Page 92 of Crushing Clover

“Just wanted to see my old room.”

“I think Mrs. Alcorn hid a few boxes of your things in the basement, if you’re looking for something. She tried to convince your father not to convert your room, but he needed the space.” It was a diplomatic answer, considering I knew Mr. Fisk couldn’t stand Warren any more than I did. He was paid too well to quit.

“I know. He needed it for guests,” I said with a curt nod.

There were eight other guest bedrooms, and he had no actual friends, but sure.

I left, wondering if Warren had fucked Clover in my old room before giving her to me.

She was a pain in the ass, but she was beautiful. Feisty without being annoying or a bitch. It would be so much easier if she wasn’t walking around wearing our ex’s face. Then again, if she hadn’t looked like Arabella, Warren never would have dropped her—literally—in my lap.

As I got behind the wheel of my truck, sunlight dappled the windshield, leaving spots on the dash that reminded me of her freckles.

The little shit was probably getting into mischief right this minute.

For old-time’s sake, I peeled out of the driveway like an angry teenager. I was eager to get home and take out my irritation on Clover’s hot little ass.

Chapter 19

After an afternoon of shopping for paint for Lucky’s room and wandering around Home Depot with him, I was glad to be back at the restaurant so I could sit down.

Had he originally chosen the darkest shade of black for his bedroom? Yes. Had he been willing to consider other colors, and eventually agreed a more restful, sage green went better with the colors I’d painted the rest of the house? No.

I’d noticed the way the cashier had glanced from the paint color, to his piercings and mohawk, to the tattoos on his neck and face. She’d grimaced, and I’d grabbed his hand, glaring at her and half-wishing she’d say something to give me a fucking reason. I wasn’t normally a violent person, but Lucky was Lucky. He’d been amused by the whole thing, since I was pretty sure he’d never cared what people thought about him a day in his life.

I’d barely settled on the office couch when Saint strode into the room with Lucky following. There hadn’t even been time for me to decide between novels yet.

“No warning?” Saint asked him.

“No. He took off without a word.”

“What the fuck?” Saint slammed his still-full takeout coffee cup on his desk. Some of the contents sloshed onto a neat stack of papers. “Where the hell are we supposed to find a server at such short notice?”

“I can cover for tonight,” Lucky assured him.

“No. That won’t work.”

“I’d do it, but we both need to be in the kitchen,” Rush grumbled. I hadn’t even heard him come in. “It’s Nathan’s day off.”

The frustration rolling off Saint John had the small office brimming with combustible tension.

“I could do it.” I enjoyed spending most evenings crocheting, napping, or reading, but there was no reason I couldn’t help.

All three of them laughed, and I found myself bristling with indignance.

“I have experience.”

“We know that,” Saint scoffed, turning my statement into a double-entendre.

“I used to serve drinks and food at the club I worked at sometimes when the other girls were out sick.”

“This isn’t exactly the same clientele.”

“I’m sure I can figure it out. Most people tend to like me, believe it or not, and I’m not dumb.”

Saint made a rude noise.

“Or I can sit here and chill while you three run your asses off trying to cover.”

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