Beef Cake (Donner Bakery Book 4)

by Smartypants Romance

  The look on his face tells me everything I need to know. He pulls back as though I’d just slapped him and I instantly regret it. I should apologize and explain myself, but when I go to speak, Gunnar holds a hand up to stop me.

  “No, that’s fine,” he says, his tone sounding just as hurt as his expression. Those sea glass eyes looking anywhere and everywhere, except at me. “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want. Forget I said anything. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  My fingers twitch to reach out.

  My throat tightens with unspoken words to call him back.

  But in the end, all I can do is stand there, watching as he walks away.

  Chapter 11

  Gunnar

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Cole Cassidy asks as I walk up the drive. When I mentioned to Tempest I wanted to talk to him about something, she was her usual self and didn’t push for answers. She just told me he’s off duty today and I’d be able to find him at home.

  I smile and accept his hand for a shake. Cole is good people. I’ve known it since the first time I met him. I might be young, but I’ve always had a good bullshit meter and an ability to judge people. Not judge them for what they do or don’t do, but gauge what type of person they are. My mom calls it a sixth sense.

  Regardless of what it is, it’s always served me well. Which is why I’m here.

  “Hey man,” I greet. “I just need some information, and you’re the only person I know who might be able to give it to me.”

  Cole scrunches his face in confusion. “You’ve been in town what? A month? What kind of information could you possibly need? If you’re here to complain about the speed limits or lack of stop lights, I’m afraid that’s above my pay grade.”

  Laughing, I shake my head, wishing it was something as trivial as speed limits and stop signs. “I was actually wondering if you could tell me about a group of bikers I’ve seen around town.”

  There’s no sense beating around the bush. After the way Frankie flipped the switch yesterday when I hinted around at her possibly being in trouble, it solidified my need to know more about the company she’s been keeping. Even if she doesn’t want mine.

  “Bikers?” Cole asks, scratching his head. “We’ve got quite a few of them around here.”

  I can tell he’s holding back on me and, quite frankly, it pisses me off a little. “You know who I’m talking about. Mean looking dudes, lots of leather, up to no good.”

  “The Iron Wraiths,” Cole says, almost dejectedly.

  “Iron Wraiths?” I heard him, but Iron Wraiths? Really? Is this like Green Valley’s version of the Sons of Anarchy?

  Cole glances behind him at the front door of his house and then back at me when he’s confident no one is listening. “They’re no good, man.” His statement comes out hushed, like if he talks too loud one of them will materialize out of thin air.

  Are they fucking Beetlejuice?

  “I kinda figured that much,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

  “What do you know about them?” he asks, cocking his head.

  I meet his eyes. “Not much more than what I told you already.”

  “Have you talked to them?”

  Huffing, I start to get a little annoyed that he’s jumping to conclusions about me and the Iron Wraiths. “No, I haven’t talked to them, just seen them. And I think they know someone I . . .” Like? Date? Want to date? “Someone I know,” I finish, not wanting to incriminate Frankie if these guys are as bad as I think they are.

  “You don’t want to have anything to do with them or anyone they’re associated with,” Cole advises, going full-deputy-mode on me. “Listen, I know you’re new to Green Valley and it can be hard to find people to . . . hang out with, or whatever twenty-somethings do these days.”

  I want to laugh, because Cole isn’t old, not by any means. Sure, he’s older than me, but there’s no way he’s over thirty. I might’ve thought that was old a few years ago, but the older I get, the younger thirty sounds.

  “If you want to find people to hang out with, try the jam sessions at the Community Center.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Are they as hopping as the farmer’s markets on Saturdays?”

  “You’ve been to the farmer’s market?” he asks, disbelieving.

  “Have you tried Mr. Henson’s blueberries?”

  To that, Cole quirks an eyebrow as if to say “touché.” Switching back to the subject at hand, he says, “About those bikers—they’re criminals, Gunnar. Not just your run-of-the-mill B&Es, but hard stuff. Drugs, grand theft auto . . . murder.”

  “Murder?” I ask, my mouth going dry as my stomach drops. What the hell, Frankie? Surely she knows what these fuckers are capable of, so why would she be hanging around them? It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask Cole, but I can’t. I won’t out her like that. Besides, she basically told me to leave her alone—after the best first kiss of my life, mind you—and I’m still a little butt-hurt about it.

  That kiss. Man, that kiss . . . it was everything and not enough all at the same time.

  I’ve been dying to touch her. I didn’t get much, but what she gave me was enough to make me an addict for life. And then she basically used it against me.

  “Yeah,” Cole continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “So, stay away from them. If you see them, go the other way.”

  Scoffing, I kick at the gravel beneath my feet.

  “I’m not saying you can’t take care of yourself,” he adds, holding up his hands. He must take my reaction as one of offense, but it’s nothing like that. I’m just so fucking confused as to why Frankie would willingly associate with these guys yet be so turned off by my fighting and be so guarded around me. It doesn’t make any sense.

  “I also know that Cage would kick your ass all the way back to Dallas if you get twisted up with these guys,” Cole continues.

  Now, that’s the truth. Fighting for sport is one thing. Getting in a back alley brawl is another and it would earn me an economy class bus ticket back to Dallas. My father and all my brothers are sticklers about a fighter’s code of conduct. The main one being no threat or use of violence.

  Just because we can cause damage, doesn’t mean we do.

  Growing up, my father made it clear that our fists were only to be used in the ring. Or the cage.

  That wasn’t always the case in a house full of testosterone-filled Neanderthals, but we paid the price when we crossed the line. Usually, when we’d start fighting, my mother would stick us out on the front porch and lock the doors. Our entry back inside was a hug. It had to be longer than three seconds and we had to act like we meant it.

  The one thing our father would allow was standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.

  Even though I haven’t known Frankie Reeves for long, I know she’s nothing like what Cole has described.

  She’s good, to her core.

  She’d lose her own life before she’d take another.

  Which can only mean they’re either using her for their benefit or they have something she wants. Either option makes my blood boil.

  **BC**

  This morning, after an early training session followed by a long run with Cage, he tasked me with driving to Maryville to make deposits on the venue and rentals for the benefit fight.

  I’ve done that, and now I’m driving around looking for a place to grab a late lunch.

  Fine. I’m also stalling, because I want to drop by the hospital and see Frankie. I want to apologize for overstepping, even though that wasn’t what I was trying to do. All I wanted was to let her know I’m here for her, when and if she needs me. She has an out, an ally, someone to lean on, even if she’s not used to depending on other people—which I know she’s not.

  I want to be here for her.

  While grabbing a sandwich at a small cafe, I remember the other part of our conversation from Saturday, when she told me she wanted to take me to the shelter. Since I have Helen’s number in my
phone and actually have a few things to talk to her about, I decide to call her up.

  “Hello?”

  “Helen,” I reply. “It’s Gunnar.”

  “Well, hello,” she says, her older voice cheerful, but all business as usual. “How are you? Everything going okay with the benefit?”

  “It’s going great. I’m actually in Maryville today running some errands and thought about stopping by the shelter.”

  “That would be great.” She says it so quickly, almost before I can get the statement out. It makes me think she means it and what Frankie said was true. “I’d love to show you around, give you an idea of where the money will go.”

  I’d like that too. Not that I don’t already think it’s a worthy cause, but when I meet with the television station and newspaper, it would be great to have first-hand information to give them.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to an old church building. When I step out of the truck, I’m greeted by a woman carrying a clipboard. She has dark hair with streaks of grey in it and I’m immediately reminded of my mom. Unlike all of us boys—who took after our full-blooded Scandinavian father—our mother has darker hair and complexion. She always says she did all the work and our father got all the glory.

  “You must be Gunnar,” Helen says, approaching the truck with an outstretched hand.

  I shake it and smile. “Yes, ma’am, I’m Gunnar Erickson. It’s really nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” she says, all business. “Let me show you around.”

  She walks me through the main rooms, showing me where the people who stay here eat and live. Some of the women are milling about, doing everyday tasks like laundry and taking care of children.

  There are even more children in the yard out back.

  Helen explains that some of the women have been placed with jobs and are gone during the day, so the shelter offers childcare to help get them back on their feet.

  The building is old, but in good shape. It’s easy to see it’s well-cared for and I can only guess that is thanks to Helen, and people like Frankie who donate their time and services.

  “This place is great,” I tell her as we make our way back to the front of the church. “Seems like you’re able to help a lot of people.”

  “We do what we can,” she says with a sigh. “I’ve never had to turn anyone away, and it kills me to think we might have to start now.”

  My back stiffens with that. “You won’t,” I tell her, solemnly swearing it. Not on my watch. “You’ll see. The benefit will go off without a hitch, and we’ll raise enough money to keep this place functioning even better than it is today.”

  I was already on board before I came here, but now I’m one hundred percent committed.

  “How did Frankie get involved with the shelter?” I ask, still craving any bit of information I can get about her. Since she’s not very forthcoming, maybe Helen has a little insight for me.

  Steel-grey eyes turn on me. Helen’s no-nonsense expression hardens. “That’s not my story to tell.” Before I can process her statement or prod for more information, she follows it up with, “But Frankie has been around here for a long time.”

  . . . Frankie has been around here for a long time.

  What does that mean?

  Did she seek shelter here?

  Is that where her hatred of violence stems from?

  Was someone violent with her?

  Do the Iron Wraiths have anything to do with that?

  “Before you let your assumptions get the best of you,” Helen says, stopping my overactive imagination in its tracks, “you should ask her.”

  Lifting my brows, I let out a humorless chuckle. “Well, that’s a little easier said than done.”

  “She’s a tough nut to crack, I’ll give you that, but it’s because she’s had to be,” Helen adds. “Give her a little time. Let her see she can trust you. If you say you’re going to do something, do it. Actions will always speak louder than words, especially when it comes to Frankie.”

  Our eyes meet and I see nothing but sincerity there, and deeply rooted care. She’s unknowingly answering my question from a week or so ago: Who’s there for Frankie when she needs someone?

  Helen.

  Helen is there for Frankie.

  After thanking her for her time and the tour, I promise to keep in touch over the next few weeks. She’s going to collect some photos we can use in the media packets for our promotional push for the fight, and I told her I’d come by to get them next week.

  I’d thought I liked Helen before I came here today, but now I know I do, especially seeing how much she cares about Frankie. With her words of encouragement ringing in my ears, I hop back in my truck.

  There’s one more stop I need to make before I head back to Green Valley.

  Chapter 12

  Frankie

  There is no such thing as a typical day in the ER, but today has been oddly quiet.

  On days like today, we try not to mention it, because as soon as we do all hell will break loose. Instead, we all walk around like we’re busy, even when we’re not. Everyone except for the Gossip Girls—Lana, Jodie, and Cynthia—who sit around in a huddle with lots of whispering and giggling. But that’s nothing new. Even when we’re in the trenches with blood up to our elbows, those three are still talking about who’s banging who and who was caught with their pants down in the nurse’s lounge.

  When they say my name, I pretend I don’t hear them, because I don’t have time for that, even when I have nothing else to do.

  “Frankie,” a familiar voice says, getting my attention.

  Turning, I see Gunnar standing by the door of the ER looking so damn good. But I can’t enjoy it—him being here—because I still have a bad taste in my mouth from how we left things on Saturday. When I lashed out at him at the farmer’s market to keep him from sticking his nose in my business, I didn’t think it would end that way—with him walking away.

  Honestly, I thought he’d rebound quickly and change the subject, like he always does. Gunnar is like rubber; everything bounces off him and he always seems to take things in stride. Everything except for my rebuff.

  I didn’t expect that.

  But now he’s here and I don’t know why or what he wants or how I’m supposed to handle it, so I give him a tight smile. “Gunnar.”

  “Hi,” he says, giving me a shy smile, which is very uncharacteristic of him. He’s nervous. Maybe about being here? He’s probably unsure of how I’ll respond to him showing up at my work. My knee-jerk reaction is to brush him off; that’s what I’d normally do. Not because I’m not happy to see him, but because I am happy to see him—so happy to see him—and that scares me.

  But this show of vulnerability endears him to me even more. It softens my hard edges and chips away at the layer of protection I have around my heart.

  “I was hoping I’d find you here . . .”

  It’s a question, which he’s expecting me to answer, but I am suddenly very aware of the eyes on us. The Gossip Girls have abandoned their current topic. Marie and Dr. Cravat have stopped their quiet conversation. And they’re all staring at us.

  When I don’t respond right away, Gunnar shifts on his feet, peeking around the door, and that’s when he realizes we have an audience. And he smirks. To everyone else, he probably looks like the overly-confident person I first met, but that’s not the whole story. Under the smirk and cockiness is a layer of insecurity, and that’s what drives me forward.

  Taking his hand, I guide him into an empty room. “I’m glad you stopped by,” I announce, a little louder than necessary. “We need to check your . . . uh, stitches.”

  Thankfully, Gunnar doesn’t hesitate and follows willingly.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask quietly, eyeing the open doorway.

  He smiles down at me, the first glimpse of the Gunnar I’ve come to know and . . . what? Like? The feelings swirling in my chest resemble a tornado; bits and pieces of my resolve are caught
up with the emotions he makes me feel. It’s strange and confusing, but nice. Better than nice. It’s a bit euphoric—and that scares me.

  I haven’t stopped thinking about the kiss from Saturday. It has starred in every dream, awake or asleep. When I’m getting dressed and looking at myself in the mirror, my eyes focus in on my lips, trying to see the difference, because there must be one—some sort of sign that says, “Gunnar Erickson was here.”

  He staked his claim and will forever own the rights henceforth.

  Kissing isn’t something I’ve done much of, but that one was the best of my life. I felt it travel from my lips to my belly and then down to my toes. And I’d love nothing more than a repeat.

  “I was hoping I could catch you on a break or something and buy you a cup of coffee.” His voice a husky whisper. “I didn’t bring any jelly-filled donuts, but I’m sure we could find something else sweet . . .”

  The way he says “sweet” goes straight to my core and makes my toes curl in my shoes.

  “But first—did you want to check my face?” His coy smile makes me bite my lip. Yeah, that was a really lame excuse. I know he had dissolvable stitches. I put them in. But he put me on the spot, and I worked with what I had.

  Slowly, he sits on the edge of the bed and takes my hand to pull me closer.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I feel my body heat up with that simple contact.

  How is that possible?

  I’ve never been one to be affected by a man. Sure, I’ve occasionally had needs and filled those needs, but I don’t fall all over myself when a member of the opposite sex walks into a room. I can appreciate attractiveness in another person without wanting them for myself.

  But not with Gunnar.

  He’s different.

  Feeling hot and flustered and not myself, I quickly pull my hand back and smooth the front of my scrubs. “We should get that coffee,” I tell him, fidgeting with the drawstring on my pants. “It’s a slow day. And the coffee in the cafeteria is pretty good.”