by P. Jameson
Or maybe the reason he shook was because of something much darker. She’d watched Julie, her best friend in high school, get these same shakes when she’d been too long without her drug of choice.
Memories of the past poured over her. Painful ones, and ones that went farther back. Back when she and Julie were innocent. Back when she had a partner to share life with, secrets with.
It was hard to remember sometimes, but she wasn’t always lonely. She’d had friends. She’d had her family.
Julie had beaten the addiction monster, but had to move away to do it. Break all those bonds and links to her past life. Last Francesca heard, she was living in Oregon somewhere and owned a successful bakery.
A smile tugged at her lips. She was happy for Julie, even if it meant there were no more late night conversations. No more borrowing each other’s clothes. No more anything. She could be happy for her friend, because she loved her. And Julie cutting ties meant Julie was better.
It was easy to let go if you loved a person. She’d had plenty of time to learn that one. What she wanted was for someone to love her enough to stay.
She cleared her throat and pushed the nostalgia aside, reaching out to sweep the coins across the counter and into her palm.
“Receipt?”
“No thanks.” He shoved the candy cane into his pocket as far as it would go, but the top stuck out. It looked so out of place with his dark jeans and thick flannel shirt. Grunge meets a tiny piece of the north pole.
He didn’t move for the door, and honestly, she didn’t want him to. Her duties running the shop gave her plenty of interaction with people, but none of them went deeper than surface. No person she smiled at while taking their order knew part of her was hurting inside and even if they did, would they really get it? The loneliness. The solitude.
This man could.
She should do something. Get to know him. Maybe his story was as complicated as hers.
With an awkward nod, he turned to leave.
"I have... you know... uh, coffee in the back. If you want some.”
He paused, considering.
"How much?" She could see him mentally counting his pennies so she quickly shook her head.
"Free. I... I don't sell it. I just keep a single brewer back there for me. So I don't have to leave the store for my fix."
His gaze jerked to hers.
Damn it. Fix. And he looked like he needed one. She shouldn't have used that term.
She cleared her throat. "Uh, you want some?"
But it took him several heartbeats to answer. And when he did, his voice was raspier. Like he was struggling. "If it's not any trouble."
Francesca gave him her best smile, relieved her careless words hadn't made things harder for him. "It'll just take me a minute. You like it black?"
But his face had gone slack while he stared at her, his eyes glazing over in a way that reminded her of a starving person staring at a Thanksgiving Day feast. The way he looked at her made her middle swarm with butterflies. She hadn’t felt that in… well… she hadn’t ever felt that. What did she say? Just asked him about the coffee.
She shook her head, not waiting for his answer, and went to make his cup.
The brewer took just minutes while she tapped her fingers anxiously on the counter. She only had her I'm Gonna Marry Santa mug to offer him, but she figured he wouldn't mind. And if he wanted another cup for the road, she'd run next door to Marcy's and borrow a paper one.
But when she got back to the front of the store, he was gone. As though he’d never been in her shop at all. And disappointment made her mouth go dry.
He’d left.
She stared through the window, half expecting him to be there. Or at least on the bench. But there was no sign of him.
Near the door, a flash of red and white caught her eye. A candy cane, lying on the floor. It must have fallen out of his pocket. Marching forward, she swooped it up and charged out the front door, forgetting her jacket and scarf.
She was going to find him. Return his candy cane. And make him drink her coffee.
It was settled.
Chapter Three
Malcom curved his arms around his middle as he hurried down the sidewalk, hoping to get lost in the crowd. To disappear a little because he was feeling seen. And the exposure hurt.
He hurt inside.
She had smiled at him. Like she did at others. Like she did when she was decorating the trees or making a bouquet. His pretty female smiled at him, and it was so beautiful it made him hurt. Deep inside where the things of his past hid, desperately wanting out.
But he didn't get very far before he heard her yelling, "Hey! Stop. Wait!"
Malcom ignored her and walked faster, but the crowd had thinned out and there just weren't enough bodies to pretend he was lost.
Shit.
"Please! Wait. I have your stuff!"
What could he do? Ignoring her seemed impossible. Seemed sinful even.
He stopped walking but didn't turn to see her. There was no way to make this less awkward. He had ran from her store when she went to make him coffee. How could he explain that?
A set of footsteps neared, quicker than the others around him. And then she was there, standing in front of him, breathing heavy because he'd made her run the entire block to catch him.
"Whew," she said. "Okay, thanks for stopping because I don't think I could have ran much farther without spilling this everywhere. I..." Three more breaths. "… am not a runner. Or, I mean I have working legs, which means I can run. So, I guess in that regard, I am a runner. I'm just not one of those people who likes to do it, you see. What I’m saying is I prefer not to run if the choice is given."
"Not running is your A-choice."
She nodded. "My A-choice, yes. Right. Running is my D-choice. Or like the end of the alphabet choice even. The very, very last letter choice."
"That would be Z."
She blinked, finally having caught her breath. "Of course it would. Z. Yes. Running is my Z-choice then."
She sighed, seeming to remember why she was chasing him down in the first place, and held up both hands. Each held an item. "You forgot your candy cane. And the uh... coffee."
He stared at them. The bright red mug had scrolling letters that spelled out I'm Gonna Marry Santa. It made his lips quirk with humor, but made his chest ache more. It was his territorial side kicking in. He already wanted to keep her for himself. Santa could go fuck a log for all he cared.
"What's your name?" he asked, but she countered.
"Why did you rush off? Forget an appointment or something?"
He eyed her. She’d forgotten a coat. No scarf or hat either. She had only her long-sleeved cotton shirt. She must be cold.
While he burned inside.
Weren’t they a pair.
"Your name." He needed to know so bad, it was a fire in his gut. Hearing it fall from her full pink lips would ease him a little. But she still didn’t reveal it.
"Have somewhere else to be?"
"Sure. That's it. Tell me your name."
Instead she just stared at him, her mind working up something.
"Here," she said, shoving the cup and the candy cane at him so he was forced to take them. "Keep the cup. I should get back to the shop."
But she wasn't smiling anymore. She was... well, she felt sad. Those soft and curious blue eyes that stunned him flat stupid when he'd dared to walk into her shop, were dull and shadowed. In fact, everything about her was wilting. Her shoulders sagged. Her lips turned down like she forgot how brightly they could blaze.
She turned to walk away, and he scrambled for something to make her how she was before. Bright.
This is wrong. All wrong. Make it better.
"My name is Malcom," he blurted in a rush. And somehow, it was the perfect thing to say. Because she stopped. Her shoulders lifted. She turned back to him, and her eyes had that careful curious glint to them. "Malcom Frazier," he mumbled awkwardly, because if his first nam
e made that much of a difference, then maybe his last name would do even more.
"Malcom," she murmured, testing it out. And fuck all if he didn't crumble inside when she said it. Hearing his name spoken in her voice, rolling up her throat, and easing from her lips... it felt so new. So fresh. Pure. Like a brand new beginning. The one he'd craved for so long.
He swallowed hard, praying to the air that she couldn't read the emotion on his face.
"Nice to meet you, Malcom. I'm Francesca Brightwood. My friends... my family calls me—” She stopped, frowning momentarily. "Well, people sometimes shorten it to Franny. You can too, if you want."
Francesca. He closed his eyes while the syllables rolled around in his head. Francesca Brightwood. What a perfect name for his flaming beauty. And oh, it made him ache so bad. Always with the ache.
"Francesca." His lips curved around every piece of her name like the gentlest caress. He wanted to be careful with it. Not be snarly or gruff like he usually was. He wanted to give it space to live in his mouth so that one day if he ever kissed her, she could taste how much it meant to him.
She shivered hard enough to rattle her chin, and wrapped her arms around her middle.
“It’s too cold for you out here. And I don’t have a jacket for you. So… go back.”
“A jacket for me?”
“To give you. You know, to keep you warm.”
She tilted her head to the side, her eyes doing that soft thing again. And he vowed to wrangle a jacket somehow. He’d trade something. Yeah, he’d do that before he would go back to the money he left behind. Using that money was dangerous. But he’d get a jacket so that he had one for her if she ever forgot hers again.
“You’re a gentleman, Malcom,” Francesca mused, making him frown.
No one had ever called him that. His old boss and leader of his family would have laughed him to hell for even being mistaken for a gentleman. But he wasn’t the same person he was before. He’d changed. At his core, and deeper. He was a new person, and that new person… apparently… would give a female the coat off his back if he had one.
But not just any female. Her.
Francesca shivered violently as a burst of frozen wind whipped around them. The taste of flurries was in the air. There was a storm coming.
“Get inside,” he said softly. He wanted to demand she listen but he couldn’t bark at her. Not her.
"Okay.” The corner of her mouth curled gently and he had the urge to feel it with his thumb. Just run along the edge to see what it felt like. Or trace it with his tongue. Exploring her like that would be…
He grit his jaw at the idea.
“Well... if you ever need any more candy canes, you know where to find me."
Seconds ticked by, but finally, she turned and with a little wave, started back for her shop. He watched her until she disappeared in a group of people. She’d be warm inside her shop in minutes. Knowing that made his breath unlock in his chest. Eased that ache just a touch.
He sighed long and loud.
Malcom was going to be collecting his pennies. Because even though he should stay away from her, the hurt thing inside him felt like he could never let her go. He was going to need so many candy canes in the coming days.
Chapter Four
Malcom hurried along the sidewalk toward Brightwoods Floral and Gifts, cradling Francesca's coffee mug in his hands. He'd washed and dried it, and wrapped it in a clean t-shirt of his so it wouldn't get broken or scuffed. Now he was going to return it.
It had only been a couple days, but he wanted an excuse to see her again. And not through a pane of glass. He probably had the twenty-five pennies to buy another candy cane, but he could save that for tomorrow. That way he had another reason to see her.
Living on the streets had taught him how to stretch his buck. Get the most out of nothing.
He rounded the corner and continued the three blocks to Brightwoods, but when he got to her storefront, he stopped short.
She wasn’t alone. A tall man in a sharp suit leaned across the counter, inches from her. Too close. Motherfucker was too close to Malcom’s female. The man smiled, a slinky thing that reminded Malcom of a worm writhing on the sidewalk after a rain. And Francesca smiled back. Her sweet smile. The one she’d given him just yesterday.
His gut churned.
She seemed at ease, her head tossing back with a laugh as the man bantered on, smoother than good whiskey.
Shit.
Was this her man? As long as he’d watched her shop, he never saw her with anyone who seemed close. She was all business. Take the orders, make the flowers. Smile, rinse, repeat. But this man seemed more familiar than any others.
Malcom thought of the mug he was returning. I’m Gonna Marry Santa. Well, this guy didn't look like Santa Claus. Hell, Malcom was closer to Santa Claus than the suit. He had the beard even if it wasn't white. And he could be fucking jolly if he tried.
Malcom watched as the male leaned farther over the counter, invading what little space Francesca had left. Was he going to kiss her?
Fuck.
Malcom turned his head away, fury making nausea climb his throat.
He shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake. She said keep the cup and he should’ve listened.
He started to leave but couldn’t walk away without one last look. Just to make sure she was okay. And because instinct demanded he know if she was being kissed. God help him if she was…
But she’d taken a step back from the counter and her business face had replaced the laughter. She said something to the man and took some notes on a small pad of paper. Glancing up again, her eyes snagged on Malcom and a miraculous thing happened.
Her cheeks rounded into a new smile. One he hadn’t seen before. This one wasn’t polite or sweet. It was… excited. Like she’d been waiting for him. Or… wishing for him?
Nah. It couldn’t be that.
But he found himself relaxing. The churning in his gut faded while he took in her new smile. This one was his favorite yet.
She waved through the window, and the male turned to see who had caught her attention. When he spotted Malcom, he frowned hard, straightening to his full height. Francesca gestured for Malcom to come inside, and he was helpless to ignore her.
Still cradling the wrapped mug, he eased the door open and stepped inside, the cinnamon and flower scent enveloping him. Somehow, he relaxed even more.
“Malcom!” Francesca called as soon as he let the door shut behind him.
“Hi,” he answered uncomfortably.
“I’m just finishing up here, then I’ll be right with you.” Her smile never wavered, so Malcom stood there, waiting, while the man eyed him warily. “We can do roses and lilies for the centerpieces. And I can have them done in time for the party. No problem.”
“That should be just fine, Franny,” he mused. “Just make sure they’re white and not pink, understood? Mother detests pink. Especially around the holidays. Clashes with the red and green decorations.”
“Nothing to worry about, Jack. White will be perfect.” She bent her head, writing some more on the pad. “That will do it then. I’ll call you when they’re ready.”
“Alright.” Jack glanced at Malcom, then back to Francesca. “You… you need me to stick around for a while?” he whispered, as if Malcom couldn’t hear him.
“Hmm?” Francesca glanced up with a frown.
“I can stay.” His gaze slid to Malcom. His judgmental gaze. Bastard. Malcom had half a mind to introduce him to his middle finger. Or better yet, his fist. Yeah, some of this fucker’s blood on his knuckles would make him seem less lowly.
No. You aren’t like that anymore. You don’t use violence to get respect.
Francesca’s laugh was what steadied him. It was dismissive. Like Jack’s concern was stupid. Which it was. Malcom would never harm her. He’d die first.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Jack? Go on, now. Malcom is here to help me around the shop.”
He was?
“The sooner you leave, the sooner we can get to work.”
“You sure?” Jack asked under his breath.
Francesca rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “Chop, chop, Jack. I’ll call you when the orders are in.”
The male gave Malcom one last scornful look before moving toward the door. “Be careful,” he told Francesca.
She gave him a tight smile. “Careful is my middle name.”
Then with a nod, he disappeared through the door leaving the two of them alone.
In silence.
Say something.
But she beat him to it. “Don’t mind him,” she said. “He was born that snooty. It’s a requirement for being the mayor’s son.”
“That asshole is the mayor’s son?”
She tucked her notebook into a drawer, a little laugh escaping her. “Well, yeah. But he’s not so much of an asshole really. He’s just a bit of a busy-body. Gets it from his mother. An inherited trait I think.”
“You know them well?”
“Mmmm…” she tipped her head to the side, lips pursing. “Know them well? More like I’ve known them a long time. Or rather, a long time ago. Jack’s parents and mine were old friends.”
Were old friends, she’d said. Past tense.
Her eyes fell to the bundle in Malcom’s hands. “Whatcha got there?”
He eased forward, stopping a foot from the counter. “It’s your mug. I wanted to return it.”
Her pale eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Well, that’s nice, but you didn’t have to. Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”
He’d like to. Just so he could remember how she’d run him down to give it to him. How nice she’d been when he came into her shop. Her smile. To recall it all whenever he needed to. But keeping her mug meant taking from her, and he never wanted to do that.
“It’s yours,” he said quietly. He pushed it carefully across the counter and she took it, shirt and all.
Good. For some reason, her having something of his felt right. He could spare a shirt. And hell, maybe he’d get it back from her sometime. They could just keep trading each other’s belongings back and forth like lovesick teenagers. Maybe she’d wear it even.
