move to thwart my approach. “Quite the opposite, actually. It’s the damnedest thing, Hennessy. I just can’t seem to stop thinking about…” I let the sentence hang between us until, finally, she clearly can’t take it anymore.
“About what? What can’t you stop thinking about?” she asks quietly.
We’re only a foot apart now, and she has to look up to see my face. That means I get to look down into her perfect, milky complexion. I’m so close that I could actually count the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. I wonder if she has them anywhere else…
Before I can stop myself, I lower my head close to hers, and for just an instant, I know we both think I’m going to kiss her. But at the final moment, my mouth veers to her left ear. I’m sure she can feel the warmth of my breath as I whisper the single word.
“You.”
Except it doesn’t sound like a word. It’s an exhalation—a sigh—and it floats from my mouth to her ear and heats the space between us for the brief moment before I turn and leave her. I’m sure I can feel her eyes on me as I walk back down the hall, self-satisfied smile on my face.
I am in so much trouble here.
Chapter Seventeen
HENNESSY
I try to put it out of my mind for the rest of the night, but it’s damn near impossible, and that’s pretty frustrating because there’s too much to do for me to waste time figuring out Bryan Truitt’s latest mind games. As it is, we don’t get everyone out and the place cleaned up until after two in the morning. And by then, we’re all exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. This was the first event we’ve done without Pops, and despite the insanity of the night, I think we all felt his absence acutely.
Up in the apartment, the four of us are in our pajamas, agreeing that a sleepover is in order. The only person unhappy with that decision is Win, who objected to a solid eighteen hours with his own child on principle. I nearly choked when I heard James tell him to “man up and be a father” to his son for a change.
Walker has been sorting the cash bar money while Bailey tallies the credit card receipts. Jameson is adding up the piles, one by one, as they’re handed to her. When the last number has been punched into her desk calculator, she rips the long white piece of register tape and examines the totals.
“Okay, so…we’re adding the bar tabs, the admission tickets, and the chili entry fees. Both Carly and Donovan have asked not to be paid for tonight, though I insisted they keep the service tips. Bailey and Walker have both put their tips back into the total as well—thank you for that, by the way. You two worked your butts off tonight,” Jameson notes as she looks at them over the top of her reading glasses. My two youngest sisters nod and smile.
“So, that leaves us with a net profit of…” She pauses to do her version of a drumroll.“Five-thousand-eight-hundred- dollars.”
We all look at one another, unsure of what to say.
“I know this is going to sound stupid,” Bailey begins, “but how much were we hoping for? I mean, is that good or what?”
I start to chuckle. “She’s right; we never did discuss what our goal was…and I’ve never done a chili cook-off before. So, is that a good amount? Or did we just get our butts handed to us?”
Surprisingly, it’s Walker who lays it all out for us.
“Well, I was projecting a crowd of seventy-five to eighty, and about ten entrants. We doubled the attendees and exceeded the entrants by fifty percent. On top of that, the average bar tab was about fifty bucks, and the tips were right around twenty percent. I had conservatively predicted a net profit right around 3k. So, yeah, we kinda kicked ass tonight,” she says so earnestly that I’m not smiling anymore. I’m staring at my sister with undisguised shock…and appreciation.
“Wow, Walker…that’s really impressive,” Jameson says quietly from next to me.
She shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s just something I do. I like numbers and trends. I’m acing my economics classes this year.”
“Still,” Bailey says before we can fall too far down the well of awe for Walker, “it doesn’t seem like much compared to what we have to raise. What’s that, like six percent? We’ve got ninety-four percent left to raise? That kinda sucks.”
“I know it seems like a drop in the bucket, but keep in mind that just a few hours ago, we had a hundred-thousand to raise. I’ll take six-thousand toward that.”
They nod their agreement.
“Hey, what about that Bryan Truitt?” Jameson says in a hushed, dramatic whisper.
“What about him?” I ask, suddenly afraid someone saw something in the back hallway. Not that there was anything to see…
Walker smacks a palm to her forehead. “Jeez! Can you believe him? And that Father Romance—I wanted to strangle him with his rosary beads.”
“Now, now, let’s not be blasphemous,” James chides her with a wry smile.
