Page 9 of Summer Affair
Even saying it made him see red, which was rare. Clay was usually the calm and collected one, priding himself on his ability to keep his emotions in check. Emotions clouded judgment, left room for error, and were a distraction from what was important—and for the next decade, his career was his only focus.
“First off, who names a guy Skye? Secondly, that guy’s balls haven’t even dropped. No way can he handle the offensive team like you,” Gage said.
“You know how it goes, out of sight out of mind. The kid’s the new shining star.” A first-round draft pick. So, Clay knew what he’d said was the cold, hard truth. Football was all about the time on the field. Even the best of the best become nervous when sidelined by an injury.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a crop of silver hair making its way through the crowd. He didn’t have to see the owner to know who it was.
“Shit.” He ducked behind the bar, like this was war and he was in the trenches.
“Still hiding from Mom?” Owen practically shouted, then started pointing down at Clay like he was one of those blinking neon signs that readyou are here.
“One more point and I’ll break your finger.”
“Boys,” Margo said in greeting, giving each of her sons a kiss on the cheek.
At only five foot one, Margo was a bulldog. If someone went after even one of her sons, she would annihilate them with a single glance. The look she reserved for any son who got out of line was worse. So he didn’t even want to think about what she’d do if she caught him hiding. Something he’d been doing since he’d arrived back in Portland.
Margo was a worrier and the last thing Clay wanted or needed was his mom bringing him casseroles and inviting herself to dinner every night.
“Hey, Mom,” Owen said in that cheerful tone that he used when they were kids and he was about to rat one of them out. “We were talking about how Clay hasn’t been at family dinners lately. So perfect timing.”
“He’s been weighing heavy on my mind. You know how a mother can worry when her kids don’t check-in,” she said, sliding onto one of the bar stools, which were reserved for family.
Clay ducked even lower, then grimaced when he twisted his knee wrong. The searing pain hurt like a bitch.
“That’s why we have our lunches during the week,” Owen said.
“No one likes a bragger,” Rhett said, and, while everyone wanted to laugh, not one son made a peep.
“How are you doing?” she asked Owen. “I worry about the long hours you put in.”
Rhett snorted. “We’ve been telling him he needs a new manager, but he keeps firing them.”
“Because I’d rather have zero help than the wrong help.”
Owen had single-handedly turned what used to be an Irish pub into one of the most popular gastropubs in the city. When their father passed, Owen walked away from a booming tattoo business to run the family bar.
Owen’s paranoia stemmed from one employee who, years ago, made a bad call and nearly cost their dad the bar. It sent him headlong into a bogus lawsuit, which he spent the last years of his life fighting. So Clay understood his hesitancy, but the guy clearly needed help. His eyes were bloodshot and there were stress lines around his mouth. He was on the pathway to burnout, and everyone knew it.
Problem was, everyone had pressing careers. Rhett’s band had exploded this past year, sending him into a stratosphere of fame most musicians never reach, and sending his marriage straight into rocky territory. Josh was the newly elected DA, Gage was one of the top agents in the country. Then there was Clay, spending more time in training than in his home town. He barely had enough time to fly to Portland and visit his family, which left Owen to run the bar.
They all felt guilty, but no one had the wiggle room to help, which was why they’d all been riding him hard to hire some help. But he was a perfectionist and a control freak—a good combo for a business of one, like a tattoo artist. Not so good when you ran a seven figure a year family business.
“Well, my manicurist’s son is looking for work,” Margo said. “He graduated from Oregon State last spring and is a hard worker.”
“He’s a Beaver. This is Duck territory,” Owen said.
“He’s a friend’s son.”
Owen sighed. “I’ll meet with him.”
“Good. Now, Clay,” his mom tsked. “You can come out.”
Giving Owen a glare that his time was coming, Clay grabbed three mugs by the handles, like he was just helping out Owen, then straightened. “Hey, Mom,” he said, feeling like that ten-year-old kid who knew he was busted.
She patted her cheek and he leaned across the bar to give it a kiss.
“Are you working too hard?” She turned that mama bear tone on Owen. “Are you letting him work too hard?”
