Page 13 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Selene hands Cyrus his drink, and his grin widens around the glass as he takes a sip. When he’s finished, his tongue licks over the corners of his lip. “Are you more surprised by the wolf thing, or the sex work?”

Alana appreciates his lack of offense; although the smile she offers is timid, her face flushed as she taps her nails along the countertop. “Maybe a little bit of both?”

Truthfully, she can’t pinpoint the exact emotions coursing through her. Cyrus is attractive, clearly, and it’s not lost on her that this isn’t the worst-case scenario. That “guy in a fur suit” thing definitely could have been a possibility. But she’s no longer dealing with a faceless stranger. Cyrus knows her job, her routine—parts of her life that she never anticipated sharing with someone she hired to take her virginity. What she planned for was a ghost, someone she never had to worry about seeing again after this was all said and done.

“I can smell the apprehension you, you know.” Cyrus nudges her foot from underneath the bar. “Gettin’ cold feet?”

Alana huffs a small laugh and folds her hands in her lap. Her thumbs roll around each other in an anxious habit she’s had since she was a kid. “No, no! I mean…” her voice trails off.

“Just recalibrating, I guess. I’ll be honest, you weren’t who I was expecting. No offense.”

His brow lifts, a gentle cadence to his voice when he speaks, “That right? Talk to me about it. It’s alright if you’ve changed your mind, you know. Won’t be any hard feelings on my part.”

“I haven’t,” Alana rushes to say. She winces at the pitch in her voice. “It’s just…complicated. You’re not a total stranger like I was expecting. I guess I just hadn’t seen you coming, and I’m a little, um, embarrassed. A lot embarrassed, actually. I mean, we see each other all the time, so, uh, yeah. Can’t exactly return to my normal scheduled program after this.”

When she meets his gaze, his expression is soft. Patient.

“Well, I’m here to tell you there isn’t an ounce of obligation with any of this,” Cyrus assures, regarding Alana with a careful precision that has no right making her stomach flip how it does. “If you wanted to walk away right now, I’d respect that. But if this is because we know each other some? I’d want you to know your secrets are safe with me. Everything we do is confidential.”

The tension eases in Alana’s shoulders, but she worries at her bottom lip. “And…you’re sure this wouldn’t be weird? I mean, you come by the shop every day to meet other clients, right? I assume, at least.”

“I come by the shop every day to talk with the prettiest baker in town and scarf down as many goods as my stomach allows,” Cyrus corrects with a chuckle. “But, yes. I do meet clients there on occasion. It doesn’t have to be weird or awkward unless we make it, sweetheart. If you feel some type of way about all this when it’s over, then, well, it breaks my heart, but I’d steer clear of the bakery for a while if that’s what would make you comfortable.”

Alana’s stomach flips again. “No, it’s okay. I’d never ask you to do that,” she promises. She can’t imagine things ending up so badly that she doesn’t want to see him in the cafe anymore.

“It’s just, this is all really new to me. So, I’m kind of all over the place. It’s not that I think I’d regret it or anything, but…it is a lot to take in.”

Cyrus offers a sympathetic glance and reaches over to grab her hand. It’s warm and calloused in all the ways Alana assumed it would be. The hands of a working man. He brushes a thumb across her knuckles, gentle as a feather. “I can understand that, truly. Tell ya what, let’s just talk. Get to know each other a little more and go over the basics?”

Pushing his seat back, he stands, holding Alana’s hand while he waits for her to do the same. When she does, he gestures to an open booth in the corner of the restaurant that’s been cleared for them.

Alana’s gaze falls to the booth, then to the door, but she makes no move in either direction. It’s as if her feet have been nailed to the floor, freezing her in place. But then Cyrus brushes his thumb across her knuckles again, a gentle reassurance that calms her racing thoughts. When she looks at him, she’s met with the same gentle smile that greets her most mornings. She breathes in slowly, then exhales.

“Okay.”

CHAPTER TEN

ALANA

Falling into conversation with Cyrus comes easily. The tense, fluttering that’s been coiled in Alana’s chest begins to dissolve, replaced by something calmer. It isn’t often she’s able to talk to him without barriers like this; there are no customers to pull her away, or professionalism tugging at her conscience. And while it should be awkward, it isn’t. They prattle on like they’ve met before in some quiet, forgotten lifetime.

“Well,” Cyrus says, “I’m from an ol’ desert town west of Texas. Not much bigger than Sweetbriar, honestly. Family owned a ranch out there, but things got tough, economy-wise, after a while. We packed up and moved out this way when I was about fourteen for a better opportunity, and I’ve been here ever since.” Alana watches him closely, soaking in the low timbre of his voice, how his expression softens when he talks about his past.

“You don’t say?” Alana stirs the ice in her empty cocktail glass. “That checks. You’ve got to be the most Texas-looking man I’ve seen. Not that we don’t get a lot of cowboy types in New Mexico. But with the accent, I had a hunch.” Her mouth lifts with a smirk, relishing in the laugh her comment causes.

“Prefer the term Vaquero,” Cyrus chuckles, crossing his arms and leaning back. “That obvious, huh?”

“A lil’ bit.”

The cowboy’s grin mirrors her own. “Well I’ll try to take that as a compliment. Feel I represent the good parts of Texas. Not the, uh, other things.”

“The good parts?”

“Mmhm. You know, equal rights, family values. Southern hospitality, things like that. I also make a mean brisket, if I do say so myself.” He lifts his chin, chest puffed out.

Alana snorts. “Okay, okay. I see you. So that’s opposed to, say, terrible driving and an over-obsession with college football?”

Cyrus gasps, and leans over the table with the theatrics of someone being shot dead if they didn’t. “Hey, now. Those are what a lotta folks would call fightin’ words,” he warns. But then, his mouth twitches. “But luckily enough, I agree with you, and don’t give much of a damn about football. Don’t tell my brother that last bit, though. Gotta keep up appearances or they’ll string me up a Texas flagpole.”