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On the sidewalk outside the store, two older women are exiting the bakery carrying to-go cups of coffee in their hands. “I had to see it with my own eyes,” one says. “Connie said she heard he was working here.”
The other woman clucks her tongue disapprovingly as she makes eye contact with me, then quickly averts her gaze. “I think he’s been to prison,” she whispers. “That whole family is no good. Anyone who has any sense knows to stay away from the Saint boys."
“They did help get Letty and Barbara Jean’s property back from the mining company. And Peggy and Lou think him working here is funny."
“Even so. You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.”
They give me a sideways glance before turning and walking down the sidewalk, tongues still wagging loud enough for me to hear them continuing to gossip. The way one of the women glances over her shoulder as they talk, I’m sure they want me to hear what they’re saying.
Catty old shrews.
Connie C. said she heard he was working here.
They’re talking about Killian.
I think he’s been in prison. That whole family is no good.
A pang of possessiveness rushes through me. How dare they talk about him like that? Those nosy old biddies. Lipstick on a pig?
I pull open the door to the bakery with more force than I intend, more annoyed than I should be by what I overheard. I thought that the town gossips had been running their mouths and speculating about my past just because I was new in town, but apparently it doesn’t matter if you’re new here or if you’ve been in this place forever.
I despise stuff like that.
I’m so irritated that I’m halfway across the store before I realize the store is eerily quiet. There’s a long line of customers, but not the regulars who’ve been coming in for months; these are students from a nearby college and people in town like the old ladies outside, the women from the hair salon and the church. The ones who have shunned the bakery as if everyone who comes in this place is infected with the plague.
Two women standing beside each other in line whisper, and then glance up front to the register where Opal rings up a customer, like they’re afraid of being caught talking in class. I look around my bakery, watching as a regular customer wipes his table with his napkin, and then brings his used cup and saucer toward the front of the store. Stopping him, I take the dishes from his hands. “You know I’ll get that for you, Dan,” I say.
He glances furtively toward the front of the store, then back at me. “It's no problem at all. I’ll bring them to the front. Glad to help out."
Okay, what the hell is going on here?
At the front of the store, Killian is calling customer orders with military-like precision. No one is deliberating at the cupcake display case, asking what each flavor tastes like and how the cupcakes were made and whether they contain gluten or eggs or organic flour or dairy or food coloring and why I don’t have vegan and gluten-free options every day. Or why I carried orange cream cupcakes yesterday but not today and when’s the next day I’ll do them again.
Instead, the front of the store runs quietly and quickly.
When I get to the register and look up at the large chalkboard on the wall, the one that usually lists the daily coffee drink specials and the daily cupcake flavors, I see exactly why.
And I stop breathing.
Instead of the coffee drinks, the chalkboard reads: “Customer Rules.”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I read down the numbered list in disbelief.
Number One. If you don’t know what you want, get the hell out. Don’t ask us what we recommend. You have a brain. Make a decision before you get to the front of the line.
Number Two. No small talk. We already know what the weather is like and we saw the game last night.
Number Three. Don’t ask if the cupcakes have gluten, dairy, or food coloring. Whatever you’re asking about, the cupcakes have it.
Number Four. If you ask for a skinny anything, we’ll tell you to leave. We make good coffee, not skinny coffee.
Number Five. If you use a table, clean up your damn mess. We’re not your maids or your mothers.
Two women in the back of the line giggle quietly as they attempt to take photos of the sign as unobtrusively as possible.
I have a vision of ending up in the West Bend Gazette with a review of the bakery and our horrific customer service and offensive sign.
Killian is dead. Totally dead. I will actually strangle him with my bare hands. If the people in this town suspected that I was a criminal on the run from the law, they'll at least have good reason to believe that when I actually commit murder.
I storm up to the front register, positively fuming. Opal catches my look and puts her hands up as I walk behind the counter, headed for Killian. “Now, before you say anything, honey - ” she starts.
"Don't. Even."
The girl standing at the front of the register hands over a slip of paper with her order on it before leaning forward to Opal. "The new rules are hilarious," she whispers, glancing furtively at Killian. "And the new guy is so hot. I already shared photos online. My friends are going to come here tomorrow."
Inwardly, I groan.
Killian clears his throat loudly and gives her a glare, and she mock-salutes, stepping to the side to wait for her coffee as she stifles a giggle.
Opal gives me a look. "Don't kill him."
"I'm not going to kill him," I say through gritted teeth. "Killing him would be too kind."
I glare at Killian and mouth the words. "Kitchen. Now."
He looks at me innocently before handing a cup of coffee to the college student waiting in line, the one who's not-so-subtly snapping photos of him on her phone. When she reaches for the coffee, he stops. "No photos," he growls. "Do you want me to confiscate the phone?"
She titters and practically swoons. "No, sir," she says with faux military inflection.
I roll my eyes so hard I think I might sprain a muscle. Then I watch in disbelief as the next customer in line, one of the guys who's shown up here regularly in the mornings for a cup of coffee and a newspaper, hands Opal his written order. He pays without a word to Opal, and then looks up at me. "I like the new system."
That is it. A muscle-bound, tattooed, bearded caveman who lives alone in a cabin somewhere isn’t going to waltz into my shop and start issuing customer rules like he owns the place. I whirl around, grabbing the chalkboard eraser and wiping it over the surface of the board until the stupid rules are smeared into a blur of chalk dust.
Behind me, several patrons groan their disappointment. Sure, some of them might have thought it was funny – mostly the airheaded girls who seem to be all-too-infatuated with Killian but there will be plenty more who are offended by it. And the old biddies in town will have even more fodder for gossip and even more reason to hate me.
When I turn around, I force a polite smile on my face. “I’m afraid that’s not how we do things here,” I explain, my voice excessively calm.
It’s a freaking miracle I can keep my voice calm, given the fact that my blood pressure has to be through the damn roof right now. Look at me, practicing self-restraint. I haven’t even murdered Killian in cold blood yet.
I hear someone in the line grumble, and someone else walks out the door. Seriously? The people in this town have nothing better to do than come read a stupid, obnoxious sign in a store? There’s really nothing else happening in West Bend that a dumb sign and Killian Saint can cause that much excitement?
I turn around and storm into the kitchen, pulling out the mermaid cake while grumbling to myself. I won’t scream at him right now in front of customers. I won't fire him right now and cause a huge scene.
I’ll wait.
I’ll wait here in the back while I work on this cake, stewing and plotting Killian’s demise. Killian obviously can’t work here, since he has the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old boy.
I pour all my frustration into
working on the mermaid cake and I lose track of time. Opal walks through the kitchen door two hours later. She holds a receipt in her hands. “Now, before you say anything else,” she starts, “I know you’re mad.”
“Mad?” I put down the spray gun I’ve been using to color the ocean on the cake a mixture of blue-green. “Mad doesn’t even begin to describe what I am right now. I’m beyond mad. I’m absolutely livid.”
“That boy is a bit of a rebel, I know, honey. But look at the morning revenue.”
“A bit of a rebel?” I snatch the receipt from her hand. “He’s way beyond that. I should fire you both.”
Opal shrugs. “You do what you got to do, honey. But if you want my opinion, that boy is good for this place. And you.”
I bark a laugh. “Good for this place? He’s going to run all the customers out of here.”
“Maybe so." Opal shrugs. “I’ve been in this town a long time, though. Seems to me things need to be shaken up sometimes.”
“Traitor,” I breathe.
Opal shakes her head. “You okay on the cake? I’ve got to get home.”
“Fine." The fact that Opal has been in my corner since I bought this place is the only reason I don't fire her the way I’m going to fire Killian.
“Don’t forget to call the company about that freezer,” Opal advises. “It was making a noise this morning again when I came in. Killian was going to take a look but – “
“No,” I cut her off. “Killian doesn’t need to do anything else here. He’s done quite enough.”
“Uh-huh. See you tomorrow, honey,” Opal calls.
I don’t hear a sound from the front of the store. It’s two minutes past two and the store is closed, since our business is morning-heavy and closing by two usually gives me just enough time to wrap up administrative stuff and run to get Chloe from school. Maybe Killian has taken the hint and gone home with his tail between his legs. Somehow I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem like the type to be embarrassed by anything he does.
I set the paper down on the counter and swing open the freezer door, propping it open with a box. It’s making a bit of a buzzing sound, but then again, it’s an old freezer. It came with the bakery. I’m sure a repairman is going to cost me a pretty penny, I think, as I put the cake on a shelf inside the freezer.
When I turn around, Killian is standing just inside the kitchen, his hand on the counter.
13
Killian
The look that crosses Lily's face when she sees me… well, she is pissed.
Her nostrils are flaring again, worse than before. I’m not sure I’ve ever been this close to a woman flaring her nostrils at me like a damn horse.
Shit. Now all I can think about is riding her. Or her riding me. I’m not particular. An image of Lily bent over while I smack her perfect bare ass with a riding crop flashes in my head. All of the blood in my body immediately goes to my cock. Hell, I don’t even know where that came from. It’s not like I’m into whips and chains and shit.
“Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you going to say something?” Lily asks, her voice hard.
She’s angry. It’s hot as hell.
“Look,” I start. “Your customers are annoying as fuck.”
“That’s what you’re going with?” she asks. “Of all the things you could say, that’s your defense?”
“It was disorganized as all get-out in the morning, and the same people that were in there yesterday were asking the same dumb questions about ingredients and wanting double low-fat no-whip caramel whatever-the-fuck. So I had to set some ground rules.”
“This is my business!” she yells, obviously frustrated. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are or why on earth I’ve been stupid enough to even let you in here.”
“Hold up now. I was helping you out."
Her eyes get wide, and she marches up to me like she’s on a mission. I glance sideways out of the corner of my eye to make sure there are no knives on the stainless steel countertop where she was working. She looks like she might be considering using one.
“That’s 'helping me'?” she asks. “Pissing off customers, driving people out of here, probably landing me in the newspaper for my poor customer service? That’s your idea of helping?”
“Wait a second here, little girl,” I say, bristling at her negativity. "So I took a few creative liberties. But I’ve been working for free, so that’s got to count for something."
Well, shit. The way she's looking at me now, I know that little girl was definitely the wrong thing to say. Hell, this chick has me all messed up.
“I am not a little girl,” she says, her blue eyes flashing. She punctuates each word with a sharp inhale of breath, her breasts rising and falling underneath the top of her apron. I can’t even hear what she’s saying because all I can think about is covering her mouth with mine.
When she points her finger against my chest, I close my fingers around her wrist. My cock strains against the zipper of my jeans the second my fingers touch her skin. She’s angry and hates me, and I want her more than anything. And I think she wants me just as badly as I want her. “No, you’re not,” I growl. “You’re far from it.”
She pauses for a second, motionless, her eyes on mine. Then she wrenches her arm away. “You don’t get to come in here with all your … your … stupid macho bullshit and just … stir shit up like you think you know better than me how to run my own damn business. Or my life.”
“I didn’t tell you how to run your life,” I argue. Fuck, I can’t argue when I have a boner. I can’t think with her standing in front of me with those pouty lips that beg to be kissed and her cheeks flushed pink, the kind of pink that makes it look like she just had an orgasm. It only makes me want to give her one.
“You take over when I’m talking to my kid about her homework, tell her you bet she’s not good at math in some kind of attempt at reverse psychology, and –"
“You’re mad about that?” I ask, totally confused now. Confused and horny: that’s a stellar combination. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“That’s not the point,” she says, hands on her hips again.
“What’s the point then, woman?” I ask, exasperated. She makes me fucking crazy.
“The point is ” She exhales heavily and then inhales sharply. “That you’re fired. You … can’t come around here with your shirt off and all of your stupid muscles and tattoos and that damn beard – "
I don’t let her finish. Reaching behind her head, I grab a handful of hair and pull her against me, bringing my mouth down on hers. She melts against me, the same way she did when I kissed her before, except this time she doesn’t pull away. She moans into my mouth, reaching for my shirt and pulling me hard against her as she kisses me back.
This isn’t just a kiss. It’s whatever pent-up bullshit and tension there is that’s been between us since the moment I laid eyes on this woman. It’s still an argument, even though neither of us are speaking. Instead, our tongues war with each other, battling for which one is right.
When I finally pull away from her, her face is flushed and her lips are swollen from my kiss. Her eyes are lidded and heavy and lust is written all over her face. “You were saying something about me being fired.”
She makes a sound as I grip her hair tightly in my hand, a low moan under her breath. “You’re still fired,” she breathes.
“Good,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I’d hate to think you were a pushover.”
“I’m not a pushover,” she whispers as I reach around the back of her waist and yank the tie of her apron, undoing it with a single gesture. I let go of her hair long enough to toss the apron aside, taking a long look at her standing in front of me in her white t-shirt and fitted jeans.
I think I might have a t-shirt and jeans fetish now.
I bring my mouth down on hers again, even as doubts flash in my thoughts. I should leave her alone. What the hell do I think I’m doing, kissing a woman like this? This isn’t the way
I should be touching her. Lily is classy, the kind of girl who gets flowers and foreplay, not fucked in a kitchen in the back of a store.
