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shrugged out of his dark blue quilted FFD jacket as the waitress delivered Alex and Brennan’s beers, and he twirled his finger in a tight circle over the table as he put in an order to make the round complete. “So,” he said, commandeering the bar stool across from Brennan and next to Cole. “All kidding aside, the house is too quiet without your mouthy ass. What’s the word with this community service thing?”
    Alex rolled his eyes, suddenly grateful for the fresh beer in his hand. “The word is, the next four weeks are going to be an exercise in futility.”
    â€œYou’re actually going to do the whole four weeks?” Brennan’s dark brows winged upward, and as much as it burned, Alex met his buddy’s shock with a resigned nod.
    â€œDon’t get me wrong. I’m not planning on any circle-of-love transformations while I log my time. But as far as the community service goes, I don’t have a choice.” Christ, this whole thing was such a waste of time and resources. He should be out there fighting fires, not serving up dry sandwiches in some cafeteria line because that idiot McManus was suffering from a bruised ass and an ego to match. “I’ve got four weeks before I go in front of the fire chief for my review. Until then, it looks like the department has got me by the short and curlies. I either do this community service as penance, or I lose my job. And I’m not losing my job.”
    â€œYeah, but if you do the whole four weeks, you’re also not getting paid,” O’Keefe said. “That’s got to sting.”
    â€œI’m good there,” Alex replied, the words firing out just a little too fast. Ah, damn it. This situation was sideways enough without having to dig into the truth behind his statement. There were only three people at Eight who were privy to all of his sticky particulars, and Alex wasn’t about to bump the number higher, not even by one.
    He forced his shoulders into their loosest setting, dialing his expression up to damage control status. “I’ve got some scratch saved up from my part-time gig. It’ll last.”
    â€œRight. I forgot about that.” O’Keefe propped both forearms on the table, tilting his head as he thankfully switched gears. “Still. You spent all day at this soup kitchen place. You haven’t tried to sweet-talk the director into giving you a shorter assignment, maybe moving the whole thing along so you can get back in-house? This is you, after all.”
    An image of Zoe with her hands locked over her lush, denim-wrapped hips as she ran him in circles around Hope House’s kitchen ricocheted through Alex’s brain, and he barely managed to cough out a humorless laugh with his answer. “Uh, yeah, no. As much as I want to trim some time off my assignment, sweet-talking the director isn’t going to be a viable strategy.”
    Cole’s brows slid together, his gaze darkening in confusion under the low light of the bar. “Talking your way out of things is always your strategy. What’s so special about this director that makes her a game changer?”
    â€œWell, let’s see. For starters, her last name is Westin.”
    The stunned silence at the table lasted for a breath, then another, before O’Keefe finally broke it with a low whistle. “Ho-ly shit, Teflon. Zoe Westin is the director of Hope House’s soup kitchen? That’s the hush-hush project she came back home to work on?”
    Alex’s sip of beer went down way more sour than smooth, and he made a face to match. “Unfortunately, yes.”
    Cole frowned, and hell if it wasn’t the sentiment of the day. “Didn’t she land an apprenticeship with some high-profile chef or something last year? Why would she come back to Fairview to run a soup kitchen?”
    â€œI didn’t ask, and she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with her life’s details.