by M. A. Grant
Like the scents wafting from her bakery, she was something special. Adorably short, with curves in all the right places, pale skin, and long dark hair, she was a walking temptation. It had been okay when she'd keep her head down, only trying to catch glimpses of him out of the corner of her eye. At least then he'd been able to pretend too. Then, two months ago, after a really shitty night, he'd been stupid enough to actually look at her. To appreciate the delicate, gauzy scarf she'd wrapped around her neck that day, and the way she'd pulled her hair up. He'd looked and she'd been ballsy enough to wave.
From that moment, it was all over.
Now he couldn't not acknowledge her presence. He couldn't ignore her and pretend he wasn't interested to see exactly what her body would look like spread out on the sheets of his bed. What she'd sound like as he fucked her until she saw stars and screamed his name to the rafters.
Tonight they'd swapped roles. She was heading home for the night and he was heading to work. The street lamps had just come on, so it wasn't like he could see her face any better than normal. For some reason, he wished he could see it, that she'd finally get a good look at him. He wanted her to remember him.
She was paler than the last time he’d seen her, but skin color could easily look different in the dusky light of nightfall. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, tight, and she clutched an envelope in one hand. That was kind of weird, especially since her purse was on her shoulder and she could have easily tucked the letter into it. Instead, she held it by the corner, as if she were loath to touch it. Maybe it was a bill or final notice of some kind?
Why did he care? He didn't even know her name.
She gave a tentative finger wiggle and he returned it with his customary nod. It was odd to watch her cast her eyes downward and hurry off. Usually they both walked slowly, trying to sneak peeks when they could before the moment was over.
Whatever. He mentally shook himself, trying to shed the distracting thoughts that ricocheted around his skull. A quick thumb scan, a punched in security code, and the door into the Suits' base opened.
Like always, he was the earliest there. The other guys were never late, but Zeke preferred to avoid the usual locker room chatter. He changed quickly, storing his civvies and duffel bag in his locker, and tried hard to forget the quick glimpse he'd caught of his back. His normal routine was planned to help him avoid mirrors, but tonight he hadn't quite stepped far enough to the side to miss one.
Stupid bakery woman's fault. Such a frigging distraction.
His Sigs were comfortable weights at his side. He checked his harnesses one final time, making sure no straps were twisted, and smoothed his shirt and vest. After he swung on his jacket, he checked for telltale signs of his concealed carry. Content he met his own high standards of professionalism, he clocked in and headed down the underground hallway that connected the staff quarters to The Club proper.
One quick shift and then home again, home again. Hoo-fucking-ray.
***
Vivian was beat. It had taken her forever to get home last night thanks to a botched fondant on a retirement cake. At least she'd been able to fix it and finally leave Divine Twins. By then though, it was much later than usual and she'd had the unnerving suspicion that someone was watching her. The discovery of another envelope stuck in the door confirmed her worst suspicion and had sent that now-familiar frisson down her spine, leaving her cold and shaking. She'd grabbed it from the door, only to fumble her keys and drop them. When she'd finally looked up, she'd seen him.
Shadow Man. Her strange guardian angel who always seemed to be leaving work in one of the ancient, beautifully designed buildings across the street whenever she was showing up to her bakery. When he was out, no strangers hung around. She never felt nervous around him. If anything, it was like he was protecting her under the umbrella of his own fuck-off attitude.
The guy stuck to the solitude and anonymity the antique wrought-iron street lamps afforded during the still-dark hours of the morning. He was the only man who could send an electric shiver over her skin with just a flick of his eyes. It wouldn't have mattered if there were ten streets between them, the base carnality that seeped from his skin would still set her on fire. She refused to let him see how much he affected her, so she'd waved like always and hurried off.
It was stupid to admit she'd spent most of the night scissoring the sheets of her bed while dreams of his face between her legs, his tongue teasing her clit, his breath hot against her thighs, kept her from her rest. All the sleeplessness of an erotic one-night stand, but none of the release.
So far, this morning hadn’t been much better. Throw in Yvette's continued illness, Lisa's running late due to a missed school bus, and Vivian was barely holding together her sanity. Then the coffee had run out and she'd finally had a break and for some weird reason there wasn't a letter waiting for her upon her arrival...
"Excuse me–?"
Vivian jerked at the question, scattering coffee grounds across the counter. Perfect. Breathe, she reminded herself. Don’t let the stress get to you. There are customers to help. A sneaky part of her added, Customers with sexy Irish accents.
“Sorry,” the man said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
The rough, deep voice tugged low in her belly. She ignored the mess and looked over her shoulder with a cheery, albeit fake, grin in place. "Not a problem," she promised. “How can I help y-?" Her voice trailed off when she met the blue eyes of the man standing near the cash register.
Speak of the devil and he shall be summoned. Shadow Man.
She’d never seen him clearly before. She’d simply known him by his silent confidence and intimidating size. She’d spent months wondering what he actually looked like, what the blackness of the shadows hid from her. Now she knew.
Her mouth dried at the sight of him. His dark blond hair was on the verge of a pompadour, a bastardization of a military buzz cut and modern style. A tight black t-shirt under a worn black leather jacket showed a chiseled physique, one cut from heavy, functional muscle. Soft, worn, pale jeans hung from his hips, leading down to a pair of worn black shitkickers. He wasn’t beautiful. His jaw was too square, nose too straight, lips too strong, and shoulders far, far too broad to fit that word.
No, definitely not beautiful. Powerful. Primeval. A man who was probably only a step more advanced than ancient warriors who were as likely to kill as to claim a prize.
His eyes searched her face, their intensity sending a lance of heat through her. Just a look left her wet and shifting awkwardly behind the counter. She hadn’t reacted this strongly to a man in...well, in forever. And in this close of proximity, she was a goner for sure.
A pale eyebrow raised and the corner of his mouth quirked, as if he knew what inappropriate thoughts were running through her head.
“Sorry,” she croaked. “How can I help you?”
“One of my mates said you have soda bread for sale.”
Thank God. An excuse to refocus on her work instead of him. “It’s a good thing you got here early,” she said, moving toward that section of the display case. “I usually sell out in the mornings, especially at the beginning of the week. How many do you want?”
“Just one.”
One? So...no one to share it with? “Are you sure? They’re pretty good.”
His leather jacket stretched over his back as he bent to look in the case. She crouched from her side, watching him through the clean glass. His eyes were slightly narrowed, focused on the carefully crafted individual loaves dotted with either raisins or currants. His jaw tightened, lips flattening, and her pulse fluttered. Surely a man that good looking would have someone to share with.
She couldn’t resist finding out. “I bet your girlfriend would appreciate you bringing her breakfast.”
That got a reaction. Their gazes met through the case and his smirk would have set her panties on fire if they hadn’t already been soaked.
“Subtle,” he said. The sarcasm lacing the word was sharp
, but his next words softened the blow. “There’s no girlfriend in the picture.”
“Oh.” Great, Vivian, because that phrase totally hides how freakishly nosy you are. “Then how about a second loaf for later? One of each?”
He chuckled, the sound little more than a rumble in his chest, and shook his head. “You don’t give up, do you?”
“Nope.” She ignored the spark of pleasure that came from having his attention focused on her and quickly bagged two of the freshest loaves. “Want a coffee to go with that?”
“It looks like you’re out.”
She waved her hand. “I was just getting the next batch on when you spoke up. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”
She was positive he’d turn her down. Everything about him screamed that he wasn’t the kind of man who sat around waiting for things to happen. So she was surprised when he shrugged and reached toward the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet.
“Sure. Why not.”
Again with the accent. “For here or to go?”
He glanced around the quiet bakery. The tables were all open except for the one occupied by Mr. Di Pasqua. He must have realized he’d have his pick of seats because he flipped open his wallet and dug around for some cash. “For here.”
“Sugar or cream?”
“Cream.”
She rang him up, got his change, and handed it over with a smile. “I’ll bring it over in a minute. Here’s your soda bread.”
"Thanks."
***
This woman was something else. He'd fantasized what kind of personality would be wrapped in that oh-so-sexy package, but those fantasies hadn't prepared him for the reality. She was fearless. Not only had she dug for information she had no right to know, she'd somehow convinced him to sit around and drink a cup of coffee. The only thing that cut through his amused haze was looking up at one of the hanging, antique mirrors and catching a glimpse of her watching his ass as he walked away. Instant hard-on.
Yeah, he definitely hadn't planned for that either.
He shifted uncomfortably at his seat, managing to give a polite smile to the older gentleman who sat a few tables away. The old guy grinned back, shaking his head a little before returning to his pastry. The thing looked freaking delicious. Like a croissant with some kind of filling that probably went perfectly with the black coffee the guy was guzzling down.
His stomach growled. It had been a busy night and he hadn't gotten to eat dinner like he'd hoped. Oh, he could have, but sometimes it was easier to follow his military conditioning and ignore the hunger pangs. A good reminder that he was still alive. Quite a statement to make on All Soul's Day.
He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to his father. Stopping for breakfast. On the road soon.
The reply came back a few moments later. Take your time. Drive safe.
The clink of a mug setting down on his table got him to put his phone down. The woman smiled at him, one hip cocked out a little and her arms crossed over her plenty ample chest. "Are you sure you don't want anything else?"
"No, thank you, ma'am," he said.
Too bad his stomach chose that moment to gurgle its protest. Her eyes narrowed. "Have you eaten yet today?"
Dammit. "No, ma'am."
"Stop ma'am-ing me. My name is Vivian and you're starving. Wait here."
She spun on her foot and disappeared into the back room before he could protest. Vivian. He liked the name. It fit her. Something Old World, but still unique.
Maybe he could chug his coffee down and get out before she returned. His first sip ruined that plan. "Oh, damn, that’s good," he mumbled appreciatively as the dark roast slid over his tongue, lightened a bit with a hint of sweet cream.
It would be sacrilege to speed through this cup of coffee. He couldn't do it. She'd won. Tricky, conniving, sweet-as-sin Vivian had won.
She beamed when she found him still sitting there, sipping the coffee with the reverence of a dying man who'd been granted another day's reprieve. "Like it?"
"Best cup of coffee I've ever had," he said honestly.
"How do you feel about cinnamon rolls?"
His jaw dropped at the sight of the plate she set down before him. Puffed dough glistening with creamy icing that melted over ridges of cinnamon swirls. He couldn't help it. He took a quick sniff and his mouth watered so much he had to swallow.
She nodded as if he'd passed some unspoken test and gently placed a fork down beside the plate. "Enjoy," she murmured and walked away.
By the time he'd swiped up the last bit of frosting with his fork tines and looked up, the bakery had a few customers. Two more tables had been taken by older folks and he wondered if they came early to enjoy the fresh baked goods or the peaceful quiet. Vivian noticed him putting his fork down on his plate and held up a finger, gesturing for him to give her a minute.
He nodded and she returned to ringing up her last two customers.
A short time later, she was back at his table. "How was it?"
"Delicious. But I think you already knew that."
Funny how something as simple as a genuine smile could make the day ahead seem a little less horrifying. She reached out for his plate and gestured at his mug. "Do you want any more coffee?"
"Yeah. But I need it for the road."
"I'll have it at the counter for you."
She was true to her word. A travel cup waited for him by the register. He waited in line behind a haggard secretary who frantically ordered an assortment of a dozen pastries before getting a chance alone with Vivian.
His good mood lasted until she rang up his total. He must have been scowling, because she gave him a quizzical look and asked, "Is something wrong?"
"You didn't charge me for the cinnamon roll."
"No, I didn't."
"I need to pay you for that."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "No, you don't. It was on the house."
He straightened, shoulders moving back, chin tilting down so he could pin her with his sternest look. "I don't need charity."
"And I don't need you spoiling my morning."
The unexpected admission made him blink. She wavered, but looked up and met him eye to eye. "This is the first time in months that you've stepped into my bakery. After how many times we've passed each other on the street, it only seems right to offer good food to a friend who's made me feel safe when I get to work. Do you understand?"
Holy shit. That was a lot to process. Both the use of the word friend and the surprising fact that she felt safe around him instead of threatened by him. But she'd asked him if he'd understood why she made the gesture and he'd be damned if he behaved badly to her now.
He nodded dumbly and handed over the money to cover the cost of the coffee. What change she handed back to him got tossed in the tips jar and he took up his cup.
"Thank you for breakfast," he said roughly. "And the soda bread."
"Thank you for stopping by," she replied. "I'm sure we'll see each other again soon."
He nodded and retreated as quickly as politeness allowed. A strange, small part of him hoped she was right, that he'd see her again soon. It wasn't until he had started his car and was setting his coffee in the cup holder that he noticed the writing on the cardboard sleeve. Vivian's name and phone number.
At least now he had something other than his waiting family to think about during the drive.
Chapter 3
Bradley Harding waited for him in the parking lot. It had taken Zeke years to forgive his father enough to stand being in his presence. Their relationship now was probably better than it ever had been, due in no small part to the harsh words that were exchanged after the funeral. Throwing the truth in each other’s faces may have hurt like a bitch, but they’d gotten over the past a helluva lot faster.
“How was the drive?” Bradley asked as Zeke slid out of his car.
“Fine. Roads were good.”
“Did you eat?”
“Yep.” Funny how he could answer his fat
her’s patented question honestly for a change. He held up the paper bag. “Brought her some soda bread.”
His father held up a bouquet of dark pink flowers. “I thought she might like these.”
Zeke glanced at the flowers, recognizing them as alstroemeria. He’d ordered them for her a few times when he was overseas and wanted her to know he hadn’t forgotten her. “She’s always loved those. Nice choice.”
They made their way into the cemetery proper with free hands stuffed in pockets and eyes cast toward the carefully manicured pea gravel walkways. It was early enough that the only other person in sight was Mr. Gauls, one of the custodians. He left the area after briefly tipping his hat to them, granting them the privacy that they would need.
Aoife Harding—née O’Neill—rested in a plot near the rose garden. Zeke knelt near the headstone, brushing his fingers over the inscription. I loved you at your darkest. Romans 5:8. The perfect words, but just as painful to read today as they were years ago.
Bradley laid the flowers at the base of her gravestone and Zeke pulled out the currant loaf and placed it next to the bright blooms. He split the raisin loaf in half and handed part of it to his father. Bradley sat beside Zeke with a soft exhalation, the only sign that he was beginning to feel his age. He took a bite of the loaf and made a sound of surprise.
“Good, huh?” Zeke asked.
“Very. Where did you get this?”
“There’s a bakery near my work. I stopped there this morning for the first time.”
“Your mom would have loved this.”
Again, they fell to silence, although it was a little more comfortable this time. Zeke finished and crumpled up the paper bag, stuffing it into his coat pocket. “Okay, mum,” he said, staring absently toward the passing clouds overhead. “I don’t have a ton of news. Work’s been busy, but I’ve almost got enough saved up to buy up the bookstore I was telling you about. John’s doing fine. He met some girl and I’m supposed to go out to dinner with them. I guess he’s serious about her. And no, I don’t have a woman in my life.”
