by Cari Quinn
After hearing all those Comtek water-cooler stories regarding his prowess in bed, her infatuation wasn’t too surprising. So she was curious. So she had a small crush on him.
So what?
It had been years since she’d been this interested in a man. Three, to be precise. Nico had made her feel cherished enough that she’d ignored every internal warning that he hadn’t put his risqué past to bed. Not too shockingly, he’d also preferred the same version of Katherine Wyatt her parents did. The one who never rocked the boat. The one who made straight “A”s at Ridgeley U, even if she didn’t have a clue what to do with her psych degree. The one who never missed family Sunday dinners and never did the unexpected.
She’d been the stereotypical good girl, looking for love and willing to change herself to get it. And what had she gotten for her trouble?
A whole lotta nothing.
Even now, she couldn’t forget her mortification at the man who would have been her husband admitting in front of all their family and friends that he didn’t love her anymore. Even now, she couldn’t smell Old Spice without thinking of Nico.
Vincent wore Old Spice.
Vincent had also, metaphorically, slept his way across the Dakotas.
And Vincent had taken a bullet for her.
Kiki let out a shuddery breath and climbed out of the car. She’d sucked down way too much coffee while waiting for Vincent to get out of surgery and her thundering heart was her penance. Even the short flight of stairs to her door felt like two miles.
The moment she was inside, she yanked off her coat and shed her bloody pants and shirt, then dumped them into a trash bag. The metallic scent of Vincent’s blood permeated her coat and her skin, and she didn’t think she owned enough soap to wash either clean. But she was damn sure going to try.
After putting her jacket into the washer with about six gallons of detergent, she jumped into the shower. Since the Quikky Snak’s day manager, Annette, was out with walking pneumonia, Kiki had put herself on the schedule for a double shift. Which had been fine and dandy until she’d been held up.
With Christmas approaching, not to mention her small but mighty pile of overdue bills, she couldn’t afford to turn down a double. But right now, no amount of money seemed worth going back to the place that had almost killed her.
Well, the Quikky and her own big mouth.
Her last faint hope had been that the store had been closed down as a crime scene. No such luck. When Kiki’s phone call had gotten her boss out of bed an hour ago, Tammy had told her she could take a couple days off. Then she’d added the but. Annette would soon be feeling better and looking for extra shifts, so Kiki’s hours might be reduced for a while if she took Tammy up on her offer for an extended break. Was she okay with that?
No, she wasn’t okay. With anything.
Kiki lathered her hair for the third time, unable to stifle the need to scrub and scrub. Even standing in her own dinky shower with its neon goldfish shower curtain, she didn’t feel remotely like herself. She felt so unclean. So…wounded.
Shivering, she turned her face up to the spray and let the hot water beat against her sore eyes. The ribbons of steam had yet to touch the cold deep in the marrow of her bones.
Something had changed for her. Something big. Must be that whole staring-death-in-the-face deal. Though she’d never expected her potential death to take the shape of a man wearing moon boots.
The important thing was that she was okay. She’d survived. Vincent had saved her from her own stupidity, though she still thought her assumption that the robber’s gun was a toy had been reasonable considering recent events in the news. Besides, she’d been held up at the Quikky before, and she’d always scared off the jerks when they sensed she was up for a fight. Sure, most of her bravado had been fake, but she wouldn’t allow anyone to make her afraid.
But if Vincent hadn’t been there….
God, dying scared her. There was so much she hadn’t done. Her job at the Quikky Snak paid most of her bills, but it didn’t give her a sense of having made a difference in the world. So she’d won Employee of the Month four months running. So she was Tammy’s only employee who knew how to fix a clogged gas pump.
Big deal.
When she’d taken the job twenty-one months and fifteen days ago, she’d been sure she wouldn’t be there long. She had most of a master’s degree and a quick, flexible brain. Maybe she’d mostly dropped out of life after her relationship with Nico had ended, but she’d always believed, perhaps foolishly, that a new opportunity would arise at any moment.
Her new opportunity had probably taken a trip to Tahiti with her heretofore unseen new man. The one willing to oblige her every sexual whim, but lacking the fuckwad gene that would invariably lead to her getting a broken heart.
Reluctantly, Kiki turned off the water. She still didn’t feel clean. Or warm. She dried off, steadfastly averting her gaze from the mirror. She didn’t need to see how she looked to know it couldn’t be good. Her body still hurt—an unfortunate side effect of being flattened by a guy a foot taller and double her weight—and fatigue dogged her every movement.
She sighed. She could do this. After taking a couple Advil and downing some soda, she’d be ready to do battle in the world of convenience store commerce for another day.
Then she saw her unmade bed with its inviting Snoopy flannel sheets. “Just ten minutes,” she promised herself, crawling into bedding that smelled comfortingly of home and the cuddly gray tabby curled beside her pillow.
She fell asleep before she managed to tug up the sheets.
When she woke, it was dark again. Twilight fell early this time of year, but typically it didn’t start at nine a.m.
She glanced at her bedside alarm clock. Dammit, she’d overslept. By approximately ten hours.
Molly pranced over her belly, her mood upon waking clearly better than her mistress’s. Not surprising. She didn’t have a job to worry about.
Pulling her cat close for moral support, Kiki peeked at her answering machine through her fingers. A red 5 silently taunted her, flashing its disapproval.
She winced. How the heck had she slept through five phone calls?
Then she remembered. Last week, she’d been fighting a cold and needed to put a stop to her father’s endless questions.
Katherine, when are you going to stop taking useless classes in silly subjects and finish your master’s?
Katherine, when are you going to get a real job?
And her personal favorite: Katherine, when are you going to find a nice man to settle down with?
So she’d turned off the ringer.
Setting Molly aside, she swung her legs over the side of her bed. She couldn’t deny she felt better. Sleep had wonderful restorative powers. Now if only her extended nap could give her some nerve.
She hesitated with her finger over the play button. But instead of playing the messages, she pressed delete five times.
In all likelihood, Tammy had been one of the callers. Maybe Lynsay or her parents, too, though she’d contacted everyone earlier to let them know she was okay. But the nice thing to do would’ve been to listen—and reply—to her messages.
She was sick and tired of being nice.
The Quikky Snak had gotten almost two years of her life. It was a mostly thankless job, but she’d worked hard to become night manager. Now she was done. She’d thought she could go back, but she couldn’t. Life was just too short to spend it being miserable, and no one got any do-overs.
When her eyes smarted, she blinked back the tears. She didn’t do well with pity tears, especially her own.
Making the decision made her feel oodles better, except for that pesky lack-of-income thing. What was she supposed to do now? Content herself with feasting on Molly’s cat food? Would it be Delish Duck Din-Din tonight or Savory Sardine Supper?
She blew out a breath. Inhaled another. Worrying was pointless. Obviously, this was divine intervention. She’d been unhappy for months. Though
she hadn’t seen any viable positions in the want-ads unless she wanted to be a phone sex operator or a construction worker, that was before last night. Now she would do whatever was necessary to get where she wanted to be.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried to find a career. She’d taken classes in any subject that interested her. She’d continued helping out with the local theater even after her passion for acting waned. Because she knew her perfect job—her perfect life—had to be out there somewhere.
But last night, her crappy life had zoomed before her eyes with an unmistakable whooshing sound. That sound, the sound of suck, would no longer be her theme song. Her outlook had irrevocably changed, and the job she longed for, the job she had been born to do, would be hers for the asking.
All right, maybe not. But surely she had to be able to find a new position that didn’t involve sex or brute physical labor. Surely there had to be a career she wanted to pursue, not one her child psychologist mother or her lawyer father thought would serve her well.
On Christmas Eve, she would turn twenty-eight. A mere four weeks away. By then, she vowed, she’d be living the life she’d always dreamed of.
Kiki rubbed her knuckles against the gnawing pit of hunger in her belly. Proactive. That was the ticket. But she had a few loose ends to tie off first.
She picked up the phone. On her list of unpleasant tasks, checking up on Vincent ranked higher than giving her resignation. Plus she wouldn’t start bawling while she was on the phone with Vincent. She hoped.
No one would tell her anything except that he was stable. He didn’t have a phone in his room, so she couldn’t ask him herself unless she wanted to pay him a visit. After the way he’d tossed her out, that was a big fat no.
She hung up, suddenly without a clue what she should do next. Get dressed? Make dinner? Call Tammy and her family to assure them that yes, she was fine, and no, she hadn’t gone crazy, but her life needed to change.
Her gaze landed on the purring cat sprawled on her pillow. Or she could deal with the world tomorrow.
She slipped into her most comfortable pajamas and turned on her small bedside lamp, then climbed back into bed. Her new life would wait twelve more hours.
She got eleven and three-fourths.
The doorbell woke her at ten to six. It didn’t ring just once, either. Someone had their finger jammed on the button.
What the hell? That wasn’t the paperboy, or a teenager hoping to fleece her under the guise of “shoveling her walk.” Nor would her father ever ring the bell more than a dignified twice.
Kiki snatched a miniature candy cane off her nightstand as she stumbled to her feet. If her visitor wanted to bother her at the buttcrack of dawn, it was their own fault she didn’t have time to brush and floss. She tore the plastic and bit off a chunk, then shoved the candy in her pajama pocket as she rushed downstairs.
The bell had finally stopped ringing, so whoever it was must have gone. Just in case, she opened the door. And stared. Probably drooled, too.
Even when she was half-asleep, her pulse leapt to warp speed at just the sight of Vincent. Damn, he meshed nerd and hot perfectly.
She fingered her bangs and discovered they were crushed to her head. Why hadn’t she stopped to brush her hair? And oh God, was she really wearing her rattiest flannel jammies?
“Hi,” he said, adjusting his stance to cradle his injured arm. He wore no coat despite the below-freezing temperatures, and the lumpy left shoulder of his Oxford shirt was higher than the other. She could see the outline of a thick bandage beneath the fabric.
Her throat suddenly felt too tight to swallow the jagged lump of candy cane. “Where are your glasses?”
Good Lord. Of all the things she could have said, she’d picked that?
“Getting fixed.”
“How can you see?” Kiki shook her head. So much for sleep clearing her brain. “Duh. Contacts.”
“I hate them, but they’ll get me through.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Can I come in, Kiki? Just for a minute.”
“Sure.” She waved him in and leaned against the door to catch her breath. She’d always reacted strongly to him, and the shooting hadn’t helped. She wanted to hug him, to run her hands over his body to make sure he was okay, check that he was whole and safe and hard—
Hard? Sweet mercy, what the heck was her problem? She didn’t own a vibrator, but maybe she needed to rectify that fact. This whole sex-on-the-brain thing was getting out of hand.
She didn’t notice he’d stepped toward her until his sneakers bumped her bare feet. Wet snow gushed between her toes as her gaze snapped up to his. Whoa. What she saw simmering there—namely blatant, undisguised lust—had her fingers clenching around the knob.
Unless she was very mistaken, he hadn’t stopped by for a neighborly pinch of sugar. No, the sugar Vincent wanted was a different substance entirely.
He threaded his hand through her hair, tugging her closer. Her body strained toward him, her breasts all but bursting the buttons of her flannel pajamas. She swallowed the last of the candy cane as he lowered his mouth to hers.
He didn’t ravage, as she’d expected. His mouth was soft and warm on hers, and the scrape of his stubbled jaw added to the thrill. She moaned and clung to him, her mind emptying like sand tumbling from a bucket.
Resist? Absolutely not. She wanted this. Him.
His tongue swept between her lips to tangle with hers, to explore her mouth so slowly and thoroughly that the snow melting between her toes had nothing on the melting happening between her legs.
Yes. The word sang through her, an acquiescence she couldn’t voice. It was as if she’d been frozen after Nico, and here was the heat, the life, that would finally allow her to come back to herself.
Thinking about Nico was her mistake. She stiffened, but Vincent was already drawing back, the gold rims surrounding his pupils burning.
“I didn’t intend to do that.”
She rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth. Her lips still sizzled. “I didn’t intend to let you.”
“I guess neither of us has control of our intentions.” He smiled slightly, his gaze wandering from her messy hair to her old pajamas. The desire warming his eyes never waned.
Kiss me again. Everywhere.
“I’m sorry, Kiki.”
Kiki blinked. “You’re sorry? For what?”
“For tossing you out of my hospital room after I’d asked you to stay with me. I didn’t really expect you to go.”
Her gaze landed on his mouth and the dimples that appeared when he smiled. She wanted to slide her tongue into those sexy little grooves. “I got you shot. Your reaction was understandable.” She glanced at the arm he held against his body. “How are you feeling? Isn’t it a little soon for you to be out of the hospital?”
“That’s what Dr. Dennis thought, but I signed myself out. I’m not bleeding, and I feel fine,” he shifted, flinching, “all right, not fine, but not horrendous, either. I’d rather get better at home, while I’m working on my…. While I’m working.”
She cocked a brow and crossed her arms over her chest. The classic defensive move put distance between them, but more importantly, hid the evidence of her arousal. Kinda hard to act blasé around a guy when your nipples were practically waggling in front of his face. “Can’t you take a break?”
“I am, for two weeks. What am I supposed to do that whole time? Sit on my ass and watch soaps?”
Having sex would fill the time quite nicely.
She cleared her throat. “So you’re going to work. On computer geek stuff?”
He grinned, as he always did when she referred to him being a geek. It was part of their normal shtick, as much as it was for him to ask her when she was going to get a job where she could put her brain to use. Which, of course, reminded her of what he had said about her being smart. And pretty.
He’d called her smart before. After he’d caught her devouring an article about health care reform one night, spirited debates on cur
rent events had become part of their normal banter. Their conversations usually ended with Vincent tossing out some teasing remark about how hot he found chicks with brains.
But he’d never remarked on her looks. Judging from his usual bevy of willowy blondes and redheads, she’d assumed his flirting had more to do with friendship than true interest, at least until he’d asked her out the night of the shooting. He hadn’t been kidding around then. Nor was he kidding now.
She bit her lip. And you care, why?
“Geek stuff is on the list, but there are other things,” he answered finally, watching her in a way that caused her fingers to inch toward the doorknob again. “I have a project to complete.”
“Can’t it wait until you’re better? You need to rest.”
“No. It can’t. I have too much going on. Work, tenants—”
“You own property?”
“Two properties, actually. One is the three-family house I live in with my grandmother and a friend of mine. The other’s still being rehabbed.” His lips quirked. “I like to keep my hands in a lot of pots.”
Not an expression she’d heard before, but leave it to Vincent. “Surprise, surprise.” She let out an unladylike snort she never would’ve dreamed of letting loose around Nico or her parents. For some reason, anything went with him. “I still don’t think you should push yourself, but what do I know?”
He skimmed his thumb over her lower lip. “Worried about me, Kiki?”
She sucked in a breath. What was it about him? She could handle other men. Maybe not always that efficiently, but they didn’t leave her feeling like a bumbling fool.
When he leaned down, his lips hovering dangerously close, Kiki turned her cheek. “Of course, I’m worried about you,” she said, her voice brisk. Look at the wall. Think pure thoughts. “You were injured at my store. Or what used to be my store. I feel responsible.”
He gripped her chin. “What do you mean, used to be your store?”
