Page 7 of Mended Hearts

The problem with my beautiful, brainy sister falling in love with her equally beautiful bulldog of a boss, was that the Hart name came with a colossal mountain of baggage. The least of which was America’s obsession with everything that came in contact with their lives.

Their newest fascination? The no-name ‘stripper’ that hauled the empire’s heiress to shore.

I.e.,me.

I.e.,not a stripper.

Never in my life had I stripped off clothing in my place of employment... Well, except for right now, as I unlaced my apron with gritted teeth.Fuck.

Chad took a nice, long glance at my cleavage as I did.

Not going to lie, I have good cleavage, but it wasn’t proudly on display forthisaspiring jerk-off.

It was for the cutie in aBombersjersey sitting at table six, smiling at me the instant I walked in the door.

He had ‘tips well’ written all over his eager face.

And I was wearing my brother Paxton’s number thirteen tank.Kismet.

Or it would’ve been, if Chad wasn’t a limp-dick shitwaffle.

“May both sides of your pillow be eternally warm,” I gritted under my breath, slamming the wadded-up apron into his waiting hand.

“What?” Chad mumbled, blinking pointedly.

Pulling my cash out of the order booklet, I slapped the branded black folder into his hand next, scowling when I found his gaze still firmly planted in my chestal region.

“Eyes are up here, asshole.”

He furrowed his brow, setting my apron on the bar counter beside us.

It appeared to take great effort to drag his gaze to my face as he said, “Look, it’s nothing personal. We just don’t need this heat on the restaurant. Wrong kind of attention. Our patrons value discretion.”

“It’s asports bar, Chad,” I deadpanned, bypassing him.

“The only thing you’re discreet about is how much MSG is on the menu.”

He puffed up his chest, cheeks reddening like a petty little beet as his beady eyes darted around.

I just wished it wasn’t an opening shift and there were more people around to witness my five seconds of glory.

“What a ridiculous thing to say.”

“What’sridiculousis that toupee,” I countered with a wink before shouldering him aside with my good arm.

Didn’t stop the twinge of pain on the opposite side, but it was worth it as I stormed outside, holding back the scream of frustration boiling in my chest.

Fuck. My. Life.

I spentthe drive home thinking through my options.

My arm and ribs would heal, and serving burgers and booze to lusty middle-aged men was never the long game.

It just fell into my lap—an easy gig since chaos was my second language. Nobody could serve a big top of rowdy bikers like one of twelve, let me tell you. And they tipped exceptionally well when I flipped them shit as quickly as they dished it out.

My older sisters were all firmly established in the careers of their dreams.

Alice found her calling crafting PR stories, and my twin sister Kaia was a goddess behind a cosmetics table.

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