Free The One That Got Away by Leigh Himes

eyes made contact with his oak brown eyes, and I knew going into the house was inevitable, the same way I had known the night before, after just a few hours of talking, that I was going home with him.
    “Tell her that we met at lunch today,” I implored. “Don’t you dare tell her I met you last night.”
    “Right, okay, I’ll tell her I met you pounding shots at lunch,” he joked. “That’s definitely classier.”
    I laughed in spite of myself, then sighed.
I’ll never see this guy again,
I reasoned,
so I might as well enjoy a free meal.
I tucked my wrinkled work blouse into my skirt and stepped out of the truck.
    Four hours and four thousand calories later, I was enjoying myself as Jimmy’s one younger and two older brothers regaled me with tales of their hockey triumphs, their Catholic school misadventures, and their hundreds of adolescent fights. Jimmy’s adorable, auburn-haired mother, Jane, brought so many dishes out of her tiny kitchen, I wondered if more people were supposed to show up. There were enough clams, pasta, ham, green beans, potatoes, and rolls for the entire block.
    I didn’t say much, but I laughed the entire time: at Jimmy’s impersonation of their drunken uncle Seamus; at older brother Chris’s tales of selling telephone cable to mobsters in Atlantic City; and at father Miles’s Irish-brogued rendition of Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable.” For just an average Sunday night at six thirty, it was pretty rollicking, and certainly different from the silent, heat-and-serve meals my mother and I ate in front of
Entertainment Tonight
.
    All of the Lahey brothers were handsome in their own way, but Jimmy’s younger brother, Patrick, was just plain hot. Where Jimmy was more rounded out and soft-spoken—with thinning dark blond hair, warm brown eyes, and broad shoulders perfect for leaning on—Patrick was bad-boy handsome, with a wiry, muscular build, thick black hair, and an icy green gaze that suggested he knew exactly what was under your clothes. He also had several tattoos, rode a motorcycle, and tended bar, hitting the twentysomething-party-girl trifecta. To say he was good with the ladies was the understatement of the year, but to me, his brand of bad-boy sex appeal was a little scary. I knew just where that would lead. Jimmy was more comfortable, warmer, and, back then, really funny. Like that favorite sweater you look forward to wearing every fall.
    Luckily, Patrick never let on how drunk we were the night before, or that when I stumbled out with his brother after last call he was pretty sure what was going to happen. I guess it was a brothers’ code, or perhaps a bartender’s: never kick a gift one-night stand in the mouth. And never deny your poor daughterless mother the chance for female company, even if she might never see the young lady in question again.
    Not that Jimmy’s mother ever acted as if I was anything less than a formally invited guest. Despite having just met me a few hours earlier, she laughed at all my jokes, asked me lots of questions about work, and insisted I take the first piece of homemade key lime pie.
    After several hours and an after-dinner Irish coffee, I realized I’d better get back home, and we said our good-byes. I don’t know if it was the booze, the stories, the Nat King Cole, or the carbohydrates, but by the time we’d climbed back in the truck and started making out over old coffee cups and the parking brake, I knew I was in love.
    When I heard my name this time—“Mrs. van Holt?”—I answered readily. It was yet another server, touching me on the arm and pointing to Alex, who was waving me over. He was standing beside a handsome young couple, one of the few here under forty, and perhaps friends of ours. I couldn’t do it, though. If I made any more missteps, he would be suspicious, and I couldn’t risk him getting worried and sending me back to the hospital. I held up my finger to indicate I needed a minute, then went in search of a