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“I didn’t come here for coffee.”
Betty’s throat shifts as she swallows. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
My boots squeak against the freshly mopped floor. She should hate me for that—for messing up her cleaning routine. Betty should hate me for a lot of things. But as I reach the counter, the cash register dim and silent, her breath catches and she inches closer to the wood.
“Do you often lock up on your own?”
She’s still strangling the mop handle, her knuckles pale—but Betty’s smile is dazzling. “You don’t think I can handle it, River Dawes?”
“No, I do.” It’s everyone else in the world I don’t trust. The strangers who could walk in off the street and catch her here alone; the agency, always watching. “But lock the door next time. Just while you’re in here by yourself.”
Blue eyes roll, but Betty seems pleased to hear me fuss over her. She tucks a loose piece of hair behind her ear, the movement shy.
This woman is a bundle of contradictions. Brassy and bold in some ways, with her teasing grins and tattooed arms, but sweet and uncertain in others. That shy side has taken the reins, and Betty bites her lip as she watches me.
“If you didn’t come for coffee, why are you here?”
Does she sound hopeful? Has she thought of this too—being alone together? I move as close as the counter will let me, the edge pressing against my stomach, drawn by an invisible rope. Cars rumble past on the street outside, and my heart thumps against my ribs.
Shouldn’t be here.
Shouldn’t do any of this.
Shouldn’t let myself want this woman.
“Needed to see you,” I say, voice gruff, and we both stop breathing as my hand reaches across the empty space. Betty’s cheek is soft as I cup the side of her face; her silky hairs tickle my wrist. My thumb settles over the pulse point beneath her jaw.
Her skin is so warm, her pulse rapid. Over on the wall, the AC hums, gusting out frozen air.
The counter creaks beneath my weight as I lean forward, my free hand spreading over the surface. Betty steps closer too, drawn by my touch, and we meet somewhere in the middle.
The mop handle knocks against wood, and we exchange ragged breaths, lips brushing together in a featherlight touch. So close yet so far.
Don’t.
Don’t do it.
Don’t risk her like that, asshole.
When I slant our mouths together harder, surrendering with a groan, I’ve never hated myself more.
Fuck.
She’s so sweet. So hot, so soft, and each bruising kiss, each nibble of her lip, each stroke of our tongues stokes my need higher. The coffee shop blurs around us, and the sounds of traffic outside fade, and there’s nothing in the whole goddamn world except this woman, sighing against my mouth.
“Mmph,” Betty says, fisting my t-shirt with both hands as the mop clatters to the floor. She kisses me back with gusto, again and again, and heat crawls up my neck despite the overeager AC. “You should,” another deep kiss, “visit more often.”
No, I shouldn’t. I should leave this girl the hell alone.
And finally, far too late, those protective instincts kick back in. My inner caveman recedes enough for me to think straight. I take my hands off her then rock back on my heels, my t-shirt stretching in her grip before she lets go.
Betty frowns at me, confused. Who can blame her? I barge into her place of work, kiss her breathless—then back off. “Oh,” she says, squeezing the edge of the counter. Her pupils are dilated. “Did I… did I do something wrong? I’ve never really…”
This burning sensation in my chest is my righteous punishment. I have no business kissing this woman; no business craving her and dreaming of her and coming back here over and over to get my fix. I can’t offer her a normal life, nor a healthy relationship.
Can’t offer her anything.
