No Gentle Giant: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  But he clears his throat and tactfully changes the subject. “You doing anything tonight? Or are you too tired after slinging coffee all day?”

  “Don’t know yet. I figured I’d check by the shop to make sure the staff held up okay with me gone. It’s dead today anyway with everyone here. I’ll probably get a head start on prep for tomorrow. After that...I might pass out.”

  Alaska smiles again, his eyes creasing at the corners.

  “Think you could manage to stay awake long enough to wander around here with me for a bit? I hear the fireworks are gonna be one hell of a show. They’re pulling out all the stops for the first night. Clark Patten and his uncle are in charge of pyrotechnics.”

  I stop breathing.

  Is...is he asking me on a date?

  Of course he is.

  We’re supposed to be pretending we’re a thing, and we’ve got to keep up thing-like appearances. And most romantic things around these parts are made of heated kisses, sealed hands, flowers strewn over cliffs, and so many moonstruck gazes on warm nights it’s a miracle lovers in Heart’s Edge don’t go all cross-eyed.

  God.

  As soon as I flush neon-pink with excitement, sinful-red follows.

  I’m reading too much into this.

  But that just makes me realize how much it wouldn’t be a chore.

  How much I want to spend a summer night with him.

  How much I want to share the night for real—not pretend—and not just for the sake of convenience.

  I’ve got my head screwed on all wrong.

  But I can at least enjoy this while it lasts.

  I wrap my arms around myself, offering him a smile.

  “Sure,” I say. “Just let me run by the café and then head home to lock up the cash and freshen up. I’d rather leave my cut in the backup safe at my house since there’s still a hole in my office wall.”

  “No problem. You need a ride or an escort?”

  “I think I’ll be okay getting home.” And then, because Clarissa’s watching—that’s the only reason, I tell myself—I stretch up on my toes and kiss his cheek, his thick beard rough against my lips and delightfully scratchy against my jaw. Dropping down, I smile again shyly, ducking my head. “But you could pick me up? Say, in about an hour and a half?”

  “Sure thing, Fliss. I’ll be there with bells on.” I’ve never seen such a dazzling smile on a man’s face.

  Also, my brain instantly conjures this weird image of Alaska in bells and—

  Not much else, honestly.

  Just one big hulk dressed down to nothing, jingling himself around like he’s Stripper Santa.

  Oh my God.

  So, I know it’s been a dry spell, but do I really have that little self-control?

  Coughing, I clear my throat, covering my mouth, the perfect excuse to turn my face away when I feel like it’s got to be written all over my expression.

  “See you then,” I whisper.

  I make my escape as fast as possible while I still can.

  I can’t even bear to look back when I know Clarissa and Alaska both—along with the whole town—must be staring at me.

  Nope.

  Just gonna grab the bank bag with my share of the cash and get gone.

  My face cools down a bit by the time I get to my car. But I’m still floating on cloud nine on the drive to The Nest, sailing through checking over the register for the day and listening to my part-timers with one ear.

  The rest of my brain is, um...focused on what I’m wearing tonight.

  It’s all for show, of course. If I’m pretend-dating Alaska, I have to make it believable by actually dressing up to look the part. People will wonder if I’m just not that into him if I don’t make the effort.

  Oh, God.

  It hits me between the eyes. I actually flap my hands a couple times.

  I’m going on a flipping date!

  Then again...maybe I shouldn’t build it up so much.

  Once this mess with the gold ends, we’re supposed to part ways as good friends, right? So I shouldn’t dress too nice or seem too eager to join him. Maybe a little diffidence would make our public break-up more believable.

  Or maybe I’m overthinking this, and I should just wear a pretty summer dress and enjoy the moment while it’s here. They don’t come often enough.

  “...Miss Randall?”

  I blink, shaking my head and turning my vision back on Eliza, the young Seattle transplant who’s become my most reliable staffer. She’s something of a mad scientist, always wanting to experiment with different roasts, and her passion for the perfect brew almost rivals mine.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  She looks at me quizzically, then shrugs. “I said we’re already sold out of dark roast. You might want to whip up a little more. People have been asking.”

  “Really? We’re that low? That’s amazing to hear.” I grin at her and stand, touching her shoulder. “I’ll put it on the to-do list for tomorrow. You can go ahead and close up early tonight. And empty the tip jar. Split it with the others. You’ll want a little spending money for the festival, right? I’m sure you don’t want to miss the fireworks.”

  “Oh, wow! Really?” Her face nearly glows.

  I grin even wider.

  Man, do I know that feeling.

  “Really,” I echo.

  Leaving a bubbling girl behind, I head back to my car and strap myself in for the drive home.

  I think I’ve figured out what I want to wear by the time I get back to my house and go rattling up the front porch steps—only to stop midstride as I notice something odd.

  It’s a little muddy around the porch.

  It rained last night. I remember everyone fussing over it and hoping it would stop in time for the festival, only for it to turn out to be just enough rain to make it safer for fireworks with the ground and trees still so damp.

  I got to overhear a riveting lecture on it from Blake’s fire safety table as I was closing up last night, while he fussed at Clark over his pyrotechnic stunts.

  Of course, that means everyone’s been clomping around leaving muddy footprints everywhere, including the mailman, probably.

  But there’s a footprint at the base of my steps, too.

  A big, wide boot engraved in the ground.

  A man’s tread, definitely not my size.

  I frown, lifting my head and looking around, a chill sweeping through me.

  Who was at my house?

  That chill turns into a sigh as my gaze lands on the welcome mat in front of my door. There’s a package there, a nondescript box wrapped in brown paper.

  Probably something my mother sent. It’s a habit of hers, and I never know when I’ll come home to a box full of weird ceramic toadstools or a carefully wrapped basket of pressed and preserved flowers.

  Christ.

  Paisley’s made me way too paranoid.

  A delivery guy leaves a muddy footprint, and I’m making up wild conspiracies.

  I hoist the package up and tuck it under my arm, balancing it with my purse and the money pouch on top of it, juggling my keys to let myself in.

  Shrub nearly trips me, yipping. I almost forgot I’d brought him back here this morning where there’s more room for him to run around than Alaska’s cabin. I figured he could use it if we were all going to be gone for the day.

  It always bothers me when dog owners leave their pups cooped up in tiny spaces alone all day. I can at least give him room to play.

  “Down, boy.” Laughing, I pitch everything onto the couch and lean down to scratch his ears.

  He doesn’t go down easy when he’s so invested in licking my hand.

  He never does.

  He’s like a toddler on a mammoth sugar high, only with slightly worse verbal skills. He’s still quite chatty as he follows me into the bedroom, making chirpy little growls and yips like he’s filling me in on all of the dog toys he chewed up throughout the day.

  I settle him down with a few
treats and a good round of belly rubs, then send him trotting back out into the living room with a giant bone wider than his entire body in his mouth. I stand there looking after him with a smile, shaking my head.

  That dog, I swear.

  I take a quick shower, though I’m tempted to linger when my mind’s stuck on Alaska and my body feels too warm. Somehow, I don’t think it’s the creeping summer heat.

  I’m a lot warmer than even the steamy condensation should warrant, and when I slide my hands over myself, slick with soap, my skin shivers with frenzied anticipation.

  Easy.

  I need to get my overactive mind under control.

  Nothing’s happening tonight.

  Alaska’s just doing his duty, his due diligence, going above and beyond by trying to push me into a little well-deserved fun.

  That’s it.

  End of story.

  Still, I’m nearly walking on sunshine by the time I finish pinning my hair up in a cascading twist and finding a sundress in lavender and white checks with a fitted bodice and a flared skirt.

  I line my eyes with a little kohl, gloss my lips pink, then head into the living room to grab my shoes. There’s been a persistent squeak coming from the hall while I was getting dressed, but I ignored it with the same kind of specialized deafness parents develop.

  Shrub’s always gnawing away on something that makes the silliest noises.

  That’s kinda his thing.

  But I pause, stopping just short of tripping over him.

  He’s curled up on his side, pawing at a bright-yellow rubber duck with big red blotches on its cheeks. It must be brand new because he hasn’t managed to chew the color off or punch little holes in it yet—and I know I didn’t buy it.

  Yikes.

  Something isn’t right here.

  Maybe I should’ve listened to my instincts after all.

  With ice-cold fear lodged in the back of my throat and a pit in my stomach, I step toward the living room, flattening myself against the wall and trying to be invisible as I peer around the edge.

  Only to jerk back with a stifled scream under my tongue.

  Paisley.

  Oh, Jesus.

  She’s just sitting there in my living room recliner, smirking and pretty as a little picture in a doll-like pink dress covered in ruffles of white lace, stockings with neon-pink ribbons around the tops, and Mary Jane shoes.

  There’s something seriously warped about her arrested development fashion sense. It makes her look more like a badly behaved teenager than an adult running a criminal enterprise. And it’s twice as twisted by the fact that she’s got her switchblade clutched in her hand.

  She’s using the tip of it to flick through individual bills in the sheaf of money she’s taken from the empty cash bag tossed on my living room floor.

  I close my eyes, holding my breath, hoping she can’t hear my heart thumping fit to punch through the wall behind me.

  I could run.

  She probably thinks I’m still in the bedroom, waiting to surprise me when I come out.

  I’m half surprised that vicious little viper didn’t rush me while I was naked, trapping me in the shower like that scene from every slasher flick. But if I’m quiet enough I could creep back that way, slip out the window, and—

  “How long are you going to stand there?” she lilts, sweet as candy. “I don’t have all night, you know. And I’m very, very disappointed in you, Fe-lic-i-tee.” She clucks her tongue. “For shame, holding out on me, and I don’t mean this piddling bit of money, either. I thought we had an understanding, but I guess I was wrong. You’ve been a bad, bad girl.”

  Fuck.

  My heart bottoms out somewhere around my ankles.

  If I try to run now, she’ll just catch me and slit me down the middle with that hell-knife.

  There’s probably at least two men outside, if not more.

  The princess never travels without her entourage of brutes.

  God, who am I kidding?

  Even if she hadn’t seen me, those guys would’ve caught me anyway.

  I’ve been up the creek with a bad luck paddle ever since I ignored that bootprint outside my door.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  But it’s even dumber making her wait.

  She’s always looking for an excuse to use that knife.

  Shaking with disgust, I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling, praying for strength. I push myself away from the wall and step reluctantly into the living room.

  “Paisley,” I mutter. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve told you a million times over the years, haven’t I? I wonder what kind of dum-dum you are to forget.”

  Gah, she even talks like this is a playground fight.

  If only that horrible blade were a lollipop. She bounces to her feet, swaying side to side like a little girl dancing on her Mary Janes, twirling with her skirt flaring around her—and that knife flashing silver, glinting with bloodlust.

  “Paye—” I venture, but she cuts me off.

  “Ah-ah! All these years, and you’ve never bothered sniffing around after what your darling daddy was up to, did you? But something’s changed lately, hasn’t it?”

  She stops abruptly, her last pirouette taking her to me in a rush so swift I barely see her coming until she’s on me, frozen in front of me, staring into me with too-wide psycho eyes, their green glittering like shards of jade.

  The tip of the knife flashes under my chin, its point so close to my skin. I hiss and flinch back, fear rattling my bones, slithering inside me.

  “You see, this is a nosy little town, and nosy people talk,” she whispers, her mouth splitting in an eerie grin. “And what those dirty little gossips told me is that you’ve been snooping around, you busy little bee. Suddenly you’re oh-so-curious about what your daddy used to do for us. Now, why ever would that be, Fe-li-ci-teeeee?”

  I can’t think quick enough to come up with a lie.

  Not one she’ll believe.

  Not when she’s hissing my own butchered name like a cobra.

  But I’m thinking quick enough to look for a defensive weapon.

  My gaze shudders left. Right.

  There, on a small decorative table against the wall just next to me—one of the very first mugs I’d had made, a sample piece before I started selling them. It’s not all that heavy, but if I could grab it, swing it, smash it over her head...

  It might disorient her long enough for me to get away—or at least long enough to give me a fighting chance against those bulldog guards outside.

  I have to get to Alaska.

  That’s all I can think about.

  I’ll only be safe with him.

  I risk the knife and lunge—and nearly scream when I feel its tip grazing my throat and jaw like a lover’s tongue—but I’ve only got one shot.

  I snatch the mug by the handle, swing it around—

  And yelp, nearly dropping it as Paisley hits me like a cannonball and bodyslams me face-first into the wall.

  The breath whooshes out of me in a flat rush.

  Bruising force smashes into my chest, my face.

  For someone so small, she knows how to throw her weight around.

  Next thing I know, I’ve got a pointy elbow digging into the small of my back, and a skinny arm around my neck with the point of that blade digging at the soft spot under my ear, just behind my jaw.

  All she’d have to do is jerk her arm back to open up a second smile and make me grin bloody bright red.

  The last thing I’d ever do.

  I’m helpless, the handle of the mug clutched in my fingers. I can’t even do anything with it unless I really think flailing back and banging it at her hip would save my bacon.

  Unlikely.

  So much for being brave.

  Not even my dog’s coming to the rescue, the sound of his startled bark tells me he’s skittering away to hide in the bedroom. Who could blame him?

  My vision swims with panic.


  I try to make my pulse stop trying to burst through my skin, struggling to survive, to think.

  Think, Felicity.

  Try to find some way out of this—even as Paisley presses into my back and hisses in my ear, her voice lisping and sickly intimate.

  “You really are a major dum-dum. Not very smart, Fe-li-ci-tee,” she giggles, digging the knife-tip into my skin, pushing it so taut, a pressure point on the verge of doom. With a whimper, I rise up on my toes, straining away. “What’d you think you were gonna do, missy? Smash a window? That’s destruction of property. My property. Until I get what I want, everything you think is yours belongs to mwah. So be nice to my ugly old house, okay?”

  This is where I should shut it.

  Say nothing.

  Stare at her with teary doe eyes, desperate and scared and pleading for mercy.

  But if I’ve ever had one talent, it’s not doing what I should.

  My lip curls in an acid hiss as I push myself closer to her.

  “What did I think? I think I was about to crack your evil fucking head open, you psycho pixie bitch,” I snarl.

  Yeah.

  Not the smartest bluff where self-preservation is concerned.

  But my head throbs from being smacked against the wall, and maybe she scrambled something loose in my grey matter. Because as scared as I am?

  I’m also rabid-dog fighting mad and trying to figure out if I can hook a foot around her ankle and pitch her tiny ass on the floor.

  But she pushes harder against me until it’s starting to feel gross.

  The way she molds her body into mine, her lips moving against my ear like she’s enjoying just how uncomfortable she’s making me with her weight against my skin.

  “I’m going to let you get away with that because it was funny,” she croons. “You’re so cute when you try to play tough, Fe-li-ci-tee. Screw your coffee. All that dirty talk gets me wired. But I wanna know what you’re up to. You must be up to something, hmmm? So many people sniffing around you. So many dogs on your trail. I think you’ve finally figured something out and I want to stop playing patty cake and hear it!”

  I grit my teeth, turning my head just enough to catch a glimpse of her over my shoulder, and angling a little so I’m pressed to the edge of the blade, not the point.

  “What? What do you want?” I spit.