Billy Comfort, known for the more shocking F earned the nickname Panty Dropper by his late teens. It looks as though leopards can change their spots because he has recently changed his womanizing ways. Billy is set to walk down the aisle in a month’s time with family law attorney Reagan York. After meeting at a will reading for his father, the late James Comfort, Billy wasted no time putting a ring on it.
But he’s not the only Comfort man to throw caution to the wind when it comes to love. The youngest Comfort brother was recently engaged to Isabella Santini, daughter of industry titan Miles Santini. As of yet, there is no date set for Jimmy and Isabella to say their I dos, but sources say that if it were up to Jimmy he’d have already made it legal.
It seems the only Comfort brother left standing in the shadow of the curse is the eldest Comfort. Hank, the fighter. Sources say that Hank has no plans to settle down and is happily, or if his brooding nature is any indication unhappily, living the bachelor life. Will he step in the ring and go twelve rounds with love? Or is that a fight that even Hank “The Fighter” Comfort isn’t ready to take on?
Only time will tell.
Anger and irritation battled for top billing as I finished the article. “How is this news?”
“It’s because of the doc. It did big numbers over the weekend.”
I should never have agreed to sit down and talk about that stupid curse. I’d only done it because it seemed important to my little sister Cheyenne.
A thought occurred to me as I stared down at the paper. Was that doc or the article why Melody was calling me out of the blue? She hadn’t lived in Firefly for over fifteen years so if I had to guess I’d say that she must’ve seen the documentary that had just premiered on Netflix.
“Hey, look on the bright side. No press is bad press. Maybe it will be good for business,” Billy reasoned.
“Which one?” Billy ran Southern Comfort, the bar that my brothers, sister, and I had inherited when our father passed away. Jimmy owned a charter boat business, Firefly Ocean Tours. And I owned Comfort Construction.
“I was talking about the bar, but I guess all of them.” Billy continued. “And don’t worry, as soon as the next season of Bridgerton comes out we’ll be old news.”
“Bridger-what?”
“You really do live under a rock.”
Maybe. But I liked it that way.
I heard a voice in the background before my brother added, “Oh, and Reagan wanted me to remind you about your fitting.”
“I’m not the one ya need to be remindin’.” Our little brother Jimmy hated putting on anything other than shorts, flip-flops, and T-shirts. When our daddy passed he’d bitched and moaned over wearing a tie. Now he was gonna have to wear a penguin suit for Billy’s wedding and he wasn’t happy about it.
“He’s there now. Isabella dragged him kickin’ and screamin’. And don’t worry, we’ll be old news soon.” Billy disconnected the call and I flipped it back to the front page and read the byline.
Stewart Davenport
I should’ve known it was that idiot Stewie who wrote the article. He was the conductor on the Firefly Trolley Tours and talked about the damn Comfort Curse on each tour he gave since the first stop was Abernathy Manor.
My blood was boiling as I stood and poured my now cold coffee into the sink. I resisted the urge to put my fist through the wall. The article wasn’t wrong, I was known for fighting. I hadn’t gotten into a brawl since I was in my early twenties, but that didn’t mean the impulses weren’t still there.
There was a knock at the door and it startled me. I didn’t get many visitors or any at all out here on my private slice of the island. My brothers were basically it and since I’d just hung up with Billy that left Jimmy. Although it didn’t sound like his signature break-the-door-down knock.
He was either here because he’d seen the paper or he wanted to complain about the tuxes that Billy had chosen. I was in no mood to listen to his whining, but I knew that ignoring him was futile. He’d keep knockin’ till I answered.
I scrubbed my hands over my face and checked my watch. It was only eight a.m. and I was ready for this day to be over. Between the message from my ex and the damn article, all I wanted to do was take a shot of Jack and go to sleep.
Before I’d made it two steps another knock came from the door.
“Comin’!” I shouted.
Before Pop died, there’d been an open-door policy at Casa Comfort. But after I inherited our family home, I’d enforced a locked-door policy and changed all the locks. As the oldest of four kids, I valued privacy. My brothers weren’t too fond of the new arrangement.
Another knock sounded as I reached the door.
“Hold your damn horses!” I flung the door open and initially didn’t see anyone.
It wasn’t until I looked down that I saw huge brown eyes staring back up at me. A little girl stood at the edge of the porch. Her pigtails had more hair slipping out of them than captured inside, her jeans had large holes in the knees and were either high waters or a size too small, and her worn-out T-shirt was a size too big. Completing the “urchin” look was a smudge of dirt across her nose and a coating of grime on the pint-sized fingers holding a shoebox in front of her that was half her size.
I looked around to see where the adult was that was supervising this trick-or-treat fail before looking back down at the pig-tailed Oliver Twist. “You’re either too early or too late, which is it?”
“My mom says running late is her cardio.”
I looked around again to see if there was any sign of this mom, I didn’t see any.
“But I don’t need cardio cause I got a good tabolism. My mom says she wishes she had my tabolism.”
A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “Is that right?”
“Do you have a good tabolism?”
It was definitely slowing down now that I was in my mid-thirties. “I had a better one when I was your age.”
The pixie of a thing adjusted her hold on the shoebox she held in her arms as she asked, “How old are you?”
“Thirty-four. How old are you?”
Her posture stiffened as she stretched out her neck, in what I could only assume was an attempt at making herself as tall as possible. “I’m ten years old.”
Mind you, I didn’t have any kids of my own. But I’d raised my two younger brothers when Pops checked out after Mama died, and I’d be damned if this little girl was a day over six, and even that was pushing it. She was bright, though. She reminded me of the kid from Jerry Maguire, only a girl, obviously.
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and the box she was carrying began to slip. But this kid had cat-like reflexes and she grabbed it before it fell out of her grip.
“What have you got there?”
“My treasures!” she enthused. “I’m selling them. Do you want to see?”
“Sure.”
She opened the lid and revealed a box full of half-used broken pencils, rubber bands and paperclips, some pens that looked like they’d seen better days, and other trash that could most kindly be described as the rejects from a junk drawer.
Lord knew there was nothing I needed in the box, but there was no way I was going to send this needy little thing away empty-handed. I wasn’t one to wear my heart on my sleeve, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have one. Even though most people in this town might argue that I didn’t. Hell, maybe they were right.