by Olivia Arran
Adding a small paper wrapped lump of the cheese to my basket, I followed him over to the fruit stall, enjoying the hustle and bustle of the market. Voices rose and fell around us, people plying their trade and shouting out their bargains of the day, produce providing a colorful background. But it was the smells that had the familiar zing working its way through my blood; fresh vegetables recently plucked from their earthy beds, and sweet, juicy fruit that had my mouth watering. Fish fresh from the ocean, the salt still clinging to their scales and perfuming the air. Herbs, spices, oils, salts, seeds, pulses, sugar cane and vanilla pods—the variety was endless and ever changing as deliveries were shipped out and new came in. Beneath my feet, the flagstones were shiny from years of foot traffic and constant hosing, the huge metal warehouse rising fearlessly above us. Huge stainless steel rods hung across the air, on which streams of naked light bulbs swung back and forth in the balmy summer breeze that had ventured into this steel cave, passing through the wide open doors.
I was in heaven.
Catching Ralph’s arm, I didn’t hold back the delighted shiver, knowing that if anyone was going to understand, it would be him. “This is where you get your stock from?”
“Yup, and we’ll add what you need to my list, get it all delivered together. Make sure you have enough for test samples, that’s all you need for now.”
Picking up a plum, I squeezed it gently, bringing it to my nose and taking a sniff. “I missed this.”
He gave me a knowing look, one of complete understanding. “But you had your baking.”
I nodded, picking up a couple of peaches and laying them gently in my basket. “Yes, and I get antsy if I go a day without it, but I miss the hustle and bustle of a busy kitchen.” I choked back a groan at the look of horror on his handsome face. “I mean it, you wouldn’t know. When you’re used to the pressure of service, everything else pales in comparison.”
“The adrenaline rush is something else,” he admitted with a wry smile.
“I get most of my baking done in the early morning, then just goof off for the rest of the day. If I bake a few dozen more muffins, then okay, but no-one’s upset if I don’t.”
His hip bumped mine. “Hey, I could name at least a dozen people who’d be upset. Up until you banned me from your store, I was one of them.”
This time I didn’t hold the laughter back, his put out expression teasing it out of me. “You were the main reason I had to bake a few extra dozen! Cherry, especially.”
“I had to start making my own, and it wasn’t the same.” He pouted, but on him it didn’t look surly or childish. Just downright hot, his stubble lined jaw square enough to carry it off.
“You? Baking?” I snorted, rocking back on my heels and peering up at him.
Silhouetted in the warm sunlight, he was dressed all in black, his jeans worn and faded to a soft grey and hugging his hips. The t-shirt of the day featured a Rocky Horror Show special, the one with the glossy red lips, though they had lost some of their shine due to years of wearing. Scuffed loafers completed the outfit, without socks, of course. He always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, and nine times out of ten, he had. But, that was Ralph. He didn’t give a shit what he looked like, or what people thought of him. I wasn’t even sure he noticed the admiring looks being sent his way from the many women we’d passed since arriving that morning. He certainly wasn’t responding, one way or another. No overt glances or smug smiles from him—if you didn’t count the smug smile he was sending me right now. “What?”
He leaned closer, until the air around me smelled of him. Musky and soapy fresh. “You’re staring.”
“I’m soaking in the atmosphere.”
His voice lowered to a husky drawl, “No. You’re staring at me.” Yeah, he wasn’t one to mince words. Someone with better manners might have let it slide, but not him.
Shit. “Your hair’s sticking up.”
If it had been anyone else, their hand would have been patting their head. “And? You don’t approve?”
“I—”
“Because it sure looks like you approve,” he continued, without pausing for breath.
“And you’re full of yourself.” I barely registered my reply, too busy trying to remember how to breathe. And why the hell I’d declared this big hunk of a man off limits in the first place. Ah, that was right. He was the asshole who’d given my father a heart attack and destroyed my life. That was it. Air circled into my lungs as I gulped it in, my back stiffening and fingers curling into my palms. “I have what I need.” Not giving him chance to recover, I spun on my heel and walked out of the building, into the blinding mid-morning sunshine. Even here, on the outskirts of the city, birds tweeted and chirped their appreciation for the balmy summer days, unheeded by the congestion rising up behind them as the city crowded the skyline. Turning around, the tension eased from my spine as I drank in the sight of the mountains rising in the distance, their peaks tunneling through low lying clouds, vibrant and lush and green. Home. On arriving in Craggstone seven years ago, I would have laughed my head off if someone had told me that one day I’d be a country girl. City born and bred, that was me, having grown up in my father’s restaurant, the world around me consisting of food and warmth and the extended family who worked with us. If I wanted to, I could curse in Spanish, Italian, German, and a spattering of French, and I wouldn’t change it for the world, but it wasn’t home, not now. No matter how much I thought I missed it.
One week. Less than that, if I was counting, then I’d have my life back. I could fall back into my comfortable routine—no more surprises or shocks to the system. Which reminded me, I needed to assess the damage to my store. I looked around, spying Ralph resting against the hood of his car, his legs crossed at the ankle and head tipped back to the sun. Here he was completely relaxed, while my stomach was twisted in knots. No need to tip my hand, he’d insist on accompanying me, and I wanted to be alone when I faced the mountain of work I had ahead of me. From the outside it hadn’t looked too bad. If I squinted. And didn’t look too close. The insurance guy had said someone had been out yesterday to assess, and would be letting me know in a few days.
“You’re doing it again.”
I blinked, refocusing on him. “What?”
“Staring at me.” He was still staring at the sky.
I counted to ten, biting back a scathing comment. What were we, ten? He’d be pulling my pigtails next… “I’m ready to go home.”
His smile widened, but he didn’t make a sound, instead sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the car.
Fixing my face in a neutral expression, I joined him, nestling my shopping basket between my feet to avoid bruising my precious bounty.
He tapped the steering wheel in time to the old country song blasting from the radio, deftly steering the car into the traffic and pointing it toward Craggstone. “Cherry muffins.”
“What?”
“I have a hankering for cherry muffins.”
I leaned back against the door, angling my body so I had a clear view of him. “And?”
Eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun, he shook his hair out of his eyes. “I’m going to bake a batch when we get home.”
“And I’m going to cut the ends of your hair. How the hell do you manage to see where you’re going?” I snapped before I had chance to think. Giving myself something to do, I rooted around in the center console, fishing out a pair of aviator sunshades. “Put these on before you steer us into a ditch.”
He frowned, but accepted the glasses, sliding them on. “I’m a good driver—a safe driver.”
Sweet fluffing hell. My breath caught in my throat, a tingle working its way loose from my chest and bouncing around. He looked good in those glasses. “At least you don’t drive a sports car,” I finally managed to mumble.
“What have you got against my car?” He sounded mystified, and a little put out. “It’s one of the safest models, I researched it. Even went online.” The way he said on
line, like it was a mystical occurrence, one reserved for unicorns and wizards. “Sure, it doesn’t have all the bells and whistles, but it’s a workhorse.”
I pressed my lips together to stifle the giggle bubbling up inside of me. I’d forgotten this about him, how he clung to tradition over innovation every single damned time. Old fashioned values, my father would have said. My mood sank, along with my smile, as we sped down the road, trees a blur whipping past faster than my eyes could register.
Or, it could have been the tears that I refused to shed. For my father, or for what could have been? Who the hell knew, and who cared?
“I don’t want you to come with me.” I resisted stomping my foot, because that would be childish. But I was this close to—
“Tough. You’re not facing it alone.” Broad shoulders led the way across the street, back ramrod stiff and hair tickling his collar.
Okay. I did stamp my foot, but he wasn’t watching so it didn’t count. It was either that or he was getting a swift kick to the backside. Hurrying behind him, I grabbed his arm, trying not to melt at the feel of his thick bicep flexing beneath my fingers. It would be a hell of a lot easier to stay mad at him if I wasn’t fighting the urge to jump him half of the time. “Ralph, listen to me. I want to go in alone.”
“No.”
Letting out a string of curses under my breath—none of which were in English—I glared at him, ignoring the fact that we were standing in the middle of Main Street, and the small amount of traffic was winding its way around us, like this was an everyday occurrence. Though, when it came to the Everson brothers, this one especially, the locals were used to strange and inexplicable things. They accepted them—anticipated them, even. Made life a little more interesting, sure, but every time I’d put two and two together, I’d come up with one hundred and six, so I’d stopped torturing myself. I had mentioned it to Amy once, but she’d laughed it off. I hadn’t asked again, not wanting to give the impression that I cared. About a certain Everson brother, who was arguing with me in the middle of the damned road.
I was losing my damned mind!
I stomped my foot again.
He broke off mid-lecture to stare at my feet, the corner of his lip twitching.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“What?”
“I swear, Ralph, if you…” The rest of my rant was muffled against his shoulder as he hauled me up and carried me across the road. My heart threatened to tear its way out of my chest as I drowned in the feel of him—hard muscles pressing against me, and warm skin burning through the thin cotton. I had a breathtaking view of his ass with each step, albeit, an upside down view. His one hand pressed against the back of my thighs, the other rested on my ass. Not caressing, he wouldn’t dare, but holding. Firmly.
Two can play at this game. The whisper taunted me, urging my hands into action before I had chance to engage my brain, sliding down his back to play with the waistband of his jeans. Inching beneath an untucked edge, they smoothed a path under his shirt, playing with the peekaboo flash of skin.
He froze, a shudder rippling down his spine. “You’re playing with fire, sugar,” he murmured on a groan that had my fingers sliding lower, dipping beneath the denim.
“Put me down and I’ll stop.”
“What if I don’t want you to?”
A quick glance confirmed my absolute loss of control. “We’re in the middle of Main Street,” I hissed out.
His hand lifted from my ass, then returned swiftly in a sharp pat. “Yup.”
“Put … me … down.”
“Gladly. One moment.” Three strides and we were in front of my poor, little store.
Catching the bemused stares from the onlookers, of which there were at least eight, I weighed my options. I could kick and scream, and he’d probably put me down. But I’d look like an ass. At the moment I could laugh this off as a joke.
Then his hand slid into my pocket.
“What are you doing?” I gritted out.
“Keys?”
He wasn’t going to know what hit him when we got inside, especially with no witnesses. Fueled by promises of retribution, I leaned to my right. “This pocket.”
“Thanks, doll.”
I was so over his pet names. A click, then he pushed the door open, ducking to pass through the doorway. The stench of smoke and wet wood lingered in the air, clinging to the back of my throat. All around me devastation reached as far as I could see, soot coating the floor and rubble strewn around. Scorch marks wound their way across walls, leaving shadows of the flames that had stolen my world. The sob stalled in my throat as I blinked eyes blurry and stinging with unshed tears. A scrap of pink gingham lay alone in a sea of debris, surrounded by shards of glass. A survivor, but not unscathed. A bit like me.
I didn’t have to ask, his arms guiding me down to the floor and coming to rest on my shoulders.
I swayed, taking it all in. This was my home. My life. And someone had deliberately destroyed it. “Why?” It was a broken whisper of defeat.
“It wasn’t aimed at you.” He said it like it should make me feel better. As if it made a difference.
“Who, then?”
“The man who did this was after my brother, Max. What better way to corner the town’s Fire Chief than in a burning building?” He was scowling, his eyes dark with barely restrained fury. “Nearly got him too. Your bakery was collateral damage in a vendetta that had nothing to do with you.”
I was shaking, the shudders refusing to stop as they traveled up my legs and into my chest. “I don’t understand.” I’d thought I had, but it turned out, I hadn’t. Not really. Not until now. Seeing it with my own two eyes, the mindless destruction of everything I’d worked so hard to build… It had been my creation, the only thing that had kept me sane after everything had fallen apart. And, now, it was gone. I was drifting, without an anchor.
“Connie?”
My name on his lips was startling. “Yes?” I couldn’t stop looking, unable to take it all in.
“There are some things I need to tell you, things that will explain all of this.” His brow furrowed into deep lines, his cheeks hollowing. “It’ll explain a lot of things, hopefully enough that you’ll start to understand … certain things about the past.” He sounded like the words were being dragged from him under duress, like he’d rather do anything but have this discussion with me. “Not here,” he added, nodding toward the door. “Back at my place.”
We left the store in silence, his arm still resting on my shoulders. But, I didn’t care. This was it. He was going to tell me why he’d betrayed me all those years ago.
Back at his place, I followed him upstairs, settling myself onto the couch while he took the adjacent chair. Urgency bubbled up inside of me. You might not like the truth. His words, or mine? I didn’t know. I was past caring. I locked eyes with him. “Spill.”
Chapter Eight
Ralph
This was it; I was going to tell her. Sweat trickled down my spine as my fingers dug into the chair arms. I’d envisioned this moment a hundred fucking times. Hey, sweetheart. Guess what? I turn into a bear. Or, Yeah, you know that big secret you always accused me of having? Or, my favorite, stripping down naked in front of her and hoping she’d forget everything about any goddamned secret. Yeah, that was my favorite. The one that played on a loop every time I closed my eyes at night. She’d be so overcome with lust, she’d tackle me and demand that I fuck her. Forget talking, and all that shit. I’d show her with my body how much I adored and worshiped her, in exquisite detail, and she’d never doubt me again.
One look at her unblinking face had me reassessing my daydream. Not gonna happen. Maybe I should wait until after the wedding?
Tell her about me… my bear growled his demand at near deafening decibels.
Shut it, fluffy, I sent back.
His claws scraped down my insides and I was pretty sure I winced.
“Ralph?” She sounded concerned.
Yeah, okay. I’d win
ced, but he had fucking sharp claws. Do that again and I’ll cut you off for a month. No romps in the forest, fishing, or trying to one up my brothers at a game of bear wars. Damn, I fucking loved bear wars. The phrase cutting off my own nose to spite my face came to mind, but whatever. Life sucked most of the time, and I should know.
I cleared my throat, eyeing the door for a split second. “Actually, on second thoughts, this might be better after—”
“No.”
I risked a glance.
She frowned at me.
Yup. She was doing me a favor, or that’s what I was telling myself. “Okay. Right. Where to start…” I shuffled in my seat. This kind of thing didn’t really come with a manual, though someone should fucking write one. Finding my balls, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and steepling my fingers under my chin, to stop them from twitching. “As you probably realized, I already knew your father before we met. Had known him a long time, in fact. We worked together, back in our youth. Started out as young chefs, trying to make our way in the city. I knew him before he met your mother, and drank with him when he lost her. I knew about you; he wouldn’t fucking shut up about his amazing daughter, but I didn’t lay eyes on you until you were seventeen.” And the second I had, I’d been lost. Had known without question that this young woman, barely skirting the edge of womanhood, was my true mate. So, I’d waited. Retreated to the shadows to watch over and protect her.
She stayed silent, but her eyes were skeptic. At least she wasn’t calling bullshit … yet.
“As you will remember, we met when you were nineteen.”
She raised a hand. “Wait, let me make sure I have this right—you knew my father when he was young? That doesn’t make any sense.” I could see that she was trying to give me the benefit of the doubt, but the look she was sending me was one of pity. She thought I’d lost it.
“Connie, I’m one hundred and fifteen years old,” I blurted out on a gust of air, squeezing my eyes shut. There. I’d said it.
