The Way We Touch: or Wrangling the Wide Receiver (The Bradford Boys)

“Girl, you’d better wash your hands with mayonnaise.” My lifelong bestie Craig stands at my shoulder, watching as I carefully grate a small amount of ghost pepper into a glass bowl. “Olive oil. Lard.”

“I have coconut oil.” My voice is quiet, focused. “I only need a little bit for the recipe.”

“Don’t touch your eyes or your nose or your… you know.” He tips his chin in the direction of my crotch, then takes a step back, holding a damp washcloth at the level of his eyes. “Or me.”

I lean forward with a silent laugh before raising my gloved hands like a monster. “Craaaaig…” I make crazy eyes. “I’m going to keeel you…”

He hops back, letting out a squeal, and I snort. Then I almost drop the dangerous fruit, which makes me squeal.

“Stop distracting me! This is delicate work.”

“I had nothing to do with whatever that was.” He flicks his wrist, rounding the bar. “Threatening my life with a pepper.”

Craig and I have been thick as thieves since his family moved from Mobile to the house across the street when we were kids. We bonded instantly, playing Barbie vs Bratz together every day after school. I had a Nutcracker Barbie, while he preferred the feisty Yasmin. She reminded him of a drag queen, and he’s always been ready to play dress up.

My aunt Thelma, who took over long-distance parenting from Birmingham after my mom died, said Bratz dolls were “inappropriate”—whatever that means—and she would send me a new American Girl doll every year for my birthday.

It was the only time Barbie and Yasmin joined forces to take down the giant with the weird eyes. Then they’d go on “safari” together, which meant we’d take them into the backyard, and then they’d return to changing outfits and ignoring Ken.

“That pepper’s going to get you in trouble.” Craig tucks his nose and mouth behind his shoulder as he finishes wiping down the counter.

We’re prepping for the lunch crowd at Cooters & Shooters, my family’s bayside bar and restaurant. Our dad named it, and our mom got the biggest kick out of it.

I was too little to understand why my brothers all stared wide-eyed at him. It took Garrett asking why the restaurant was named after a girl’s coochie for my dad to explain the original definition of the word.

A cooter is a large, aquatic turtle. Dad said you had your river cooter, your Florida red-bellied cooter, the northern red-bellied cooter… Our mom only laughed harder the more he listed, and the logo and interior design were set.

The restaurant is basically just a big, open dining room with strategically placed booths separating the tables from the bar area, complete with turtles in terrariums and driftwood lining the walls.

The pool tables are on the side porch with a screen door separating them from the rest of the place, and massive ceiling fans run down the center, turning their large blades lazily, keeping the humid air moving with or without the bay breeze.

By day, it’s casual family dining, complete with a fenced-in, beachside play area for the kids. Parents can relax, finish their food or conversations or drinks with their children safely playing as they watch.

It was my mom’s idea when she and Dad opened the place. She said she was never able to eat out after giving birth to four rowdy boys and a girl who didn’t know she wasn’t as big as they were.

It’s true. All four of my brothers are six-foot-plus and two hundred pounds or more, while I clock in at five-foot-four. Back then, my metabolism was so high, I was as skinny as Craig still is, but these days I’ve got more curves.

A cool, gulf breeze wafts through the open-air restaurant, and a nostalgic smile lifts my cheeks remembering those days when we were all here together.

By night, things get a little rowdier. The bar crowd picks up, and the jukebox gets louder. It’s still perfectly fine for families, but most parents with kids clear out by seven. Probably because they want the kids to sleep, and with all the nightly shenanigans, I imagine they get pretty keyed up.

I know my brother Jack’s daughter does when she stays with Aunt Deedee—especially on a “Dare” night. The Dare nights have taken on a life of their own.

I got interested in hot peppers a few years back after watching a cooking show about them. I was fascinated by the heat scale, by where the spice is located in the fruit, by how long it lingers and where it appears on the tongue…

Then I was talked-slash-begged into chaperoning a four-day cruise with the high school seniors going from New Orleans to Cozumel, and while we were in Mexico, we visited a farm and learned even more about the different varieties as well as their health benefits and uses throughout history.

We got home, and I tested my first “Dylan’s Dare Dish” for the evening crowd. I made five gallons of spicy-pepper refried beans made with habaneros, which I used in a seven-layer dip. We sold out in an hour, and now I can’t go a week without a new Dare.

There’s always some lunatic begging me to up the ante, so I try to find a different hot pepper for each challenge. This week: ghost peppers.

“The recipe calls for an eighth teaspoon, and then it’s back in the freezer with this guy.” I finish grating and carry it to the utility sink where a tub of virgin coconut oil waits.

“Put a warning label on the bag.”

“I will.” I rub the coconut oil under my fingernails and on my hands and wrists. “Did you know ghost peppers kill the bacteria that causes stomach ulcers, and can even improve your heart health?”

“I know two people died doing the one-chip challenge.”

“That was a Carolina Reaper, and two people died drinking caffeinated lemonade at Panera Bread.”

“Your point?”

“The wait staff always tells them which pepper is in the dish and how hot it is.” I wipe the oil away with a towel before washing my hands with soap and water. “Nobody’s going to die. We’re expanding folks’s horizons.”

“You’re playing with fire, and I mean that in the most literal sense of the word.” Craig points as he grabs the tray of refilled salt and pepper shakers.

“Hey, love birds!” Allie Sinclair, my head waitress and newest bestie grabs her apron off the hook by the door. “You’re not quarreling are you?”

Allie is a cute girl about the same height as me with sparkling blue eyes. Her dark hair is shoulder-length, and her olive skin is tanned from the summer sun.

She moved here from New Orleans with her son Austin two years ago to be the new librarian at our old high school—or the new media specialist, as some people call her.

Newhope is so small, it didn’t take long for me to hear she was having trouble making ends meet on a school librarian’s salary, so I stopped by the office and mentioned how I sure could use some extra help at the restaurant. The rest is history.

It’s her second summer working with us here, and she’s the best waitress we have. She paid her way through college working in restaurants in the French Quarter, so she’s prepared for pretty much anything.

I always hate it when the summer ends, and she has to leave us.

“Of course not.” Craig breezes past her. “I never quarrel with my Clara.”

He’s referring to our days dancing The Nutcracker together.

Craig was also my ballet partner at the dance academy growing up, and every Christmas we were Clara and the Nutcracker Prince, except one year when the ballerina who was supposed to do the Arabian coffee dance got sick. We had to fill in at the last minute, and I loved it. Mostly because I adored that midriff costume.

“You two were so beautiful.” Allie sighs, grabbing the tray of refilled ketchup bottles. “I could watch those old videos all day on repeat. Did Mrs. Laverne talk to you about teaching ballet at the high school next year?”

My stomach twists, and I carry the glass bowl of ghost-pepper shreds to the stove. “Yeah, she said something about it.”

“And?” Allie’s eyebrows rise expectantly.

“I haven’t given her an answer.” I swallow the lump in my throat, plastering the fake smile I use whenever anyone asks me about ballet. “It’s been a long time since I danced.”

“I’m sure it’ll all come rushing back.” Craig is one of the few people who knows how much I lost when my ankle broke that summer and my dreams of becoming the next Gelsey Kirkland broke with it.

“Like my period did that time I tried to dance without underwear?” Humor is my shield against the past.

His smile vanishes. “We swore never to speak of that again.”

“What!” Allie yells from across the large, open dining area. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I press my lips together, fighting a laugh. “Time plus horror equals humor, right?”

“No.” His response is flat.

“You know how un-cool it is to tease a story like that and then not tell me what happened?” Allie’s black flip-flops smack against the distressed heart pine as she walks back to us.

She places the empty tray on the counter, her blue eyes narrowed. Her short ponytail bounces happily when she moves, and she’s dressed in a light blue T-shirt with our logo on the front—three turtles on a log with crossed pool cues.

“Freshman year, Nutcracker rehearsals,” I start. “We’d been reading about how the dancers in New York don’t wear underwear beneath their tights when they dance, and we were all about emulating the American Ballet Company back then.”

“Okaaay…” Allie’s brow furrows as I continue.

“I cannot believe you’re telling this.” Craig walks to the PA system in the corner behind the bar.

“Of course, the first time I tried it, in the middle of a shoulder-sit…” I don’t finish the sentence, and she hesitates.

Then her whole face flashes with horror. “Nooo… Not that.”

“That.”

“On his shoulder?” she whispers, glancing empathetically at Craig.

“You. Swore.” He is not amused, but I confess, it was so long ago, I really can laugh about it now.

Allie pulls her lips in and bites them, dropping her chin to hide her face. “It’s so awful.”

She can barely get the words out without breaking as she follows me into the kitchen to the big stove. I take the lid off a pot of fresh salsa and carefully add half the minced ghost pepper. I also toss in some grated onions and cilantro and give it a stir before covering it again.

“See all the knowledge you have?” She’s doing her best to put an optimistic twist on the most embarrassing moment of my entire dance career. “Those teenage girls would be lucky to have you as a teacher. You could save them from… That.”

Our eyes meet as we return to the dining room, and we snort through our grimaces.

“You are both dead to me,” Craig snips as he passes us. “Dead.”

“You have to do it, Dylan,” Allie begs. “We’ll get to see each other every day all year!”

“I don’t know.” Heaviness still lingers in my chest. “I’d have to work it around my schedule here.”

“Craig can keep things going during the day. This place practically runs itself.”

“Do girls even care about ballet anymore?”

“Yes! And I’m sure I could get Austin and his friends to take your class if you need them. I’ll say they get to lift pretty girls, and I won’t mention the possibility of Aunt Flo making an appearance.”

“I thought he was going out for the football team this year.” Austin will be a freshman in the fall. “I’m not sure he’ll have time to take a dance class.”

“He might.” She shrugs. “Your brother Jack is pretty… something.”

A hint of a grin plays around her lips, and she sucks so bad at hiding her massive crush on my “hot” oldest brother. Too bad since his divorce, he only seems to care about that high school team and his little girl.

It’s crazy how life just keeps on going no matter what it throws at you.

“I’ll think about it some more.”

She does a little squeal, and I smile. “Oh! Did I mention Garrett’s bringing a friend home with him?”

“You did not!” Craig is suddenly back in the conversation. “Who is he? Or better yet, what position does he play?”

“He’s a receiver. Logan Murphy? I think he’s a big deal, but aren’t they all now?” All of my brothers became stars in their own right, following in our father’s footsteps.

“Lightning Murphy?” Allie yells from the opposite end of the dining room, where she’s unlocking the screened-in back porch where the pool tables are located. “He is fire! I saw him on the Deux Moi Instagram with some six-foot-tall stick insect.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I chuckle, returning to the kitchen.

The wooden door slams behind her, and Craig has his phone out in a flash pulling up the app. Taking the pot from the stove to the large, silver worktable in the center of the room, I ladle stewed salsa into an industrial-sized blender to puree.

“Oh, come to Papa!” Craig fans his face like he’ll faint. “He’s a wide receiver. Just the kind I like. Look at him run.”

My head dips with a laugh. “I hate to burst your bubble, but I think he’s straight. Garrett said something about him coming off a breakup.”

“Is that so?” He cocks his head. “Maybe he needs to get over her by getting under you. Clear some of the cobwebs off that coochie.”

“No.” I do not laugh.

“I know, I know, no football players.” He returns to the phone. “Speaking of breakups, Davis came by the bar last night looking for you. He said you’re going to have to talk to him one of these days.”

“Just how drunk was he?” I puff air through my mouth, sending my hair off my cheeks. “There’s nothing to say. I caught him porking Stephanie in the bushes behind Parky’s.”

“So many jokes just waiting to be made…”

“I haven’t been able to eat grilled oysters since.” I hit the button on the blender, giving it a few pulses before dumping the salsa in a larger bowl and returning to the pot.

“Honestly, I’m more mad about losing the oysters than that cheating piece of shit.”

“We should beat up his Lexus with his golf clubs like that guy’s wife did.” Craig pulls the sleeve of his white tee higher, showing off his skinny bicep. “I’ve been working out.”

“That guy was Tiger Woods, and I don’t care enough to destroy his car.” I shake my head, hitting the blender again, giving it a few pulses. “I stayed in that relationship way past the expiration date.”

“If you ask me, it expired before you took him off the shelf.”

The Dare dish is ready, and I put all the bowls in the refrigerator. We carry the small, plastic serving bowls and large bags of tortilla chips out to the bar, and when I bend down to stash them, I feel the roll around my waist.

I’m not embarrassed by my body at all, but it’s a lot different than it used to be.

“I can’t teach dance.” It’s a low musing, a nonstop continuation of the arguments swirling in my mind since Mrs. Laverne made her offer. “I look nothing like a ballerina anymore.”

Craig frowns, and I gesture to my soft body, looking over my shoulder at my round booty filling my denim cutoffs.

Then I pull at my T-shirt stretched across my chest. “Ballerinas don’t have boobs.”

“Girl, stop.” He holds up a hand. “That ass is fine, and as for up top… I can’t imagine any straight boy complaining about your juicy double.”

“You’d never get me on your shoulder these days.”

“Just give me time, Pepper Spice. I told you I’m working out.”

My eyes land on the clock, and I jump. “Shit! I’ve got to get back to the house and make up the guest room before the guys get here.”

“Pool area’s all set.” Allie returns to the room with a pencil behind her ear and a pad in her apron pocket. “Tell me about the Dare dish.”

“Ghost pepper salsa served with tortilla chips and a big scoop of sour cream.” I count off on my fingers.

“And the warning?”

“A ghost pepper is a hundred times hotter than a jalapeño. It’s one million on the Scoville scale, so proceed with caution. Expert-level tasters only.” Allie’s eyes widen, and she nods as I continue. “If they’re in distress, don’t give them water or beer. Dairy neutralizes capsaicin oil, which is why we have the sour cream.”

“Got it.” She does a sharp nod. “And if they’re lactose intolerant?”

“Tomato juice.”

“Orange juice also works.” Craig hits the button and “Hot Stuff” by Donna Summer blasts through the dining hall. “Our intro music is ready to go!”

At some point, he started the tradition of introducing my Dare dishes with a pepper- or spicy-themed song. Then members of the wait staff decided to hop onto the bar and dance Coyote-Ugly style.

Like I said, the evening crowd gets a little rowdy.

“Aw, I wanted to do ‘Give it Away’ by the Red Hot Chili Peppers!” Allie whines while shaking her hips to the old disco tune.

“I have to buy assless chaps for that one.” Craig says it like it’s just a given.

“No assless chaps.” I point at him. “We still have kids in the restaurant at night.”

“Then at least I have to have a pair of glittery horns and gold lipstick.”

“I got you, baby.” Allie wraps her arm around his shoulders, laughing as they continue dancing.

We’re getting closer to eleven, which is opening time. Not many people show up this early, but we have to be ready if they do.

“What are you going to do with that?” Craig points to the glass bowl holding leftover ghost-pepper shreds.

I dig behind the bar and take out a jar of local honey, setting it beside the open bag of tortilla chips.

“I saw a recipe for spicy honey and goat cheese toasts. Doesn’t that sound amazing?”

“That might be too fancy for the ole Coot-Shoot.” He switches off Donna and puts on quiet yacht rock for the daytime crowd.

“I’ll eat it,” Allie cries. “Goat cheese is the bomb!”

“Do people still say the bomb?”

“This person does!” Allie continues, rolling silverware in napkins and singing along to Toto on the PA system.

I’m about to go when a low voice echoes through the dining room.

“Dylan?” It’s my biggest brother Garrett. “Where you at, girl? What’s for breakfast? I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”

My chest squeezes at the sound of his happy, boisterous request. Every time he or Hendrix come home, I’m struck by how badly I miss them.

“Garrett!” I squeal, breaking into a run. “You’re home!”

My arms are around his neck, and I dance around to jump onto his massive back. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I hang on like I could possibly hug him tighter.

“Get off me, banshee!” He laughs that deep laugh of his.

Lowering my legs, I hop around in front again to give him a proper hug. Garrett is massive, and he gives the best hugs, lifting me off my feet.

“I’ve missed you, Sis.” He puts me down again. “You’ve got a little meat on your bones. Not so breakable these days.”

“I’ve stopped playing football with ogres.” I push his shoulder, and he doesn’t even move.

“You look good.”

In that moment, a tall figure steps up beside him, and I hiccup a breath. “Holy shit…” The words slip from my mouth on an involuntary whisper.

Logan Murphy should come with a warning. The picture Craig showed me on Instagram didn’t do him justice at all. He’s as hot as a Carolina Reaper on black asphalt in the middle of July.

He’s a few inches shorter than Garrett with softly messy dark hair and smoldering blue eyes. His jaw is impossibly square and dusted with a five o’clock shadow, and his biceps stretch the sleeves of his light blazer.

Don’t even get me started on how the black tee underneath stretches across his chest. His waist is narrow like a runner’s, and I can just picture his muscled ass with the way his thighs stretch those dark jeans.

Full lips part in a smile over straight white teeth, and a blush burns from my neck all the way to the top of my ears when I realize I’ve been staring at him way too long—with my mouth open, no less.

“Sorry…” I shake my head, sticking out my hand. “I’m Dylan. You must be Logan?”

Garrett doesn’t even notice my reaction to his drop-dead gorgeous friend. “Craig! How’s it hanging, man?” They shake and Garrett pulls him into a crushing hug. “Got anything to eat? We’ve been driving since 3 o’clock this morning.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Dylan.” Logan’s voice is low and smooth like that jar of honey, and he has a freaking dimple in his cheek. A freaking dimple. “Garrett talks about you all the time.”

“He does?” I sound completely star-struck. “Can I get you something? Coffee, tea…”

Me…

“Coffee would be great.”

I scurry into the kitchen to get myself together, reminding myself I don’t date football players, while I also grab coffee and soft drinks, leaving them out front talking to Allie and Craig.

“Dylan, is there food at the house?” Garrett calls when I return with two coffees.

“There’s food right here.” I put the mugs down. “Let me grab the sugar and cream, and I’ll whip up something.”

I’m on my way back to the kitchen when I hear the sound of plastic rattling on the bar. “What’s this? Salsa?”

I turn around just in time to see him pass a chip to Logan, and the two of them scoop into the bowl of grated ghost pepper.

Throwing up my hands, I scream, No! Craig is close enough to slap the chip out of Garrett’s hand, but it’s too late for Logan. It’s in his mouth, and just as fast, his eyes bug out.

He clutches his throat, dropping to one knee, and all hell breaks loose.