Page 22 of Blame it on the Bet
Chapter Ten
BRYAN
Truittism No.5: No one touches what’s mine.
Including what I want to be mine.
She actually growled at me.
And it was the hottest damn thing that I’ve ever seen— or heard, for that matter. I’m having a hard time wiping the stupid-happy grin off my face as we enter the lobby of the First National Bank of Mayhem—which smells more like a Starbucks than a financial institution. I like that. A lot.
In the small waiting area, just past the lobby where the teller’s windows are, there is an entire cart dedicated to coffee service. I fix myself a cup, welcoming the warmth that seeps into my frozen hands. I’d never say anything in front of Miss Fluffy McWarmPants over there, but I’m seriously considering buying a pair of gloves. At least. Maybe a hat, too.
When I glance over my shoulder, she’s signing her name
on the clipboard to meet with a banker, already having hung up her parka.
“Can I make you a cup, Miss O’Halloran?” I offer, just now noticing that she’s managed to wrestle all of her hair into a bun on top of her head.
Gone are the jeans and plaid shirt, traded in for a black turtleneck and a short black-and-white plaid skirt. She’s wearing some sort of thick tights, or maybe those legging things women like? I can’t tell, but I assume it’s so she won’t freeze to death.
“No, thank you,” she replies coolly, taking a seat. I bypass the clipboard to join her with my coffee.
“Aren’t you going to sign in?” she asks me with some irritation. “Or don’t big shots like you need to follow such pedestrian practices?”
I smile, remembering the growl.
“No, that is certainly not the case, Miss O’Halloran,” I inform her and take a sip of the strong, sweet, creamy brew in my hand. “In fact, ‘big shots like me’ don’t like to wait. So in order to ensure our time will not be wasted, we make use of that quaint old tradition known as ‘the appointment.’”
Before she can comment, a short, balding man comes out of his glass-encased office to greet us. He seems surprised— but very happy—to see Hennessy O’Halloran.
“Henny!” he exclaims happily.
“Wally!” she yelps, throwing herself into his arms with a big hug.
Oh. I don’t like this one bit.
I clear my throat, but they ignore me, chattering excitedly.
“How are you?” he’s asking her, his hands on her forearms. “I haven’t seen you since the funeral.”
“I’m good. I mean, you know… This is all difficult. And we really had no idea about the loan…”
“I know.” He nods sympathetically. “What a mess, right?”
I clear my throat, and they both turn to me, looking a little startled—as if they’d forgotten I was here at all. The guy lets her go and extends a hand in my direction.
“Hello, there. You must be Bryan Truitt,” he says with a pleasant enough smile. “I’m Randall Waldera, but everyone calls me Wally.”
“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you, Wally. Everyone calls me Bryan.”
He seems slightly bewildered, by my lame little joke, but doesn’t bother to comment. “Yeah…well, okay. How about you and I head into my office. Hennessy, were you wanting to see me today, too?”
“Well,” she begins, suddenly the picture of feminine dismay, “I was hoping I could just slip in and steal a moment of your time. I really do need some good advice about how to proceed with the pub…” She caps off her performance by batting her substantial eyelashes and offering up a hopeful smile in combination with a furrowed brow.
Damn, this woman is good.
They both look at me again, clearly expecting me to do the chivalrous thing and offer her my slot.
