Page 55 of Blame it on the Bet
“Brybry!”
“I think he wants to share peace with you, Bryan,” Jameson says.
“Of course, buddy,” Bryan says, leaning past me to take the hand Jackson’s offering. Suddenly the toddler seems bashful.
“Can you say,‘peace be with you?’” I encourage Jackson.
And then I see it…the look. But it’s too late. The words are out of his mouth before I can avert disaster.
“Peath wit dooooooosh!” Jackson squeals as he bounces in my arms and claps his hands happily.
Jameson looks on in horror, Bryan can’t seem to believe what he’s hearing, and from the lectern, I catch Father Romance pretending to cough so he can stifle his laughter. Well, at least I’m not the only one blushing now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
BRYAN
Truittism No. 11: The apple may not fall far from the tree… but that doesn’t mean it won’t roll the hell out from under it.
The kid called me a douche. Again. This time, in front of an entire congregation and God Almighty Himself. That little hiccup aside, the polka mass wasn’t bad at all. I’ve been to a Catholic mass before, mostly for weddings and funerals, and I actually enjoy the ritual of it. This, though…this was something else. Kinda fun, actually.
Jameson took Jackson and ducked out during the final hymn so she could get the afternoon meal ready. Right now, Hennessy and I are waiting in the line of parishioners filing past Father Romance. One by one, they shake his hand before exiting into the crisp, frozen morning. When I reach him, I hold out my hand, but he grabs me instead, capturing me in a bear hug that pushes every bit of air from my lungs.
“Bryan, son, I was so happy to look out and see your face this morning. You are welcome in this church any time,” he tells me, adding a slightly painful slap to my back. “Thank you, Father,” I gasp, drawing a huge breath when he finally lets go of me. “It was a very cool service.”
He beams down with those impish eyes.
“I’m glad you liked it. It’s a favorite of ours around here. Where are you off to, then? Care to join me for a pint at the pub?”
“Uh, no, I can’t. I’ve been invited to Jameson’s house for supper,” I explain regretfully. He has no idea how much I’d rather be on a barstool next to him.
His dark, bushy brows draw together in concern as he looks from me to Hennessy and back again.
“You’re bringing him to a meal with Win Clarke? And little Jackson?” he asks her.
“Jameson’s doing, not mine,” Hennessy explains, holding up her palms to indicate her lack of involvement in this plan. Father Romance nods, and I see the unmistakable shadow of pity pass across his face. Maybe he does have an idea how much I’d rather be on a barstool next to him.
“I’ll say a prayer for you, Bryan,” he murmurs, so no one else will hear. “A word of advice: sit as far away from the high chair as you can. Understand?”
I nod dumbly and wonder what fresh hell awaits me— so heinous that even the local priest seems to fear for my safety. Or maybe it’s my soul he fears for. Probably both.
…
I leave my car at the church and ride with Hennessy in her SUV. It’s not nearly as rustic as I imagined. Leather seats, nice sound system, moon roof… Yeah, I might just be able to trade in my luxury sedan for one of these babies. Maybe. “Thanks for letting me join you all,” I say with a glance over to the driver’s seat. She’s all buttoned up in her parka right now, but I happen to know that there’s a delightfully short skirt and tights under there. The thought brings a smile
to my lips. She notices.
“Wow, you really did enjoy yourself, didn’t you?” she marvels, misreading my lecherous thoughts.
“Oh yeah,” I assure her. “You have a nice family. I can see why the pub means so much to all of you.”
Her turn to shoot me a glance, though hers is more perplexed.
“Bryan, just tell me, please…” “What?”
“We both know you could just as easily pick up this property from L.A. if it goes to foreclosure. We both know you don’t need to be here. So…why are you here? I mean, really? I’m tired of doing this crazy love/hate dance we’ve been doing.”
“Did you say ‘love’?”
