Page 47 of The Puck Bunny

“We’ll have your table ready in one minute, Mr. James.” The maître d’ is dressed better than all of us. He sends off a couple of the serving staff into the dining area, presumably to make our table ready.

Quinn helps me out of my coat, adding to my illusion that we’re together. Lenny checks everyone’s coats and we head to the bar area.

Quinn’s mom heads straight for a handsome knockoff of Quinn except he’s slightly older and a few inches shorter.

“Chris, I’m sorry for the delay. Quinn had to talk to some press,” she says.

“Of course he did.” Chris hugs his mother and then nods at his brother.

I wait for a hug or a fist bump or handshake, or even a smile to soften the cool stare, but… no. It’s worse than I thought and my protective instincts go on alert as I stand a smidge closer to Quinn while he says hello to his sister-in-law and two wide-eyed nephews. At least he treats them to a grin and fist bumps.

I look around to see if any of the patrons are paying attention to us. Other than a few looks of recognition, some whispers behind cupped hands and small gestures in our direction, the crowd here is cool.

“Sara, let me introduce my brother, Chris,” Quinn says. He doesn’t elaborate about who I am, leaving his brother to make whatever assumption he wants, so I jump in.

“I work with the Brawlers organization,” I say, a bubble of dismay at my identity. It doesn’t sound quite right, but I don’t know what else to say.

Chris smiles, making him look more like his brother and not so bad. But I’m not ready to let down my defense of Quinn yet.

“This is my wife, Jennifer,” he says. The pretty woman at his side, perfectly put together and polished to within an inch of perfection, smiles at me with pearly teeth.

“Nice to meet you.”

“And this is Tyler.” Chris ruffles his son’s head.

Tyler gives me a goofy grin.

Him, I can handle. He looks about ten years old and full of mischief.

“No alliteration for you,” I say, giving him a goofy grin back.

“I’m lucky,” he says, surprising me. I was sure the alliteration reference would go over his head. “I was almost named Jimmy James.”

I laugh and Jennifer gasps. “You most certainly were not.”

“Where’d you get an idea like that?” His dad asks.

“Uncle Quinn told me—”

“Figures.” Chris throws a dagger-like scowl at Quinn, which surprises me because the reaction is so over-the-top. And when I glance at Quinn for his reaction, I expect an unapologetic smirk, but no. For an instant, I see hurt and regret and grief. But then he replaces it with a mild version of his game face and turns away. When he winks at Tyler, I’m relieved. A little. But I can’t forget that hurt and pain I saw on his face. I may never forget it.

Tamping it down, I know I should try or… I’ll feel that swelling need to do something about it. I can’t afford to start feeling animosity toward his brother after meeting him only five minutes ago. It’s that stubborn, Italian loyalty-to-the-point-of-destruction, the implacable maxim in life of treating any enemy of my friend as my enemy. Anyone who would do harm to my friend I have a disturbing blood lust need to do harm to. Crap. I can’t let that ridiculousness run free.

I haven’t felt this kind of animosity since I was a kid and I beat up Wally down the street for teasing Paul when he was only five. I’ve always been protective of him, even from my parents whenever they come close to hinting that he was their surprise child. He’s five years younger than me and it always seemed like a big gap until now because, at sixteen, he’s taken quite a growth spurt and can grow a legitimate beard if he wants.

“And this pipsqueak is Timmy James,” Quinn says, giving his other nephew a playful nudge.

Timmy sports a toothless grin and nudges his uncle back. A bout of lopsided roughhousing between an adult and kid ensues.

Their mom looks horrified and nudges her husband to say something.

“Settle down now. Time and place.” He’s scolding his son and his grandson, too.

Quinn gives him a look that I would bet translates to f-you. He’s about to say something when the maître d’ approaches with menus and clears his throat.

“Please follow me to your table.”

“Thank God,” Quinn’s mom murmurs and I catch her eye, unable to squelch my smile. She winks.