On the other hand, there was Lothario Jachetta—yes, his momma had likely been on drugs when she’d named him, but dear God, had she been on the money. Kudos to her for psychic foreshadowing.
Lothario—Rio, for short—was the regional manager for the chain of coffeehouses in the Southeast, one of them being my own here in Atlanta. He was my height and consistently tan, which made me suspect an in-house solution, and had the most ridiculously curly auburn hair I’d ever seen. No gray hairs, either. He probably dyed it, the bastard. It always fell into his eyes, making him look ten years younger than his forty-three.
He was kick-ass at his job, for which I had grudging respect. Otherwise, he was a tool. Rio hit on every man he met who even gave him a glimmer of interest—sometimes, when they did
