by Kati Wilde
“You ready to open?” His voice is as big and as deep as his chest.
“Yes,” I say and can hear the husky note in my reply. If my apron didn’t cover my breasts, my nipples would be poking right through my thin Jem and the Holograms T-shirt. “Just your usual?”
And will you kiss me, please?
“Whatever you’ve got for me,” he says.
“Oooh, well then you’re in luck.” Suddenly full of anticipation, I head inside, pointing to his seat at the counter. “You sit. I’ve got something new.”
This is the best part of working at Reggie’s—the best part aside from having Bull’s company every morning. My friend Minerva Vey owns the café, but she’s given me a free hand with the menu and management. It’s a long way from sous chef at the Michelin-starred restaurant where I used to work in Manhattan, but everything I loved about that job, I still have here. The head chef had been brilliant and exacting and always pushing us to send out food that will not only satisfy the customer but excite them with every bite—and that hasn’t changed.
It just costs my customers a lot less.
Add in the challenge of tailoring it to the café setting, where customers order at the counter and most of them are taking it to go? Not as easy as it sounds. We’ve got a limited menu as it is, with the old standards of bagels and croissants and assorted bakery items—pastries and desserts made here every morning, the breads from a local bakery. Sandwiches and soups rule the menu, and most of the time, customers want something familiar and substantial and comforting. They’ll order the same thing every single day, at breakfast and lunch. And the weekly chef’s special? The more similar to their usual that it is, the more likely they’ll try it.
But not Bull. His ‘usual’ is whatever I put in front of him. Typically he doesn’t even hesitate before digging in.
This time he does, looking down at the bowl I set on the counter, his spoon poking at the caramelized fried onions, cilantro, and cashews garnishing the top. “Is that oatmeal?”
“Kind of.” At least, on the blackboard menu I’ll be describing it as ‘savory Hyderabadi oatmeal.’ I catch my bottom lip between my teeth but I can’t really stop my grin. “It’s a variation of haleem—which is not traditionally a breakfast dish but I thought it’d translate best to one here.”
“It’s got meat in it,” he says flatly. “You put meat in oatmeal.”
“Bits of beef so tender they’ll melt in your mouth. Nice and hearty for a growing boy who’s got a long day of work ahead,” I tell him. For customers who might not be as adventurous, I also made a vegetarian version, but Bull’s as carnivorous and as courageous as they come. “Squeeze that lime wedge over the top and try it.”
And I love this moment. When he takes that first bite. When the wariness in his blue eyes turns to something surprised. Then deeper, hotter, hungrier.
“Fuck me running,” he says gruffly, already shoveling up another spoonful. “The way it looks, it shouldn’t taste like that. What’s in there?”
“Magic,” I tell him, backing away from the counter with my hands up and my spirit fingers on high.
His grunt in reply is as good as any five-star Yelp review, because it means his mouth is too full to talk and he has no intention of letting it stay empty.
I head for the espresso machine and start making his americano. He orders just coffee, black—but one morning when I’d forgotten to start the coffee brewing before opening, I pulled one of these for him, instead, and discovered his taste runs a little deeper, a little less bitter than the drip coffee we serve. So it’s been americanos for a while now.
I’m not sure he’s noticed that I no longer pour his coffee from the carafe on the back counter. But he’s probably disappointed with the coffee he gets anywhere else.
Just fine with me. I don’t want him going anywhere else.
I set the mug beside his bowl—already half empty, so I’ll probably be serving up another before he leaves—and head for the bakery display case.
And if I put a little swing in my hips, because from his seat at the counter he’s got an unobstructed view of the way my ass looks in these jeans and how the ties of my apron accentuate every curve? All the better.
Because like I said—I don’t want him going anywhere else.
I don’t want any other customers going anywhere else, either, but I wouldn’t work quite so hard to keep them in that chair.
“Did you do anything fun this weekend?” I ask him as I start arranging the chocolate croissants. A lot of weekend mornings he comes in like usual, but this past weekend he didn’t. Now that it’s summer, his motorcycle club seems to go on rides all the time. I see them pass through town sometimes, dozens of men—about half with women riding behind them.
I’ve never seen a woman riding behind Bull.
I don’t know how I’d feel if I did. I don’t have a right to feel anything, I suppose. Still, when I think of it, a huge ache opens up in my chest.
Just like it does when I wonder if the reason he doesn’t come in sometimes is because another woman made him breakfast.
“Not fun,” he says quietly. “A funeral.”
Oh no. Feeling like a total ass for not remembering, I abandon the croissants and head back, my throat tight. His face is hard but I know there’s hot and rough emotion swirling beneath. “That little boy?”
The son of one of the other bikers. I heard all about it last Sunday even before Bull mentioned it the next morning—how they’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A convenience store. The security footage caught it all. They’d been standing in line to pay for a slushie when someone came in with a gun. Not targeting the biker, just looking to rob the place. But the robber had started firing, the biker had tried to shield his boy. They’d both been hit. The boy didn’t survive, but the biker did. Maybe. On Friday morning, Bull said his friend was still in a coma in a hospital up in Bend.
His nod is short. He’s not eating now. Or drinking his coffee. Just sitting with his jaw clenched and his hands fisted on the counter.
“Has there been any improvement in his father’s condition?”
“Not yet.”
“They haven’t caught the guy who did it?” Even though his picture is plastered over the front of the local paper and has been shown on the news every night.
And there’s the look in his eyes that tells me every single one of my instincts was right. Because he’s sweet and polite and funny. But I don’t have one single doubt that if the shooter were standing here now, Bull would kill him in cold blood and accept whatever consequences befell him.
That part of him doesn’t scare me. Maybe it should. But instead my heart just aches for him. Sliding my hand across the counter, I fold my fingers over his fist and squeeze.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
His throat works. He turns his hand palm up and for a long second, his strong fingers hold mine in his warm grip. Then he nods, lets me go, and begins eating again.
It’s quiet between us after that, because light conversation seems inappropriate. Until a customer comes in, I make her no-foam latte, and she goes.
“Are you taking lunch today?” I ask him, because often he does. Sometimes he and the other guys at the site head out to the Wolf Den during their lunch hour, but usually he brown-bags it with a lunch from Reggie’s.
So what if I make his sandwiches and portions a little bigger than we usually serve? He’s a big guy. One of our best customers.
And I love feeding him.
“Yeah, I need one,” he says, then looks up from his haleem with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “You still have those barbecue wrap things?”
Last week’s special. Seeing that look in his eyes, I wish I had more. But I shake my head. “This week it’s a kafta plate. And there’s hummus, falafel, pita.” Going back to my roots, even though it hurts to make the kind of food I grew up cooking with my mother and grandmother. But Raphael took my family from me—and I’m not going to let him take e
verything. I’m not going to let him take even one more thing. “You’ll like it, I promise. And if not, I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”
Then I’ll have two days off, and I won’t see him again until Friday morning. Although, technically…I have every day off. Because I don’t really work here. Not officially.
Something that will end up biting both me and Minerva in the ass, someday. Right now we’re saying I’m part-owner so that the usual wage rules don’t apply. But my name’s not on any paperwork, and one day she’ll get in trouble for paying me under the table and I’ll get in trouble with the IRS and everything’s going to be a huge freaking disaster.
But I haven’t known who could help me get out of that mess. There’s been a couple of people I’ve met who probably could, but there isn’t anyone who I trust.
Until now. Maybe.
I glance at Bull. He’s looking down at his phone, tapping the screen. Nerves churn in my stomach.
But putting it off won’t help anything. So I take a deep breath and plant myself in front of him.
He looks up, blue eyes locking on my face. Immediately he must recognize that I’m nervous and that this isn’t my usual ‘plant myself in front of him’ and chat mode.
His voice is low and deep. “You all right?”
“Yes.” I sound breathless. “But I was wondering…if I could ask a favor.”
“Name it. I’ll do it.”
“I…” That was fast. “I didn’t even say what it was.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “You name it. I’ll do it.”
My heart’s pounding. “Okay. It’s just that— I don’t want to make assumptions about anything you do or the people you know. So if I’m off-base, just tell me.”
“Sara.”
It’s all he says but in that instant, the way he looks at me, I think I could ask for the moon and he’d say he could bring it to me, and that he’d get a little pissed if I doubt whether he can.
“I need new identification,” I tell him in a rush. “And I’m wondering if you know someone who might be able to help me.”
His gaze never leaves my face. “I thought you said you were born in Queens?”
“I was. I’m a U.S. citizen. It’s not…” I don’t know how much to say. “I’ve got a good driver’s license, passport, birth certificate. But I need to be someone else. Because right now I’m not putting my name on anything and it’s been really…hard.”
No bank accounts. No utilities in my name. Minerva leased the house where I live and pays the rent for me out of my wages. I use cash for everything and don’t feel secure about anything. And even though I should have switched over to an Oregon ID and vehicle plates, I’ve been afraid to update my license and my car’s registration.
His slow nod eases the knot of anxiety twisting inside me. “I know someone. I’ll make sure you get what you need.”
Relief shoots out of me in a high-pitched laugh. “Thank you. And I’m happy to pay you— Or not,” I quickly say when his face darkens.
“Yeah. You just hold the rest of that back.” He looks at me for another long minute. “There’s another option.”
There is? I raise my brows and look at him expectantly.
“You tell me who scared you so bad that you’re looking to change your name, and I make sure the body’s never found.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. He doesn’t give one and his gaze doesn’t waver.
He’s serious.
As if he’d offered to mow my lawn instead of kill a man, he evenly asks, “Too much?”
No. Well, yes. What he’s offering would be too much. But he’s not too much.
And I’m just so glad my instincts were exactly right.
“I have another favor to ask,” I tell him.
“Sara.” His voice deepens in warning. “Just name it.”
“Okay.” Pulse racing, I brace my hands against the counter. “Will you kiss me, please?”
And I never knew a man so big could move so fast.
3
Sara
One second Bull’s sitting in front of me. The next second he braces his hand on the counter and launches his big body over it—and I don’t remember stepping back, though I must have, because otherwise he’d have barreled right into me.
It’s as if he’s already thought about how to come for me, he does it so fast. As if the move was already all planned out in his head. Yet despite his speed, it seems to take forever before he actually kisses me. His big hand slides beneath the tail of my braid and cups the back of my neck, his broad thumb circling around to nestle in the hollow of my jaw. His gaze searches mine all the way down, as if he’s waiting for me to change my mind, to pull away—then I close my eyes and his mouth captures my lips.
And he came for me fast, but now he takes his time, and I’m aware of everything. The soft brush of his beard against my chin. The firm warmth of his lips. The roughness of his callused fingers, the strength in his hands. The way he’s not breathing, as if he’s listening for my response and carefully waiting.
He doesn’t need to be careful.
Rising up on my toes, I shove my hands into his thick hair and open my mouth beneath his in sensual invitation.
And he’s a patient man, but he must be a hungry man, too. His left arm suddenly wraps tight around my waist and with a deep groan he hauls me up against the giant expanse of his chest. His tongue sweeps past my lips, not hesitant now, but devouring my mouth, sinking in for a long and ravenous taste.
With every stroke of his tongue, my heart pounds and fire sings through my blood. This kiss is everything I hoped it would be, hot and sweet.
And it’s more than I hoped. Not just hot and sweet but absolutely consuming me.
A desperate moan rolls up my throat and I try to press closer. But Bull is already holding me so tight there’s no closer, except for naked skin and him inside me.
Oh, but I’d love to have him naked and inside me now. Right on the counter. He could set me down and push between my legs and—
We’d probably scare off the customer who just came in. Which would be worth it. But Bull is already lifting his head and setting my feet back on the floor.
His big body blocks me from the customer’s sight for a moment, so I have a second to find my composure again, and the move is so sweet and protective that if I wasn’t already crazy about him, I would be now.
But I don’t really find my composure. Not when Bull casually walks back out from behind the counter as if he was supposed to be there and takes his seat again. Not when the customer comes up to the register—a regular, one of the nurses who works at the urgent care center up the street, and who has been coming in every morning for as long as Bull has been sitting there. I greet her politely, as if she didn’t just see me plastered against his big chest and my fingers buried in his hair. She responds just as politely, but her eyes are sparkling and she’s repressing a grin.
I’m not even trying to repress mine. Each glance I steal in Bull’s direction says he’s just as pleased by what happened, and his eyes are hot as they follow my every movement.
When the nurse leaves, I wonder if he’ll come for me again. He doesn’t. Maybe because there’s something else here with us in Reggie’s now—a new tension, a feeling of anticipation that’s hot and slick and oh, so good.
Maybe because the next time he kisses me, we better not be interrupted.
I head back to his end of the counter, my hands tucked into my back pockets because otherwise I’m going to grab him again. “So,” I say. “That was all right.”
His brows shoot up and his entire body seems to bristle. “All right?”
I just grin.
It’s a challenge he doesn’t back down from. “All right,” he echoes again with mock irritation lacing his deep voice. “I guess I’ll have to do better than that. You busy tonight?”
My elated heart almost thuds through my ribs. I shake my head.
“Then I’ll come fo
r you at seven. I’ll be on my bike so you’ll want to wear jeans.”
“Like these?” I turn and let him get another good look at my ass.
If his eyes were a fire I’d be immolated right now.
“Like those,” he says gruffly. “You got a phone number?”
Some of the playfulness leaves me. “I don’t use a cell phone. But I’ve got a landline at the house.”
His expression darkens. “Give me his name.”
Raphael Wainwright. A name Bull might recognize, even though Raphael is thousands of miles away. “He’s no one.”
Bull doesn’t like that answer. “He’s someone who needs getting rid of if you’re afraid of him.”
As I should be. Because even though he’s thousands of miles away, Raphael has a hell of a reach. But as soon as I have a new identity, he’ll never touch me again.
No need for Bull to risk his life when the solution is for me to get a new one.
“I’m not afraid,” I tell him now, which is a huge lie, but I follow it up with the truth. “I’m just tired of hiding.”
And Bull doesn’t like that, either. But he doesn’t push for more. Just comes up off his seat, leans over the counter and slides his hand around the back of my neck again, pulling me close for a fierce, hard kiss.
A possessive kiss. As if everything has already changed between us. As if the date tonight is just going through the motions of laying a foundation for a building that’s already constructed.
As if I’m already his.
I don’t know if I am. But I think I’d like to be.
My breathing is unsteady when he lets me go. Everything’s unsteady. And wonderful. But still the world is shifting under my feet and I need to find my balance again.
I can always find that equilibrium in the kitchen. Backing up a step, I tell him, “I’m going to go…uh, make your lunch.”
Something in his expression freezes and all at once he’s looking at me in that careful way again.
“Am I pushing too hard?” His voice deepens and his body is utterly still. “I’ll go slower, easier.”
