by Emilia Finn
“No point being uncomfortable. I hope you have a lovely night, and whoever is getting those flowers, I hope she appreciates them the way she should.”
“I’m sure she will.”
Turning away from the counter, I smile for Troy ‘Romeo’ Rosa – Abigail’s oldest brother – and smother my laugh when he walks with a limp.
Not so long ago, that giant mountain of overprotective muscle was shot in the ass – the perks of the job he’s chosen – and now, he walks funny. And that walk, the hitch in his step, and the growling that comes with it, makes me happier than it should.
Though of course, I know better than to laugh about it to his face. I’m man enough to admit he’s bigger than me, badder, and if licenses to kill were a thing, I’m certain he has one.
“Romeo.”
He narrows his eyes and watches me approach. “Devil. Whose life are you trying to infiltrate and destroy from the inside?”
“Troy!” Abigail’s exasperated voice cuts through. “Quit being rude.”
“One special lady,” I answer anyway. “I think maybe she got me stuck.”
“Good,” he grunts out. “Getting stuck is fun. Now go away before my sister’s shop spontaneously explodes.”
I bark out a laugh and head toward the front door. “Ya know, that wasn’t me.”
“What wasn’t you?” Abigail asks as Romeo meets his sister at the counter.
“Everyone around here says something about explosions whenever me and my brother are around.” I stop at the front door and turn back to meet her eyes. “They especially reference the pet food factory explosion.”
“That wasn’t you?” Abby narrows her eyes. “That’s not what everyone else says.”
I grab the door handle and pull it open. “That’s what I’m saying. I know what the rumors are. But seeing as I was there that night, I also know who actually blew the place up. And it sure as shit wasn’t me.” Then I do some kind of weird half-bow. “Good morrow.”
Romeo snorts. “Good morrow, you fuckin’ weirdo. And until you hand over the factory explosion culprit, we won’t change our opinion or the rumors on who did it. Just so you know.”
I shrug just before the door closes again. “In my family, we know what happens to snitches. See ya.” I lift a hand to wave goodbye, then stepping onto the sidewalk, I head toward Ally’s hotel and forgo my truck… though fifty or so steps later, when people stare at the flowers in my hands, I regret that decision and make a mad dash back to get my ride.
The beauty of living in a small town is that everything is within walking distance. It could take five minutes to walk, or, at the most, an hour, if you’re going from one end to the very, very other. But most trips take ten, maybe twenty minutes, and with Ally staying in a hotel just a few short blocks from Main Street, it doesn’t take long at all to travel the distance from the florist to the front entrance of the historical building that boasts a presidential suite – though I can say with almost a hundred percent confidence that a president has never ever stayed in there, unless of course, we count the president of the local chess club.
The front doors are double wide, thick glass, and have that mirrored effect so when you’re outside, you can’t see in. But when you’re inside, you see who’s approaching.
Unfortunately for me.
I push through the glass door with a smile creeping along my face, only to stop again and jolt when that dude, that same fucking dude from this morning, looks up and smiles from his vantage point on an ‘old boys club’ leather couch in front of the unlit fireplace.
This building may once have belonged to a single rich family, because if you look past the numbers that are now on each door, and look past the glass window that leads into an office space, a guy can really see the home underneath. The coat room, and the front foyer. The hall that leads toward what I assume is the kitchen, and then the sprawling set of stairs that leads up. Most of all, I see the sitting parlor, the fireplace, the silver drinks tray strategically left out for guests to help themselves.
And I see Jason, the guy who maybe likes looking at my girl.
He reads an oversized newspaper – not the local paper, since ours is much smaller – but something that overflows the sides of his lap and droops down to touch his thighs. He sits in black pants much like mine, and a button-up… sort of like mine. Except instead of looking uncomfortable the way I feel, he looks like he’s been dressed that way all day. Comfortable, unruffled.
He glances up and meets my eyes when I stop in the doorway, then his gaze tracks to the bouquet in my hands, and his brows arch up. “Quite the display you have there, Mr…”
When I say nothing, he refolds his paper and pushes to his feet without a single care in the world.
Meandering across the room and stopping just a couple of feet away from me, he digs both hands into his pockets, and rocks back on his heels. It’s like he’s impervious to the venom in my glare. “You’re not gonna tell me your name?”
“You act like you don’t know.” I crush the flower stems in my hand, but I try – I really, really do – to calm myself and breathe through what I think is a strange dude trying to lay claim over a beautiful woman he doesn’t even know.
But then I remember that I was also a guy… laying claim on a beautiful woman I didn’t even know.
“Luke Hart.” I try to relax my jaw, but it ain’t happening. I try not to squeeze his hand… but when I offer, and he takes it, there’s not a hell of a lot I can do about the adrenaline zinging through my blood.
“Jason Donnerson. Pretty flowers.”
“For someone very special to me. Why do you insist on being seen?”
The second I release his hand, he flexes it and drops it back into his pocket. “How do you mean?”
“I mean you turn up to town, you smile for my girl, then you purposely make yourself seen when I’m walking through. Why do you want me to notice you?”
“Maybe I don’t.” He swallows, but hides that show of nerves with a smile. “Maybe I want her to notice me. Maybe I think she’s beautiful too.”
“And you think it’s smart telling me that? Do you think the fact I haven’t already smacked you down is a sign of weakness?”
“I don’t know.” His eyes continue to come back to the flowers. “It’s either weakness, in that you can’t protect what you call yours, or it’s discipline and a lengthy rap sheet that says if you fight some more this year, you’re going to get your ass tossed into jail.”
“Listen here, asswipe.” I push forward until we stand toe to toe, and the flowers crush between us. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, and I don’t know where you came from, but you’re in my town now, and around here, we take care of our own. You’re not getting anywhere near her again. I’ll make fuckin’ sure of it.”
“Hey there.” Libby Tate is a local cop, married to a thug, related to a bunch of other thugs, and an all-around gym junkie – which is how I know her – and right now, she pushes through the hotel’s front doors to where Jason and I stand, and grabbing my arm, she uses her strength and steers me away from him. “Absolutely not, Hart. Move along.”
“Who the fuck is he, Lib?” I let her steer me to the stairs, and then up. “He’s scamming on Ally, and it’s giving me the fucking creeps.”
Libby is five-foot-something, short, with stocky legs, toned shoulders, and mousy brown hair. When she wears her uniform, much of her muscle is washed out by the boxy shirt. But I feel it now, the strength, and her unbending opinion that I should be moved far, far away from Jason Donnerson.
“First of all,” she says as we climb the stairs. “I have no clue who Ally is. So that’s great. And second, you’re not allowed to fight in public. I just saved you a six-month sleepover on tax dollars.”
“But he’s trying to net my girlfriend!”
“I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend! Weren’t you in court a month ago because of a different girl?”
“Well… yeah. But this time it’s—
”
“Different?” Smiling as we stop on the second floor, Lib turns and studies me. She reaches up after a moment, and fixes my collar, and when she’s satisfied with that, she re-plumps the roses I ruined. “You found a girl that feels different, huh?”
“Why is everyone on my case about this? This conversation is supposed to be about that dude downstairs. Not about me and feelings and emotions and shit.”
“Pretty sure feelings and emotions are synonyms, but okay. You picked pretty flowers, by the way. Whoever she is, she’ll love them.”
“I need you to go downstairs and goose that guy along. Get him out of this hotel, and out of this town. You and I both know you have the power to do that.”
“I’m a cop, Hart. I absolutely do not have that power.”
“You are a Griffin,” I growl. “You have all the power you’ll ever need. Get your husband onto this shit, and have him deal with it.”
“Deal with—?” she sputters. “Who the hell do you think you’re speaking with? Al Capone? We don’t deal with people, Luke. In fact, we tend to leave the law-abiding folks alone for the most part.”
“Just find out who he is for me. Find out where he came from. Find out if he came here looking for her, or if he just so happened to see her and decided he liked her.”
“That guy downstairs?” She thrusts a hand in his direction. “Is twice your damn age. He’s not looking at the same women you are.”
“Hell he ain’t,” I snarl. “He’s looking, alright. And it’s pissing me off.”
I reach up to fix my tie – except it’s already gone – so then I drop my head back and close my eyes. One deep breath, one cleansing exhale, then I glance down again. “I’m not going to make this into a big deal. I will not lose my head over this guy. But I’m telling you, Lib. You have a predator in your town, and it would do you good to mention the name Jason Donnerson to your husband. That’s all you have to do – mention the name – and whatever happens after that, happens.”
Libby cocks her hip to the side and plays with the clip holding her gun in place. Flick, flick, flick. “And if I don’t?”
“Then maybe I’ll mention it to Sophia. The results will be the same. I just have to leave a Post-It on her desk with the name. If there’s nothing going on, then nothing comes of it. But if there’s something under the surface, shit will be taken care of. Either way, it’ll be out of my hands.”
“So you think you get to deploy soldiers to take care of your dirty work, simply because you’re mad a guy is looking at your girl?” She shakes her head. “And to think, you said you wouldn’t lose your head over this guy.”
“I’m not. I haven’t yet.” I point toward the stairs. “Losing my head would mean he and I have already fought. He’d be laying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, and I’d be ready to celebrate my win in the most primal of ways.” I look to Ally’s door. “With her, in that room. Me walking away just now, that’s me keeping my shit on lock.”
I step away from Libby, rearrange the bouquet in my arms, then I bring a hand up and ready it to knock. “Just mention his name, Lib. To Griff, or to Soph. Either is fine with me. But before that, maybe move Donnerson along so he ain’t downstairs when I bring her down in a few minutes. If I have to see him again, I might give him a tap, and we both know the judge isn’t gonna like that.”
With a noisy sigh, Libby shakes her head and backs away, so when her feet hit the top step and she turns to walk down, I draw a cleansing breath, let it out again, and then I knock.
Ally
Dinner With A Gentleman
It’s five minutes past seven, which means I’ve had four minutes to stare at the door and get a little cranky that Luke is late. It’s not that I’m looking for a reason to be mad, but rather, my life is literally about human behavior. It’s about watching people’s actions rather than listening to their words.
And right now, as a thumping knock at the door brings my head snapping up, Luke’s actions say that to him, five minutes late isn’t a big deal. It means I’m not important enough for promptness. It means no matter what he says, his actions indicate perhaps he doesn’t feel quite the same as I do.
And that knowledge burns me, because I never wanted to catch feelings for this guy.
Standing from the chair I’ve been occupying for the last half an hour, I grab my purse and phone, and head across my room with an odd excitement-to-cranky ratio swirling in my blood. I’m excited for tonight, more than I expected or wanted to be.
It’s that thing about not wanting to catch feelings for the town prankster.
But there’s also five percent or so, the cranky five, that somehow feels more potent than the other ninety-five.
My heels tonight are a little taller than those I wear to work. My dress, just a little shorter. Neither of which are inappropriate. But together, they make me feel sexy. And feeling sexy, right now, helps lift me up and propel me toward the door with the annoying excitement-to-cranky thing on full blast.
Stopping at the door and peeking through the peephole, I study Luke and all the ways he dressed up for me tonight.
More actions. More human behavior.
White shirt with the buttons done up until the last two.
Black pants with a sharp pleat ironed into the front of each leg. There’s a definite bulge where his phone rests in one pocket, and in the other… another bulge that I can’t discern. And then there’s the bulge, which is annoyingly attention-seeking, seeing as I know exactly what’s behind that zipper.
Luke wears shiny dress shoes, and on his chin, a neat, trimmed stubble that feels like heaven on my thighs. Blasphemy, I’m certain, but it is what it is.
No hat tonight, which seems out of place, since he wears one almost all of the time, except while we sleep. Which then brings my thoughts circling back to bed, the stubble, the bulge, and instinctively, my thighs tingle and my stomach dips.
“I can see your shadow, Ally.” Smiling, Luke knocks again, but this time, harder, more insistent. “Let me in, Red, or I’ll blow your house down.”
Rolling my eyes, I swing the door open and meet his playful gaze. “You’re mixing up your fairytales.”
“Nuh uh.” His eyes scour me from head to toe, only to falter on my legs and take an extra slow study. “My fairytale is standing right in front of me.” He brings a hand up and presses it to his chest. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
I must be forgiven for not noticing anything but Luke. I was so caught on the obvious details – his broad chest stretching his shirt, the stubble, the ironed pants – that I didn’t notice the overly large bouquet of roses he holds down at his side. But once my eyes catch them, and then my brain catches up, my breath stops, and that five percent vanishes into mist.
“Oh gosh. They’re so beautiful.”
“For you.” Luke brings the flowers up and steps forward until they’re cradled between us, then he feathers his lips over mine. He’s not demanding in his kiss. There’s no indecency. Just a ‘welcome back into my life’ touch of lips. A ‘thank you for existing’ brush of love.
Wait. Love? No. I meant… like… friendship. With feelings.
Welcome back, five percent.
I accept the bouquet with shaking hands, and bringing them to my nose when he steps back, I take a deep inhale and let my smile crinkle free. “I love them. Thank you.” I lower the flowers once more, stretch forward, and press my glossy red lips to his cheek. “Come on in.”
I take his hand, and lead him across my room to the fridge. The door swings closed behind us, and though Luke follows me most of the way, he hangs back and watches while I grab the hotel’s vase from on top of the fridge. I bring it down with one hand, lay the bouquet on the narrow countertop, and filling the clear glass container, I set it down and gently peel the lace ribbon away so the flowers separate. One at a time, I place them into the water with the tenderest care. One red, one pink. One for lust, and one for feelings. One for sex, and one for the breakfast we would
share together the morning after.
“These are really beautiful.” I don’t know if I’m speaking to him, or to myself, but I enjoy arranging my flowers. I enjoy touching each stem, moving them so one pink touches one red. I enjoy the transformation of an ugly glass urn into what will be the centerpiece to my room for the next week or so.
When I finish the arrangement, I take the ribbon, but instead of adding it to the flowers, I make my way toward the bathroom while Luke watches me move.
It’s like its own kind of foreplay. The way his eyes stay on my legs. The way his hands clench by his side, and his jaw tenses.
He could be angry, or he could be uncontrollably turned on. And I truly wouldn’t be able to tell the difference until he touched me.
I stop in front of the mirror in the bathroom, and smiling for the bold mascara and eyeliner work I did before he arrived, and approving of the red lipstick that matches perfectly to the red roses that now sit in my room, I carefully work the ribbon into my hair. Later, when we come back here, he can untie it with careful hands, he can seduce me, and then we can spend a few hours together where nothing is scary, and the only thing we have to think about is each other, and how easily we can give pleasure, at the same time as we receive it.
It takes me a minute to get the ribbon right. There’s a delicate balance between schoolgirl ribbon-in-my-hair, and sexy garter that Luke can later untie while his imagination runs wild.
And the promise that comes with that, the anticipation, leaves me a little breathless.
“Your room is nice.”
As I finish up with my hair, I watch in the mirror as Luke looks around my space. It’s just a single room, but it’s pretty large. King-sized bed, a small couch and a coffee table to go with it. A flatscreen TV on the wall, and not so far from that, the fridge and sink I was just using. The bathroom I stand in is large and chic, which is the complete opposite of what the hotel as a whole is.
On the outside, it’s an outdated building that probably needs a high-pressure wash to clean off a hundred years of dirt and grime. Even the internal halls need a little love. But in this room, at least, they’ve spent money on updates. Living in a hotel for a few months won’t come as a chore when this is the room I get to occupy.
