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I turn to face Desmond. A playful smile dances at the corners of his lips, challenging my sense of personal space. He really is tall, at least a foot taller than my short, slim frame. He makes me look like a child, but his voice makes me feel anything but.
Studying him with a hint of curiosity, I let time stretch into a moment of mild awkwardness. My gaze traces the lines of his round face, from his black beanie that adds a touch of mystery to the stubble along his jawline. The shadows play across his features, revealing a slight dimple that peeks through the fuzz. His dark eyes, though, are the true enigma, as if they have seen the depths of the world’s secrets.
“How?” I blurt out, because his words are false. I know that the worst of the world hides in plain sight. It’s the people who we think we know well who are the bad guys—the ones that smile and laugh with us, hugging us with one arm and holding a knife in the other. Maybe I’m just jaded, but people don’t just go and make declarations like that.
“You don’t know me. You don’t trust me.” As he speaks, his breath gusts over my cheek, creating a shiver that travels to my heart, which thumps out of control. “I assure you, Milo is safe.”
I don’t know how he read me so well, but I step back and nod to Milo, who watched that entire interaction. He takes off into the crowd, and I spin around, watching as he weaves around people as only a small boy can. He launches himself at Mr. Benson, who somehow catches Milo with one arm.
My sigh of relief nearly has me seeing stars. I know the worry will ease with time. I don’t want to fast-forward our lives until I’m okay, because I don’t want to miss the little important things with Milo, but damn, I want to feel secure. I want to feel safe.
Is that too much to ask for?
“Well,” Desmond drawls, his voice a playful tug on my senses, “looks like your date is none other than your little brother.” We move forward in line together, the mouthwatering aroma of freshly baked goods teasing my senses. Despite my earlier loss of appetite, my sweet tooth remains unwavering. After all, a woman has her priorities.
“Yep,” I reply, a lock of hair dancing in the breeze before I tuck it coyly behind my ear. “You know you don’t have to buy us dessert as a tip.” My words spill out in a bit of a rush, nervous energy conspiring with his magnetic presence.
He smirks, and that confident smile of his makes my heart somersault. “Consider it my congratulations for winning full custody,” he replies, his voice a velvet murmur for my ears only.
A jolt of surprise shoots through me. “How did you find out?” I tense, suddenly on high alert. I never told him about the custody win, so who spilled the beans?
“Relax, Charlotte,” he soothes, his use of my name sending shivers down my spine. “Sal mentioned it to me.”
“Traitor,” I mutter with mock resentment, though the truth in his words stings less than I’d like to admit. Then again, this is the reality of a tight-knit town and exactly why I chose to set down roots here.
He chuckles, and the rich sound washes over me like warm sunshine. “In a place as small as this, news travels fast.”
I shoot him a sidelong glance, a mischievous glint in my eye. “And what about you?” I prod, my curiosity piqued. “Are you one of the local secrets too?”
Desmond’s response is deliberately vague. “Let’s just say I have my own kind of history here.” His words leaves me both intrigued and wanting to dig deeper.
This is the longest chat Desmond and I have shared, and we’re now just one person away from the front of the line. Oddly, I find myself torn between hoping the conversation wraps up and secretly wishing it could carry on indefinitely. I steal a quick glance back at Milo, a reassuring check to ensure he’s close and safe. It’s during this glance that I catch sight of the sleek black sports car perched arrogantly across two parking spaces at the far end of the lot.
“What an asshole,” I grumble.
“There’s that spice I knew simmered under your skin,” Desmond says, standing too close to me.
I rear away from him and side-eye him while pointing to the car. “He ran a red light earlier. People like him kill others trying to follow the rules of the road.”
“Did he now?” Desmond hums to himself before looking back to the food truck. “Yes,” he says to the woman at the counter. I don’t know her name, only that she’s a new employee. “Can I have two brownies, two sugar cookies, and two cake pops?”
“Of course, Mr. Black.” The woman backs away with a slight blush on her cheeks, her eyes darting back to him more than once, then to me with curiosity. She’s probably wondering who I am to him. Desmond is handsome in that foreign prince kind of way.
“How very…anticlimactic,” I say to him, and I can’t decide if I’m trying to flirt or not. Desmond is almost too much for me. His presence oozes out of him in waves of dominance I’ve never experienced. I wasn’t lying to Tate when I said to stay away from him. I should heed my own warnings.
“What is that, Charlotte?” He leans against the counter in his fancy suit as though no spills would even consider touching his expensive coat.
“Mr. Black,” I say, and yeah, I think I’m flirting. Clearing my throat, I try for casual. “Desmond Black feels, I don’t know…wrong. I anticipated a last name to match your first, if I’m honest.” Where am I even going with this?
“Black is my father’s chosen name,” he reveals with a slight smirk on his pouty lips. “My mother’s name is a bit more dramatic.”
“Care to share?” I tease, but I know I need to end this conversation here and now.
“Maybe, just not today.” The warmth he exuded during our conversation slowly dries up, making me wonder if my line of questioning went too far.
The serving window slides open, and our order emerges, which Desmond deftly collects. With our bag in hand, he places his palm on the small of my back, guiding me aside. The contact of his hand seeps through my clothes, leaving a trail of warmth that resonates deep within me. It’s a reminder, striking and electrifying, of how much time has passed since a man’s touch last ignited such sensations.
I find myself oddly drawn to the way he leads me to an open spot in the parking lot, his touch leaving a lingering imprint that I can’t help but miss when he eventually steps away. A thought flits through my mind—did he even pay? Oddly, it strikes me as peculiar, considering that while having a tab is common in this town, something about Desmond not paying seems out of place.
