Talk Flirty to Me

For Corey, who carries me through, and Rochele, whose fingerprints are on every page.

Chapter One

Piper

It’s not too late to bail.

In fact, I probably should. My bank account would thank me. If I wasn’t rocking a full face of makeup that took twenty minutes to apply and the finest jeans Target sells, I’d probably get right back in the car and drive my denim-wrapped ass home.

Instead, I pace the sidewalk outside McLaughlin’s Irish Pub, peering up at the flickering neon sign, questioning my choices. After college, I swore off dive bars. All bars, really, unless they have a full food menu.

But I hadn’t yet been forced to move back into my childhood home with my nine rowdy brothers when I made that commitment. I wasn’t a perma-babysitter for my pregnant mother back then, didn’t have student loan collectors blowing up my phone, and still had single friends to hang with.

My reality is different now. Dive bars are back on the table, as a means for escape.

After spending a rowdy Saturday with my family, an escape is exactly what I need. The recreational pickings in Roseborough, Massachusetts, are slim at nine p.m., so it was either get in my car and drive to McLaughlin’s or get in my car and drive off a cliff.

I drag the last remnants of Ruby Woo Matte across my lips, then push open the door. Warm air immediately spills from the building, and familiarity envelops me. I bump into a couple sucking face and apologize under my breath as I hurry past, keeping my head down.

Avoiding ghosts of my past is why I’ve steered clear of Roseborough’s downtown strip since moving home. No need to risk running into someone I don’t want to see, someone who knew me when I rocked scorned-girl bangs and tragically distressed jeans my Nonna called unbecoming.

Joke’s on Nonna. Unbecoming was my goal, just not in the way she meant it. After my life in Roseborough took a turn for the pathetic toward the end of high school and everything fell apart, I wanted to unbecome everything I was.

Six years away in the city helped with that.

I maneuver through the dense crowd. Contrary to my highly specific nightmares, I’m not immediately accosted by people I went to high school with. Victory.

My gaze seeks my favorite chair. Close enough to the fireplace to benefit from the warmth, but far enough that the steady stream of heat doesn’t overwhelm. The perfect spot to unwind after the chaos at home.

Except, as the crowd parts, I discover a broad-shouldered man in a knitted Bruins beanie beat me to the punch. After a quick scan, the open chair to his left is the only free spot left in the whole place.

That’ll do. As it happens, men who look like they could break me in half are just my type.

I pull my cardigan across my chest as I weave between full high-top tables. My shoulders relax with each unfamiliar person I pass. Anonymity with a side of alcohol—the perfect remedies for a hectic day. The whir of color and noise from a big-screen TV playing the Bruins-Canadiens game catches my attention as I close in on my spot.

The bar erupts in a tide of sports-fueled celebration the exact moment I grasp the worn edge of the wooden chair. An elbow—no, an entire muscular arm—rams into me as the beanie-clad man jumps to his feet, whooping at a scored hockey goal. The force sends me sailing into the nebulous lap region of the man on my left.

Whoa, sorry! I scramble to my feet, setting my sights on the assailant as I rub the tender spot on my arm. Easy does it, Captain Bowflex.

The man whose lap I’ve vacated slides his arm across my lower back. Former Army, sweetie. These guns are locked and loaded.

I squirm from his touch. Not you. I jab my finger into Captain Bowflex’s dense shoulder. "You. The guy who knocked me over."

Bowflex eyes my finger, as though a fly has landed on his shoulder. My apologies, ma’am… His voice trails away as his eyes meet mine, and the concern melts off his face. "Piper?"

My stomach vaults into my throat. The ambient bar noise fades away until my heartbeat thunders in my ears. Eyes the color of celery pin me in place. A sea of memories floods me so hard and fast I need a lifeboat. Maybe an ark.

Sam.

Or, as my friends in the city refer to him, Hefty. Because they think he’s trash for what he did to me.

Piper, he repeats. What are you doing here?

Even in dim lighting his eyes are bright and tinged with mischief, a sparkler left burning until it singes fingertips. Features once round and boyish are now a case study in lines and angles.

I glance down at my plain black boots, up at waterlogged ceiling panels, anywhere but at my ex-boyfriend as I consider nose-diving behind the bar to escape his line of sight. My heel scratches across the floor as I slide a step back. I’d be all right with a trapdoor straight to the underworld if it meant escape.

Dread lodges in my stomach as he slides off his beanie and runs a hand through his jet-black hair. I drag my gaze to his. Evening, Sam. I see you’re…still alive.

The corner of his mouth turns up. Try and contain your excitement. This is a public place.

My lips twist into a grimace. Excitement is not the correct descriptor for the dread and confusion swirling in my gut. How did I not immediately recognize him? Why did the last few years darken his hair and gift him toned muscles? The only thing the last few years bestowed upon me was debt.

God, as ever, is a comedian.

Is this guy bothering you? asks Army Dude, who I had all but forgotten existed until his breath puffs against my face. I recoil at the heavy scent of booze.

Am I? Sam asks, cocking his head to the side. The intensity of his stare feels an awful lot like a challenge. Or a trap.

I don’t blink. Sam doesn’t blink. The only movement between us is the methodical drumming of my fingers against my thighs as I weigh my options. I’m not here to make a scene, but man would I love to give Sam hell right now.

Trapped between a rock and a hard place—two things that adequately describe Sam’s chest in my face—I choose the familiar foe. No, Sam. You’re not bothering me. Yet.

Army Dude returns to his beer, and Sam plops down in his seat with a smirk. I drag out my own chair and force myself to sit down.

God, how long’s it been? Sam asks, coiling his hand around a half-empty pint glass.

This feels like another trap. The last time I was forced to endure Sam O’Shea for an extended period following our breakup was the Hamilton High School Annual Scavenger Hunt. He was a wild senior, and I a tortured junior. He ruined the whole night, and I nearly got him banned from the Catholic church. Many people cope with a breakup by lighting their ex’s pictures on fire. I filmed Sam in his drunkest, poorest form as he vomited in a confessional booth at Saint Mary’s, uploaded it on every platform, and tagged everyone we knew.

A digital effigy. Whoops.

It’s been about seven years since that video went viral, and there’s no way he’s forgotten. I peek over and find that he’s half smiling as he waits for my answer, eyes twinkling.

He knows exactly how long it’s been, but I’m not taking his bait. Oh, who can say?

He lifts a hand to get the bartender’s attention, and I’m hit by his elbow, again.

Please try to contain that, I snap.

Contain what?

I gesture broadly at his well-defined arm. All of…that. The whole thing. Keep it in your area.

He peeks down at his bulky Popeye bicep and back up at my face before letting out a smug little laugh. Fine. He raises his arm so slowly I can barely stand to watch. Let me buy you a drink.

No thanks.

My treat.

I am almost thawed by the gesture—the tip of my iceberg slightly sweating—when he adds, "I mean look how busy the bartender is. It’d be rude to make him start another tab."

At this point, retreating to my house and watching my giant, Cheaper-by-the-Dozen family demolish a full sheet of ice cream cake doesn’t sound so bad. I wanted something to take my mind off my familial stress, yet here I am, bickering with the star of my teenage diary.

I chew the inside of my cheek, seesawing between the external chaos of my siblings and the internal chaos of being this close to my ex-boyfriend after years of pretending he didn’t exist. I’m in purgatory, but instead of a cloudy holding tank outside of pearly gates, it’s a bar full of fully cocked dudebros in hockey jerseys.

But at least in this purgatory, no one needs anything from me. There are no dishes to be washed or brothers to wrangle. No dinner leftovers to scrape off the linoleum.

This purgatory has beer.

I hang my purse off the back of my chair and shrug out of my cardigan. Fine. One drink, because I’m already here and my house is a zoo.

You got it.

I side-eye Sam’s fitted jeans, clean white shirt, and the conspicuously formal black peacoat slung over the back of his chair as we wait for our turn to order. Last time I saw him he sported a gnarly old hoodie, basketball shorts, and knee-high socks. Apparently, he’s graduated to adult clothing. I look forward to never validating him on his glow-up. Are you waiting for a date or something? Far be it from me to squat in their seat.

A date? He snorts. You think I bring my dates to McLaughlin’s?

I narrow my eyes. My mistake. I’m sure you’ve long cleared the townie roster, so who would be left?

A laugh-wheeze escapes his mouth. Guess I’ll update my Tinder location to Waltham, then.

Happy catfishing.

No, I’m not waiting for anyone. He stretches his neck slowly from side to side, as though preparing for a workout. How about I buy you one of those Amaretto Sours you love so much?

I try to say Amaretto Sours and since when? in the same irritated breath but wind up sputtering something vaguely resembling am ass as the bartender materializes in front of us.

What’ll you have? he asks, snagging Sam’s empty glass.

Sam rubs his chin, eyeing the tap. Let’s go with a Blue Moon—

I’ll have one as well, I interject before he adds anything undesirable to the order.

Sam snaps his mouth shut as the bartender, a burly Chuck Norris clone with tattoos winding around his forearms, nods and reaches below the bar for two clean pint glasses. He takes turns filling them from the same tap before depositing both on napkins in front of us. The amber liquid glows beneath a low-hanging pendant light.

I reach for a glass. I didn’t know you liked Blue Moon.

He slides both in my direction, his expression cryptic. I don’t. But you do.

Oh.

A blush breaks out, bringing heat to my cheeks. He remembered my favorite beer. I didn’t realize you were ordering for me. Thanks. I slide one back to him before adding, I don’t need two drinks.

He slides it back, smiling just enough to flash one dimple. Don’t you, though?

I take a long swig, mostly to end this game of pint-glass shuffleboard. The glass thuds against the bar when I set it down. He orders himself a Guinness before the bartender has a chance to escape.

The crowd around us grows progressively rowdier with two goals in as many minutes. The noise gives me something to focus on other than my proximity to Sam’s body as he toys with his glass. His hand keeps inching closer as though it has a mind of its own, like Thing from The Addams Family.

Personal space! I finally cry when his wrist brushes mine. Sports may have him hypnotized, but I’m still well aware of my limbs. Forget it. I’ll move over.

He drags his attention from the TV when I start squirming in my seat. What are you doing?

I’m scooting.

He leans in, and I’m hit with the familiar scent of Acqua Di Gio. It’s like being struck by the memory train at full speed. You’re going to end up in your new friend’s lap again if you scoot any farther.

"Only if you push me there. Again."

If you’re looking for a wingman, you should have said so. His voice—husky and engaging—stokes a dangerous sense of familiarity. It’s a reminder of how quickly his charm can penetrate the defenseless.

Very funny. I reach for both pints and slide them toward my chest, cradling them like precious babies.

He plants an elbow on the bar and shifts his torso toward me. His cheek comes to rest against his knuckles. So, you’re back permanently? Caleb mentioned it.

I turn over his question, examining it in parts.

Other than my brother’s text warning that he and Sam reconciled a year ago, Caleb and I do not talk about Sam. I’ve lived in town for two months and have asked zero questions, and my brother has offered no information. The state of their friendship is none of my business—and that’s where it needs to stay.

Guilt flares in my gut. Best friends isn’t enough to encompass what they were back in the day. Brothers was more like it. Caleb has always been responsible for me and our siblings, but he got to be fun and carefree with Sam. Their escapades, from sweet-talking their way out of speeding tickets to charming their way into free Bruins seats, were the stuff of legend at our high school.

My and Sam’s ugly breakup nearly destroyed their friendship for good. They didn’t talk for years because of it.

Because of me.

I shuffle the pints of beer in front of me. Permanently is a stretch, but I’m back for a while. I peek sideways and catch his eye. "Did Caleb have anything else to report on the topic of my life?" I don’t know exactly where they stand now—the less I know about their rekindled bromance, the better—but I need to know if my brother is breaking the unspoken agreement to keep the me- and Sam-shaped parts of his life separate.

His expression is cryptic. That was the gist.

So they have talked about me.

Equal parts panic and curiosity swell in my chest, and I unsuccessfully try to smash them down. After the breakup, I saw a withdrawn side of Caleb that was not only painful to witness but entirely my fault. In case the pain of my soul-crushing breakup with Sam wasn’t bad enough, I had a chronic case of sibling guilt to go along with it because, as my brother, Caleb was forced to take my side. Setting him up with his now wife was the closest I’ve ever come to righting that cosmic wrong.

Did he and Sam pick up where they left off, or did years apart change things irrevocably?

I mentally shake myself. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that kind of pain never happens again, to me or to Caleb. And that starts by staying the hell away from Sam O’Shea. No being curious about what he’s up to, no fishing for information from my brother, and definitely no asking questions that will lead to a longer conversation. In fact, I should relocate to the other side of the bar immediately.

I pause in the act of gathering my stuff. Who started that conversation about me—him or Caleb? The thought of my name in Sam’s mouth makes the inside of my face itch.

That’s the gist.

What else did my bigmouthed brother have to say? Why is he breaking our Fight Club Rule One that states you do not talk about Piper to Sam and vice versa, designed specifically to avoid fights? Just how chummy are they nowadays? Should I be worried? If they’re super close, there’s no way I’ll be able to evade him completely.

Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t—

So, what, you two are still thriving, then? Besties for the resties?

Damn it, Piper.

Chapter Two

Piper

I immediately want to hurl myself into the mass of rowdy hockey fans. What am I doing? Engaging Sam in conversation is not a good idea. Ever.

A sideways tilt of his head suggests he’s as confused by my attempt to start a conversation as I am. Or he doesn’t want to answer.

Probably for the best.

Never mind. I force an indifferent shrug. None of my business.

You’re asking if Caleb and I are good?

Fly, meet sticky paper. I may die in this trap I set for myself. Sure. I guess. Whatever.

He taps the rim of his glass. We don’t talk as often as I’d like, since we’re on different schedules, but yes. His lips threaten a smile. Thriving. We’ve got tickets to see the Sox in a few weeks. Fantastic seats.

He seems content to sip his drink and stare at me, so I do the same, attempting to merge my memories of him with what I see. His hair is short on the sides and longer on top, tidier than what High School Sam used to sport. The top shines with product, a new addition to his style repertoire. It tames the waves, and I sort of hate it. His face is clean-shaven, and there’s a frustrating amount of symmetry happening in his features. He could do with a broken nose or a scorched brow.

Since Caleb and I specifically do not discuss Sam, per Fight Club Rule One, I’m left to assume he’s landed some vaguely corporate job along with a gym membership. When we broke up, he was a few months out from starting college and undecided on a major. If I was a betting woman, I’d bet his smile is plastered on a bus bench ad somewhere. Ready for financial freedom? O’Shea is the O’Way!

I wander back to my original point. Glad you’re finding time to bond, what with your schedules and all. Caleb’s up all hours of the night with an infant and you’re—I look him up and down, brows furrowed—a financial advisor?

He eyes me a beat too long. "You really have no idea what I do? Caleb’s never mentioned it?"

Right. Because my brother regularly takes time out of his schedule to send me unsolicited updates about my ex’s career. If Caleb had it his way, I’d forget Sam existed. Or better yet, I never would’ve met him in the first place.

Can’t say I disagree. Life would’ve been simpler for everyone.

Real estate? I press on, shifting in my seat.

In a manner of speaking.

I roll my eyes. What’s that mean?

I’m a firefighter. I see a lot of real estate. Most houses are stripped down to the studs by the time we get there, mind you, but some retain their curb appeal.

I blink. Is that a joke?

Depends. Did you find it funny?

I don’t know, I hedge, stifling a laugh. It unsettles me that his humor still hits the spot. He always did know how to toe the line between too far and just enough.

That tracks. He chuckles into the rim of his beer, fogging the glass. Decision-making has never been your strong suit, has it?

My tongue pushes against the roof of my mouth, trapping my rebuttal in my throat. What an ass. I reach into the pocket of my jeans and pull out my debit card, sliding it across the bar top. I’m not doing this with you.

Was it something I said? Sam asks, his eyes flashing mingled innocence and mirth.

I just emerged from three straight days of preparing casseroles and desserts for this weekend. Enough to feed my siblings, my parents, their friends, assorted cousins, aunts, uncles, and everyone they’ve ever shared a pack of gum with. My battery is drained. I’m not sure how much verbal tennis I can handle tonight.

He points his finger like he’s about to accuse me of something, floats it over the debit card, and presses down on the Bank of America logo. The plastic scrapes against the bar top as he drags it to the edge. Why don’t I keep this safe for you until it’s time to go?

I snatch the card and slam it down next to my glass. That won’t be necessary.

Three days of prep, he says, ignoring my discomfort. Almost forgot about Bonanza weekend. No one does birthdays like the Bellinis. Your family parties are always more packed than an Olive Garden.

He’s not wrong. Our annual Bellini Birthday Bonanza—a weekend filled with meals and birthday shenanigans to celebrate the strange coincidence of three May first birthdays in one family. Yeah, this weekend is always off the chain. My whole family and Aunt Dawn’s clan. Plus, I’m pretty sure Dad invited a few of his coworkers, too. His staff loves sucking up to him, so I’m sure they’ll come.

Principal Bellini and his adoring fans, he remarks with a tilt of his pint glass in my direction. Your dad’s done a lot for the school. High school principals don’t get enough respect for how demanding the job is.

My mouth opens and closes. I can’t argue with his response, nor do I know what to do with the reminder that Sam’s old enough to spew trite (and true) sentiments about high school. None of this computes. He was nineteen and shotgunning cans of Natty Ice, last I checked.

A peek from the corner of my eye reminds me this is no longer the case. He’s consuming his beer in a surprisingly restrained way, no slurping, his lips fastened on the top of the glass instead of plugging a jagged hole he stabbed in the side.

I clear my throat. Giovanni Bellini is good people.

That he is. So what do you do for work?

I let out a bit of air at this question. Is this ‘catching up’ square dance necessary?

I showed you mine, he reminds me, his eyes alight.

Fine. I work in the entertainment industry.

He snorts. "The entertainment industry? And you moved back here? If this is the new Hollywood, I need to get the hell out."

Relax, Hallmark. Your little New England suburb ain’t all that.

"My suburb? Seems you’ve forgotten you lived here for—he brandishes his wrist to check his watch—two-thirds of your life."

As if I needed the reminder. I moved back here specifically because my mother’s pregnant, which I’m sure Caleb mentioned to you. With her on the city council and Dad working more than ever before, they could use a little help managing it all.

Kid number eleven, he says with a low whistle.

I like to think his subdued tone is his way of demonstrating reverence for the miracle of pregnancy, but he’s probably just terrified it’s contagious. Right. Anyway, it’s a temporary arrangement. After the baby is born, Mom gets her bearings, and the rest of the kids adjust, I’ll be on my merry way.

I say this as much for myself as for him, a commitment to getting my own place as soon as possible. No need to mention it financially behooves me to live at home as I try to build my voice-acting portfolio. My student loan debt would bring a boomer to tears.

Well, congratulations on the baby. Exciting news for the Bellini clan, he offers.

I— Thanks? I’ve never been congratulated on someone else’s pregnancy before, but he sounds more sincere than usual. Though it doesn’t take much to accomplish that, given he’s otherwise radiating snark.

Entertainment industry, he murmurs, the skin around his hazy, fern-colored eyes crinkling. That’s the last thing I expected you to say. Teacher? Now that would make sense, given… He gestures between the thick, messy bun on top of my head and the cardigan hanging limply off the chair as a means of explanation. "Or, better yet, a social media manager, since you seemed to enjoy it when your video of me went viral. But entertainment…interesting."

Hairs prickle on the back of my neck. Do you have a point, O’Shea?

He shrugs two broad shoulders. I just never would have guessed.

My credit card lays ignored on the bar top, shackling me to this conversation. I sip my beer once. I’m a voice actress. It’s interesting and fulfilling work. Am I not someone who would enjoy interesting and fulfilling work?

We all have our calling in life. Calling…phone…voice… There’s a voice-acting joke in there somewhere.

Bartender! I raise my hand.

Sam reaches over and lowers it to the bar like he’s cranking a slot machine. I’m messing with you, Piper. The job sounds cool. And I told you, the drinks are my treat.

I’m about to inform him that treat is too strong a word when he changes course. "That does clear up something I’ve been wondering."

I watch two red-and-blue-clad hockey players collide on the nearest TV screen. Oh yeah?

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. A few keystrokes later, my face fills his screen. Stumbled across this sometime last year. I see why you’ve made a career of this. The talent jumps out.

Mouth agape, I turn to him. He is a ball of pure, unbridled glee as my emotions cycle through embarrassment, anger, and irritation. His hands tent together like a cartoon villain’s.

My eyes narrow. "How do you stumble across my YouTube makeup tutorial from three years ago?"

His smirking face is supremely punchable. Algorithms are a funny thing. I guess YouTube thought I’d enjoy a Boston content creator. We support our own.

I mute the phone, silencing my ramble about the merits of eyeshadow primer. YouTube tutorials aren’t the same as voice acting.

"I mean…you were talking. You used your voice. And unless you really love blush, there was an element of acting. So much excitement over the shade. Orgasm, was it?" His eyes twinkle.

I tap my glossy bottom lip. Yes, Orgasm by Nars is a popular blush. What an oddly specific thing for you to remember from a video you caught in passing. Also, the blush part comes last. You watched a fifteen-minute video of me applying makeup?

He plucks his phone from the bar and slides it into his pocket with a gentle shake of his head. His lack of response is perhaps the best response of all.

I want to revel in the victory of rendering him speechless, but the idea of him not only watching my video but also remembering key details upsets my understanding of the space-time continuum a little. I swirl my glass, considering the admission’s implications. We don’t keep tabs on each other. That’s not a thing we do.

Is it?

His silence is short-lived. He crosses his arms, and I catch the sheen of a dark red scar circling his right wrist. Your YouTube videos really have nothing to do with your job?

You assume there’s more than one?

His exhale is a huff. We’ve established I saw your channel.

It’s all related. Voice acting, like everything these days, is about building your brand. It’s not enough to have a compelling and versatile sound. If you want to be successful in the type of voice acting I’m interested in, you have to look good doing it. They film voice actors in the studio and use the footage for publicity and publishers’ YouTube channels. We’re selling ourselves like any other actor, headshots and all. So my channel is just another way to brand myself.

He waits a few seconds before responding. And how’s the Piper Bellini brand working out for you? Are you booked and busy?

I purse my lips. The truth would curb stomp this conversation. My work schedule has been a barren wasteland since I wrapped a project last December, but the idea of telling Sam makes me shame-sweat. My turn to ask questions. A firefighter? After swearing up and down you’d never give your dad the satisfaction?

He shifts positions and catches my eye. I know this might be hard for you to believe, but people can change their minds, Piper.

Mingled irritation and curiosity surge through me as I hold his gaze long enough to challenge him back. Why would that be hard for me to believe?

His voice pitches low—almost too low for this loud bar. Because you’re still as angry at me today as you were seven years ago.

My stomach churns, but I don’t even have time to respond because he immediately turns away and raises an arm to get the bartender’s attention. Can I get a cup of beer-cheese soup? And whatever the lady wants.

I don’t want— I’m not angry with you, that’s—

I snap my mouth shut. This conversation is like a dog off a leash, quickly escaping me. I thought I buried frazzled, reactive Piper in college, yet it seems he has revived her. And for what? Bar banter?

The bartender bounces on the balls of his feet, glancing over his shoulder at the computer. Dewar’s. Neat, I add hastily.

Sam’s eyebrows climb. "Scotch? When you could have soup?"

So?

I’m impressed, is all.

Lucky me, I mumble as the bartender’s tattooed arm pours my poison into a tumbler and passes it over.

I close my eyes and throw back a sip. Maybe if I funnel my focus on the warm liquid sliding down my throat, I can effectively drown out my other senses. Sensory deprivation. Sam deprivation.

Is that your phone, Pipes?

His voice jerks me back to attention. My phone. In the upheaval of running into him, I almost forgot I’d promised myself I wouldn’t check the job board for five full hours. The alarm beeps to congratulate my restraint.

I yank my phone from my purse and navigate to the VOICE-FX website—saved as a shortcut on my home screen for obsessive revisiting—to scan for new opportunities. I drink it all in, orienting myself to the influx of new posts, from both job seekers and those looking to hire.

Sam leans toward me. Found yourself a Tinder date?

I jerk my phone to the side. Work stuff, thank you very much.

Nice of him to assume I’m single. I mean, I am, but it’s not like I’m advertising that fact.

I refocus on the job listings and try not to let disappointment play out on my face as I check my personal stats. My Seeking Opportunities post from this morning has zero bids or