No Laughing Matter: Lennox Brothers Romantic Comedy Page 3

  “I wouldn’t care if they gave me a million dollars, I still wouldn’t shed my clothes in public.”

  Teasingly, I pulled my T-shirt up, flashing my waist. “I’d strip right now for a second cup of coffee.”

  “I should take you up on that. Might bring in a few customers.” She gazed through the front window into her empty café and sighed. “Couldn’t hurt, anyway.”

  “Business has been slow?”

  “I don’t want to complain when things are worse for you. You’ve had some seriously nasty comments since those duck pictures. Are you worried?”

  I shrugged and drank more of her delicious, life-restoring coffee, acting casual so she wouldn’t suspect how terrified I was that I might have managed to throw away my career for good.

  “I’m doing my best to win some goodwill back,” I said. “I’ve explained I was hacked. Hopefully my followers will start to believe me.”

  “What about the death threats?”

  “I reported the worst ones to the police. I just wish I could convince people that I’d never hurt any animal, let alone a duck.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.”

  “My hacker has to be obsessed with ducks. But the original pictures I took were supposed to be light-hearted. And I wouldn’t even have thought of taking them, except the big warning sign at the park was so…” I trailed off, searching for the right word.

  “Blunt?” she suggested. “Extreme?”

  “Exactly.” I sat back, nodding. “See, you get it.”

  I’d had the bright idea to pose for pictures in a park down the road from my house, in front of a large sign that warned visitors not to feed the ducks.

  In big letters across the top it read, Bread Can Kill.

  “The gun made out of bread looked funny.” Nat lifted both hands to mimic the way I’d posed in front of the sign with the gun, blowing away imaginary smoke from its muzzle like a secret agent in a movie.

  “You’d think a bread gun would be harder to make. But damp bread is easy to shape.” I sighed. “If only it hadn’t dropped crumbs while I was posing with it.”

  “You gathered a big crowd of ducks. All those cute little ducklings.”

  “The ducklings only made the later photos seem worse.” I’d worn a skin-tight black body suit like a comic book villain, and hammed it up with my bread gun while the ducks crowded around.

  “What was that caption?” She grinned. “Time to quack down some carbs, mother duckers.” She drawled it just like I’d imagined when I wrote it. At the time, I’d thought it was hilarious. Now it just made me cringe.

  “It was supposed to be a tongue-in-cheek send up of low-carb diets. The whole point was to link to nutritional information, and the only reason to add funny photos was so more people would click through.”

  My mystery hacker had decided to punish me for supposedly threatening ducks by hijacking my platform to raise awareness of duck cruelty. They’d taken over my account and altered the pictures so it looked like I was pointing the bread gun at ducks that had actually been slaughtered. And the dead ducks the hacker had added to the photos were a critically endangered breed.

  “I know you were hacked.” Nat reached over to pat my shoulder. “Even if nobody else believes you.”

  “Thanks, Nat.” I took a deep breath, willing myself to let the stress go. “Anyway, let’s change the subject. Tell me why the café’s so quiet?”

  She grimaced. “Let’s not talk about that either. Mack’s Place is my dead duck.”

  “Before we drop the subject, is there anything I can do to help? Nudity included.”

  “Thanks, but I’m pinning my hopes on somebody buying the café and taking it off my hands.”

  “I’m sure the right buyer will come along.” I tried to sound confident. “In the meantime, how’s your writing going? Have you finished your novel? Can I read it?”

  A car had pulled up outside and was discharging a load of elderly ladies. They were chattering nonstop, all dressed in matching pink shirts with ViaGranny embroidered on their front pockets.

  I blinked at them.

  Ten years since I’d left town and the ViaGranny Gang were still hanging out together, and by the looks of things, as rowdy as ever. Their name was a combination of Viagra and Granny, and I’d heard they offered stamina-enhancing pills to any potential—probably elderly—male lover who might catch their eye.

  The grannies were too busy chattering to notice me, and I wasn’t sure they would have recognized me anyway. But when Nat saw they were bustling into the café, she jumped up. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she promised, heading inside after them.

  While I waited for her to serve the ViaGranny Gang with coffee and cakes, I pulled out my phone, searching for the photo I’d taken this morning. Xul had decided to sleep with me, and I’d woken up with his butt in my face. I’d reached for my phone without disturbing him, and snapped a picture while giving the camera a groggy smile over his hind legs. My bed hair was crazy, I had sleep in my eyes, and some dried drool in the corner of my mouth. But that was all part of my ongoing campaign against unrealistic retouched photos damaging the confidence of real-life women.

  I typed in a caption. Woke up at Mom’s house, praying her dog doesn’t fart. #RealisBeautiful #LottaLaughs #SanDante

  With one eye screwed shut and the other only half open, I took a deep breath and posted the picture, putting my phone down afterward before I accidentally read any nasty comments.

  I believed in what I was doing, so I’d keep going without sponsorship. But it would be a lot harder if I couldn’t fix this. Before the duck pictures, I’d partnered with some amazing companies promoting body confidence. Now they’d canceled their contracts and distanced themselves from me. They didn’t even want me linking to their websites.

  “Sorry.” Nat sat back down next to me. “We may not get to talk much because my chef hasn’t turned up. Again.” She looked around, checking the grannies had settled into their chairs.

  “You want me to help out in the café?”

  Her eyes widened and she shook her head so firmly I worried she’d get whiplash. “I follow you online, remember. I’ve seen photographic evidence of your kitchen disasters.”

  I wrinkled my nose at her. “You can’t cook either.”

  “Which is why I hire a chef, so I can stick to making coffee.”

  “Wait,” I said, remembering something. “Didn’t Kade Lennox used to work here?” Then I blinked, the full memory coming back. “Oh, wait, that’s right. Didn’t you date him?”

  I’d been in LA, busy with acting classes, when Nat had messaged me to say she’d hooked up with Mason’s brother.

  She nodded. “We went out for a little while. Is it weird you dated his brother?”

  It was totally weird, but I shook my head because that’s what friends do. “Not weird at all. What’s strange is that I only got back to town yesterday, and I’ve already run into Mason.” I grimaced. “He irks me.” That was an understatement, but the most annoying thing was how Mason had taken up residence in my head.

  “Really?” She raised her eyebrows. “You must be the only woman in existence who’s ever had a negative reaction to one of the Lennox brothers.”

  “It’s his eyes. They’re like ice one minute and on fire the next.”

  “He looks at you and his eyes light up?” She leaned forward. “You think he’s still got a thing for you?”

  I snorted. “Who cares? He’s a bumbaclot.”

  “What’s a bumbaclot?”

  “No idea. But Mom shouted it at Mason’s father, so it must be insulting.”

  A businessman strode into the café and Nat jumped out of her chair. “I’d better go and serve him.”

  “And I’d better take Xul home.”

  “I’ll see you later.” Nat snapped her fingers, her face brightening. “Hey, I’ve been invited to a party tonight. Want to come with?”

  “What kind of party?”

  “At one of th
e oceanfront houses. Probably be swarming with pretentious twatwaffles. Lots of opportunity to trip over your own feet and make a fool of yourself.”

  I grinned. “Sounds like a plan. I’m in.”

  Chapter Four

  Mason

  I was sitting by the window in one of the large spare bedrooms in my brother’s oceanfront home. Looking through my camera’s viewfinder, I focused its long zoom lens to snap photos of the guests mingling around his neighbor’s swimming pool.

  The house next door was brightly lit, but I was sitting in the dark with just a small, dim lamp by my side. My eyes had adjusted well enough to the gloom that I could make notes in my notebook.

  Asher’s cat was asleep on the bed I’d pushed to the far side of the room. Nemesis was a sleek black cat with startling yellow eyes and a disconcerting level of intelligence. Much like Asher himself, though my brother’s eyes were dark gray.

  I was alone in Asher’s house.

  Or rather, I was supposed to be alone. But straining my ears, I caught the soft, barely-there creak of floorboards.

  Somebody was creeping in quietly, trying not to be heard. In fact, their footfalls were so quiet and careful, they must have taken off their shoes.

  They were trying to sneak up on me.

  “Hi Asher,” I said without turning around.

  The soft sound stopped.

  “I was trying to surprise you,” my brother complained good-naturedly. “You must have ears like a bat.”

  I lowered the camera. Asher had the darkest hair and eyes of anyone in my family, and he usually dressed to match. Tonight he was wearing a dark gray suit with no tie, and blended into the shadows as well as any cat burglar.

  “It’s my job to sniff out miscreants who are up to no good,” I told him.

  “I’ve never been called a miscreant before. I like the way it sounds.” Asher crossed soundlessly to the bed and unbuttoned his jacket before sinking down next to Nemesis. He leaned back with a sigh, stroking the cat, who looked up and yawned before settling back to sleep.

  I frowned. Though my brother’s tone was light, the heaviness of his sigh told a different story.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Long day, that’s all. I’m going to sit here and enjoy the darkness for a moment, then I’ll grab us a couple of beers.”

  “No beer for me. I’m working.”

  “The local guys have gone for the night?”

  When Asher had called me with suspicions about his neighbor, I’d notified local law enforcement, and asked them to set up a surveillance operation. With a small player like Santino, I’d usually just leave the bust to the locals, but with Asher right next door I’d stepped in to make sure it went down without a hitch.

  The local team were pleased when I volunteered to work with them, seeing as I’d spent the last six years inside the Medea drug cartel and knew how it operated. And when I’d discovered Santino was connected to a cartel member I had a personal beef with, I was glad I’d gotten involved.

  “I volunteered for the late shift and sent the rest of the team to get some sleep,” I told Asher. “Seeing as I’m the one who can identify any cartel members if they show up to Santino’s party.”

  Asher glanced through the window at his neighbor’s house. The crowd was clearly visible around the swimming pool, and a loud bass beat punctuated the sound of talking and laughing.

  “Anything interesting happening?” he asked.

  “Four-Finger-Frankie is one of the guests.”

  “Let me see.” Asher took the binoculars and peered through them.

  “He’s wearing a blue shirt, talking to Santino.”

  Though we’d last seen Frankie over a dozen years ago, neither of us would be likely to forget the face of the sleazebag who’d sold drugs to our mother. He was too small a fish in the Medea cartel to have been caught when we took down the sharks, but I couldn’t wait for him to join them behind bars. The idea of getting some form of justice for what Mom and my brothers had suffered was what had motivated me to become a DEA agent in the first place, and the reason I’d agreed to go undercover.

  “When do you get to make arrests?” asked Asher.

  “First we need to find out how Santino’s bringing in shipments, and who he distributes to. We want to catch him in the act.”

  Turning back to the window, I snapped off some photos of Frankie and Santino talking to each other.

  Four-Finger-Frankie was in his late fifties, bald as a baseball, but with a thick gray beard. He was a violent, low-ranked hood with delusions of grandeur. Rumor was he’d lost the pinkie finger on his left hand when he’d pissed off the wrong gangster. But if that were really the price he’d paid for being an asshole, it was a miracle he still had the rest of his digits.

  Santino was a whole different category of bad guy. In his early thirties, about my age, he’d apparently paid cash for the house next to Asher’s. It had been built a few decades ago, around the same time as Asher’s, so it was a little dated. But beachfront properties in any condition didn’t come cheap.

  Santino looked more like an up-and-coming entrepreneur than a drug dealer. He wore an expensive-looking suit and chunky gold rings, and had a short, dark beard. He owned a local importing business that made only a fraction of the money he liked to flash around, but compared to Frankie he was smooth and discreet.

  Four-Finger-Frankie was a thug, while Slick Santino pulled the strings.

  I took more photos of Frankie as he headed to the area behind the pool where a bar had been set up, complete with bartenders to serve the guests champagne and fancy cocktails. The house was crowded, with rich, well-groomed men and women packed around the pool area, talking, laughing, and drinking Santino’s booze. I recognized a few actors, one or two politicians, and a couple of trust fund wasters with a reputation for trashing expensive cars and hotel rooms. The party would most likely go all night.

  “I’m getting a beer.” Asher said. “Okay if I turn the light on in the kitchen?”

  “Just shut the door first.”

  As Asher walked away, I zoomed in on the crowd, noting two newcomers to the party. When they came into focus, my stomach took a dive.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “What is it?” Asher paused at the door.

  I didn’t answer because I was too busy swapping the camera for the binoculars, jamming them to my eyes to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

  Dimly I heard Asher walking back toward me, but most of my attention was focused through the binoculars. More specifically, I was focused on a woman in a silver dress, with shoulder-length hair.

  Her back was to me, but I didn’t need to see her face to recognize Carlotta. She had a distinctive figure, with her top half small and athletic, and her hips rounded and full. Her body looked sensational in a silver dress, and my binoculars focused themselves on her ass as though they had a mind of their own. I drank in the sight of her hips swaying as she moved.

  But what the hell was Carlotta Watson doing rubbing shoulders with drug dealers?

  Another woman was with Carlotta, and I recognized her too. Natalie had been Carlotta’s best friend in high school, and was currently running Mack’s Place, the café her family had owned for years.

  Carlotta turned toward me so I could see her face, and my breath caught. Dressed up for a party, she was so beautiful, I couldn’t do anything but stare.

  Lipstick made her lips look even fuller and plumper than usual. Even more kissable. Her hair framed her face in a silky waterfall, and her dress shimmered like liquid. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed, and all the lights around the swimming pool seemed to brighten.

  A man approached Carlotta, and my heart sank when I realized it was Santino.

  “What are you looking at?” Asher sounded close enough that he must be beside my chair. “Stop gaping and use your words.”

  “It’s Carlotta Watson and Natalie Williamson.”

  Asher let out a low whistle. “What are th
ey doing there?”

  “My question exactly.” I kept my gaze on Carlotta, scrutinizing her expression as she spoke to Santino.

  There was always an underlying softness to her face, as though a smile were her default expression and every other emotion needed more effort. But right now, her smile looked forced. Was she giving Santino the kind of polite greeting you’d give to a stranger? Or maybe that was wishful thinking, and I was just seeing what I hoped was true.

  “I didn’t even know Carlotta was back in town,” said Asher.

  “She just arrived.”

  “You think she’s one of Santino’s dealers?”

  I jerked the binoculars down to scowl at my brother. “Are you crazy?”

  “Not according to my shrink. When did you last see Carlotta?”

  “Yesterday, when I went to check on Dad.”

  “And before then?”

  “Not since high school.”

  “So you don’t know for sure she isn’t involved with the cartel?”

  He was right. I clenched my jaw, lifting the binoculars back to my eyes.

  Asher let out a sigh. “I’d better go over there.”

  “What?”

  “I’m inviting myself to Santino’s party so I can ask Natalie to leave.” Asher stayed as calm and matter-of-fact as always, even when my voice rose.

  “You can’t. What if Frankie recognizes you?”

  “Last time he saw me, I was fifteen. Besides, I doubt he even remembers Mom, let alone her kids.”

  “I can’t risk it.”

  Asher shrugged, already heading to the door. “You know how Kade feels about Natalie. If he discovered she’d walked into a den of criminals, he’d expect me to get her out.”

  Asher was right. Our brother Kade had fallen for Natalie years ago. They’d dated for a while, and though I had no idea why they’d split up, I was pretty sure Kade’s feelings for her hadn’t changed.

  If Kade were here, he’d insist we rescue Natalie from the party. And as Kade’s twin brother, Asher clearly felt it was his job to step in.

  “Don’t you dare blow my operation,” I growled at Asher’s back.

  My brother let out a loud breath that was his version of an eye roll. “Give me some credit.”