Page 791 of One More Kiss

“You can get it from Mark.”

“What?” My brow pops. “Mark never comes here. And why isn’t he fishing?”

Smiling, she shrugs. “Mama D.’s working out the details for the Taylor wedding. I guess he’s filling in.”

“Perfect.” I let out a sigh. “Any idea where he is?” She shakes her head. “Well, I better go find him.”

“Hang on.” She fishes cash from the tip jar and hands it to me.

I stare at her, blinking. “What’s this?”

She grabs my hand, shoving the cash into it. “A bunch of tourists went all out at brunch. Take it. I don’t want you not having a paycheck. You’ll be working this side soon enough.”

Emotions overwhelm me as I stare down at the twenties, tens, and fives. I split it right down the middle and toss half on the bar. “Thanks,” I say, rushing out of there before I’m a blubbering puddle in the middle of the floor.

Sternly, I wipe my cheeks and make my way down the hall. I can cry when I’m at home. That’s what showers are for.

I begin muttering under my breath. “Yoo-hoo…Satan. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Where Tyler and Josh are wholesome goodness wrapped up in sunshine and smiles, Mark is the polar opposite. Ready to fight, run, or fornicate at a moment’s notice. To their easy-going sails on tranquil waters, Mark is a storm. And those eyes. Shamefully, I’ve stared at them more than once.

Some men were meant to build castles while others were born to slay dragons. That’s Mark. A hot-blooded fighting machine. When Brian entered the Army, Mark rushed in after him. Besties since their stupid blood oath in the fifth grade. Seriously, how deep did they think they needed to cut? They both required stitches. But that was them. Two beautiful idiots pridefully counting every last scar. It’s the reason why no matter how hard I try, I can’t avoid Mark. Like my brother’s shadow, he’s always around.

And there’s something about watching a boy grow into a man before your eyes that makes you cruelly aware of your differences. To my clumsy awkwardness, Mark was dimpled and adorable. While I was navigating a world of untamable red hair and freckles that multiplied on a weekly basis, Mark bloomed from cute to mega-watt GQ cover hotness. His scruffy jaw and ripped physique are amplified by his eyes.

On any given day, the color of his eyes will sail through dazzling caramel-gold to soul-piercing Caribbean Sea green. And when women see it, they become an awestruck pile of goo. I’ve seen it more than once, and it is ridiculous. And after two sniper tours overseas and too many tattoos to count, women are at an unfair disadvantage when it comes to Mark.

I pop my head into the break room. A few waitresses are eating a late lunch and gossiping about customers.

Gasping, Kara looks up at me. “What happened to you?” she says, as if my bright red cheeks somehow disgust her.

I ignore her. And not just because she’s an ass, but because it’ll only make my face that much redder than it already is. “Have either of you seen Mark?”

“Oh, my God,” Starr asks as she whips back her pink hair. “Is delicious Mark Donovan here?”

Kara claps and squeals like a seal. I rub my temple. “I heard he now holds the record for the most confirmed kills.”

Confused, I stare. “How does that make him hot?”

Her smirk is dismissive. “You wouldn’t understand.” She looks me up and down, patronizing me with her eyes. “You’re too young.”

“I'm a year younger than you, Kara.”

She scoops her breasts into her crossed arms, forcing cleavage that even her overstuffed push up couldn’t tackle. “There's a world of difference in a year.”

Perhaps to a dog.

“Trust me,” Starr adds. “His brothers are princes, but Mark Donovan is a full-fledged demi-god.” She licks her spoon suggestively. “I’ve got something that sharpshooter can aim at.”

Disgusted, I dry heave and leave the room. Kara calls after me. “Tell him we’re looking for him too, okay?” Their giggles echo wildly down the hall.

“Jess?” I hear Mark call. His deep, gravelly voice flows effortlessly down the hall, though I don’t see him. I make it to his office where the door is cracked. Hand on the handle, I nearly pushed through until I hear, “What do you mean?” Because he isn’t talking to me, he’s talking about me.

The door is cracked, an obvious invitation to listen in. Heavy footsteps move further away, and I nudge the door ever so slightly and peer inside.

Framed by the large picture window at the other end of the office, Beelzebub stands in all his glory. Dark blue jeans, crisp white shirt, dark hair mussed to perfection. His million-mile stare fixed somewhere in the distance as he presses the cell to his ear.

I shouldn’t stare. But I can’t stop. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since he’s returned, and the first time I’ve dared to unapologetically stare at the man’s behind. I blink. It’s still there. He shifts in place and the move is hypnotic. Did he bulk up…his ass? I knew he did some heavy lifting, but this is ridiculous. I mean, once, when traffic was blocked, he and Brian lifted a fallen maple tree to the side of the road. By themselves. So, yeah. I get it. Muscle mayhem. But now, his arms bulge so hard against his shirt sleeve, he must have graduated from trees to tanks.

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