Killian, Page 3

  Is it wrong that I just want to piss her off more to see her the way she is now?

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  Her eyes get big again. “I didn’t say thank you.”

  “You said 'thank you very much', actually.”

  “That was sarcasm. Sorry if it was too subtle for you.”

  “I accept your apology as well,” I say graciously.

  “That was not an apology.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a great apology. But you’ll get better at it.”

  By all rights, I should be apologizing to her and I damn well know it. She’s right, and I’m man enough to admit it.

  But not right now. Right now, I just want to see her with her hands on her hips and a flush on her face, leaning forward as she yells at me, her t-shirt dipping low enough that I can see the top of her cleavage as her breasts rise and fall with each breath she takes.

  I’m a pig. I never pretended otherwise.

  I’m not a complete chauvinist, though. Clearly, I underestimated Coffee Girl. She’s perfectly capable of standing up for herself. And I shouldn’t be staking my claim on her like she’s my property. But damn it, when I saw those two assholes giving her grief, I couldn’t help it. That shit just isn't right.

  She makes a frustrated sound, her hands clenched into fists at her side, then pulls her apron over her head and slams it down on the counter. “I don’t have time for an argument. I have to go pick up my kid from school.”

  “I should know your name, since we’ve just had our first fight."

  She narrows her eyes as she looks at me. “It’s not our first fight,” she says, “because there aren’t going to be any more. Because you’re going to walk out of my bakery and go back to your cabin and do whatever it is that you do there.”

  “Chop up the bodies of unsuspecting women I spill coffee on,” I say. I think I see a flash of something in her eyes then, the corners of her mouth turning up. She wants to laugh, but she doesn’t.

  She turns toward the door, holding it open for me, my cue to exit the premises, I suppose. “Lily,” she says, her one concession to me.

  “Lily,” I repeat.

  “And?” She arches an eyebrow. "You are?”

  “Going to grab a cup of coffee before I take off.”

  “I think you might be the most irritating person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.” She exhales heavily as she gestures to the older woman behind the counter. "Opal, please give Caveman a cup of coffee. To go."

  5

  Lily

  “After Princess Chloe defeated the fire-breathing dragon she asked him, ‘Would you like to come to the palace with me? We could even have cake if you like, although I’m not sure I have a big enough chair for you.’ The fire-breathing dragon burped, and a little puff of smoke escaped from his mouth.”

  Chloe giggles. “He only breathed smoke because he’s trying to be nice.”

  “It’s true. Princess Chloe decided it might be fun to have a dragon around the house…if he could avoid setting anything on fire.”

  “How is he going to not set things on fire?” Chloe asks. “That’s what dragons do.”

  “I don’t know.” I pretend to mull it over. “Do you have any ideas?”

  “The dragon could help her cook.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I agree. “He’d be a natural at barbecuing.”

  “But dragons can’t wear chef hats.”

  “Of course they can,” I tell her. “Princess Chloe would have to send away for a special dragon size, though. With a matching apron.”

  “This story is not about me.” Chloe looks at me, a stern expression on her face. “And you know that dragons aren’t real.”

  I feign shock. “What makes you think this story is about you? This is an entirely fictional story about a completely made-up girl and her pet dragon. And how do you know dragons aren’t real, anyway?”

  “Mom.” She cocks her head to the side. “Of course they’re not. That’s why this story is fictional, because fictional means that it’s a lie. But you can keep telling it anyway, I like pretending.”

  “Fiction isn’t exactly the same thing as lying.”

  “Yes it is,” she protests. “It’s like when Hannah says that we’re hiding in this town because you’re supposed to be in jail. That’s fiction.”

  “Wait a second. This is what the kids in your class are saying?”

  “Yeah,” Chloe shrugs nonchalantly and averts her eyes and I know from the look on her face that they hurt her feelings. “I mean, they say all kinds of things. I know that it’s lies, but they won’t listen.”

  I exhale heavily. “I’ll have a talk with your teachers.”

  “Mo-om,” she protests. “Don’t do that. I know it’s not true anyway.”

  “They still shouldn’t be saying stuff like that.” Those stupid little shits.

  “It’s okay. I told them we were spies.”

  “You did?”

  “Nana said it was okay sometimes to tell white lies. I don’t think this was a bad lie.”

  “You told Nana what the kids at school were saying?”

  Chloe shrugs. “Nana said my white lie was clever.”

  I draw her against me and kiss the top of her head. Gone are the days of preschool and arguing with her classmates about whose turn it was to use a toy. Now it’s teasing and bullying. “Nana is right. You are clever.”

  “What does clever mean?”

  “It means that you’re smart. Spies, huh?”

  “Yeah. Secret agents."

  "Do we have trench coats and sunglasses?"

  “You know that spies don’t really wear trench coats and sunglasses. If they did, everyone would know they were spies.”

  “When did you become so jaded?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” she says.

  “It means…” I sigh, searching for the word. “Realistic. You used to believe in fairy tales.”

  “I’m growing up.” Her voice is somber. A pang of nostalgia for when she was younger goes straight through my heart.

  “I don’t need to be reminded of that fact, kiddo.” I hug her tight to me.

  I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.

  After Chloe is asleep, I lie awake in bed unable to sleep, a million thoughts racing through my head. I fell in love with this small town out in the middle of Nowhere Colorado when Chloe and I drove out to visit my parents, who'd moved from the suburbs of Chicago to Gold River, Colorado, four hours from here.

  Most people retire and move to Florida, or at least to someplace warm where they don't have to worry about shoveling snow all winter, but not my parents. They move to one of the coldest places in the United States. After Adam's death, they were on me nearly every day to move out to Gold River with them, but I resisted the idea.

  At first, I intended to stay in Chicago where Adam and I had a life together. Then when everything came out - the scandal that destroyed everything I had believed in - I stayed in Chicago purely out of stubbornness. I wasn't letting anyone's opinions drive me out of town. I'd stay with my head held high and raise my daughter.

  Then Chloe and I flew in to visit my parents. On the drive from the Denver airport, we stopped in West Bend and I fell in love. There was a "for sale" sign on the bakery door and I don't know why I called the real estate agent about it, but I did. Any other day, I'd have talked myself out of something like that. It's a pipedream, I'd have told myself. It's completely unrealistic and you'll fail. Except that day, I didn't.

  It was a bargain price for the bakery, and suddenly I was doing a loan application and creating a business plan.

  There have been days I was so proud of Chloe and I for making it here and getting through this on our own. And there have been so many days I thought coming to a small town like West Bend was surely the biggest mistake I'd ever made.

  I thought that moving Chloe here and away from my husband's tainted legacy would be a way of preserving her innocence. The last thing on earth I want is for Chloe to be bullied because of my past - or my late husband’s past, to be more accurate. I hate that Chloe is losing her faith in fairy tales at six years old. She should believe in happy endings.

  There are no happy endings in store for me, and life is definitely not a fairy tale - even if some guy comes barging into my store, trying to rescue me like I’m a damsel in distress. A ridiculously arrogant, pushy guy who stood so close to me that his scent – woodsy and leather and manly – made my head spin.

  He’s cocky as hell.

  Completely misogynistic.

  An uncivilized brute.

  And the whole time I was standing there in the kitchen with him, totally appalled by the words coming out of his mouth, I couldn't stop thinking about how his lips felt on mine.

  And how he would feel inside me.

  I don't even know his name and I'm thinking about how he would feel inside me.

  I roll over onto my side, squeezing my eyes tight as if, by doing so, I can force the image out of my head. I can't stop picturing the way he looked the other day when he was standing outside of the general store bare-chested after throwing his shirt into my lap, like he spends his days splitting firewood and sweating in the sun.

  He works with his hands.

  The thought sends heat surging through my body, right to my core. I mentally chastise myself for the reaction.

  How long has it been since I’ve had a man in my bed? I rack my brain trying to remember. There was that guy I went out with last year. How old was Chloe then? Oh shit, that wasn't last year. That was three years ago.

  Is that really the last time I got laid?

  So I'm a little hard up. That's all there is to it. It's a totally reasonable explanation for why being in close proximity to that man seems to make my heart race and my breath short - and for why the thought of fucking him sends a tingle of arousal through my body like electricity.

  I imagine him slipping his hands under my thighs, picking me up and carrying me across the kitchen in the bakery, and slamming me hard up against the wall.

  When he kisses me, it's harder than I've ever been kissed, his touch positively bruising.

  I slide my palm up my stomach underneath my cotton t-shirt and over my breast. My nipple hardens under my palm as I picture his mouth enveloping me, his beard rough against my skin as his tongue swirls over my nipple.

  He draws it into his mouth, and his tongue pressed hard against my nipple makes me moan.

  I hear myself moan under my breath in the stillness of the room and clamp my mouth shut. Thoughts of a man I don't know one bit about shouldn't be having this effect on me.

  Except that when I close my eyes, I picture him on his knees between my legs, my skirt never mind that I don't wear skirts to the bakery billowing around his head as he brings his mouth to my pussy.

  Kneeling between my legs, he cups my ass, pulling me tightly against his face. His rough beard between my thighs only adds to the sensation.

  My fingers find their way inside the front of my panties, my fingertips moving back and forth against my clit, sending another surge of arousal through me. I'm wet. I can feel the dampness on my panties without even sliding my fingers farther down.

  The thought of that uncivilized brute is making me wet.

  The image in my head is so clear I can almost feel him between my legs right now, sucking my clit into his mouth.

  The way he eats me isn't gentle, either he thrusts his tongue inside me, fucking me like he can't get enough. I call out his name, my hands threaded through his hair, pulling him tighter against my body. I'm going to come on his face, but he pulls away from me, chuckling as he unbuckles his belt and reveals his massive cock.

  "Condom?" I ask.

  He smirks, his mouth glistening with my wetness. "I don't think so," he says. "You want me bare, Lily. Admit it."

  Shit, I think. Where did this come from?

  My fingers slip lower and then inside, aided by my slickness.

  I hear myself gasp as he pushes me against the wall and enters me, totally and completely in one swift motion. He fucks me like he knows exactly how to make my body respond to his every movement. He fucks me like he owns me. My legs wrapped tightly around him, I let go, responding to his touch.

  I fuck myself with my fingers, imagining that it's his cock inside me, that it's his cock that makes me come harder than I've come in a long time, leaving me breathless, my heart racing as I lie in bed.

  "I'll see you at three.” I plant a kiss on the top of Chloe's head.

  "Ugh, mom," she protests, squirming away. "Not in the drop-off line. Everyone will see you. That's like, a kindergarten thing."

  I watch her walk into the door of the school carrying her backpack. She's seven years old going on thirteen. A wave of nostalgia washes over me so intensely that it nearly takes my breath away. I think about all of the things Adam is missing with Chloe and silently curse him for everything he was involved in and for getting himself killed. Even if he wasn't a good man, he was her father.

  At the bakery, there are a few customers at the register, people grabbing coffees and baked goods on the way to work and a couple of retirees lounging around having a slow breakfast as they read the paper. It's the tail end of breakfast, and I feel badly leaving Opal to manage the store alone while I'm busy doing the morning routine with Chloe. I remind myself to put an ad in the town newspaper for a replacement for Rachel. Obviously, the "help wanted" sign in the window isn't cutting it because we've had a grand total of three applicants in the past few days, all of whom were total duds.

  "Sorry about leaving you to handle this on your own," I tell Opal, barely glancing around the bakery as I head to the back and grab my apron. When I get to the front, I dive right in.

  "Triple espresso with cinnamon and a touch of cream to go?" I ask the man in line. He's been a regular since we opened, and every morning is the same order without fail.

  "You got it," he says, stepping to the side.

  Then I look up, paper coffee cup in hand. "What the hell is he doing here?"

  Opal pauses from ringing up a customer to give me a look. Did I just say that out loud?

  He's sitting at an empty table wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt, a charcoal-and-red-checkered flannel shirt on top, unbuttoned like a jacket. His legs are stretched out in front of him, his dark work boots propped up on the leg of the table like he's relaxing in his own living room. He's holding a newspaper in front of him, seemingly focused on what he's reading, but when I look at him, he folds down the edge and meets my gaze. The edges of his mouth turn up in a smug smile before he flips the paper back up and goes back to reading.

  Opal leans over between customers and knowingly says, "Seems like that boy is looking for something."

  "I don't know what you're talking about." I turn around and ignore the look she gives me, busying myself with making a new pot of dark roast coffee, one of the special orders I get from Hawaii.

  "No?" Opal nudges me. "He's been sitting there for an hour."

  "Good for him."

  "Why don't you go over there and give him a muffin?" Opal suggests innocently, but I know better.

  "I'm busy working, in case you hadn't noticed."

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