by Lia Riley
Her long look was a little uncertain and a lot of something, something that caused his blood to heat. Maybe he had a chance here. Please don’t let me fuck this up. “I want you to know that pie and coffee are on the house for you in perpetuity.” She set the plate on a table and they both stared at each other. “As a thank you,” she added, absently chewing the corner of her lip. “Let me pour you some coffee. How do you take it? Black?”
“With sugar.”
She stood with a small smile. “Of course you do.”
“How you liking Brightwater?” he asked as she returned, carrying the mug. She sat opposite him and when her foot bumped his boot, she quickly drew it away.
“I’m happy.” She glanced out to Main Street. “This town has so much potential.”
“Potential?” Archer sat back, folding his arms. “What’s the matter with how it is now?”
“Oh, nothing.” She responding quickly, wiping an invisible crumb from the table. “Nothing at all. But it’s changing, and I feel like I can help in a small way. People here deserve nice things, and if they want to go out for a coffee and a cupcake, they shouldn’t have to put up with what Marigold serves.”
“It doesn’t sound like you made a friend for life in Goldie.” Deep down he knew Marigold wasn’t a bad person, but who knew what crawled up her ass the last few years.
Edie gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Not so much. But”—she forced a brighter smile—“that’s no matter. Everyone else in town has been perfectly friendly and kind.”
“Present company included?” He cast the fishing line but from the way she frowned, it looked like he wasn’t getting a bite.
“Actually, I should say that I . . . I . . . well, I’ve heard quite a bit about you.” Her eyes fluttered down to his neck and held, her cheeks deepening from pink to crimson. “You and women in Brightwater. And others towns within a fifty-mile radius.”
Shit. She’d struck the iceberg of his reputation, and the situation was fast taking on water. “All good things?” He affected a lazy grin despite the fact a flurry of nerves made his stomach protest her delicious pie. He’d set the course, had to see it through, even though his desired destination now seemed like an impossible fantasy. The captain always went down with the ship.
“Apparently you leave lots of satisfied customers.”
“Goddamn,” he said with a forced laugh. “That makes me sound like Brightwater’s version of McDonald’s.” Who had he been kidding? She’d never see beyond his reputation.
Now what? He couldn’t exactly deny the truth. Instead, he clamped a hand around his fork and shoveled in another big bite, giving an inadvertent groan. Now that was the best pie ever made. The ice cream sweetened the buttery flaky crust, and the berries popped with sweetness. Even Freckles’ disapproving expression couldn’t detract from the flavor
She braced her elbows and leaned forward. “Like I said before, coffee and pie are yours for the taking, whenever you want. I am grateful for how you helped me get out of Vegas. But I don’t want to be another notch on your belt.”
“Good,” he said hotly, “because I’m not here for any . . . notching.” But at this point he couldn’t give his real reason without it looking like a cheap pickup line. The manwhore of Brightwater wanted to go a-courting? What a joke. Edie had probably been in town for all of a few hours before getting regaled with stories that would make a nun run straight to confession.
He pushed away the pie. Delicious as it was, he’d lost his appetite.
“Wait,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the violent slide of his chair. “I—I don’t mean to come off strong. I am still getting used to speaking up for myself so I might have overcompensated.”
“Don’t feel like you owe me any apologies.” Damn it, his voice was gruff, hurt. He was a guy who didn’t do this, get tongue-tied or feel lost. His job was to make a girl comfortable and have all the big moves.
“I truly didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” she said softly. “I owe you so much. After all, you are the reason I got here in the first place. You were my knight in shining armor when I needed one most.”
He’d wanted to play the nice guy, and hell, he was a nice guy, at least, not actively a bad one. But Edie made it clear he had nothing to lose. Time to say what was on his mind and then get the hell out. Brooding in secret wasn’t his style.
He took his time standing and ambled around the table, setting a hand down on either arm of Edie’s chair. He leaned down slow. As he drew closer, her eyes opened a fraction wider. When he was almost touching her mouth, a mouth that was suddenly parting, he changed course, dipping to her ear, allowing his own lips to hover, touching, but only barely, her soft skin. “I won’t deny whatever rumors you’ve heard about me. I’m not perfect, Edie, but I am a man, and where I come from that means saying what you mean, and meaning what you say. Do I want you? Yes. I want you like nothing I’ve ever needed. But I’m not going to chase you. I’m going to prove that I’m the guy who’s willing to wait.”
She let out a sigh somewhere between a moan and a whimper.
“I know we’d be good.” He moved a free hand and let his knuckles caress the arch in her neck. “You got to know we could be good. Every time I look at you”—he drew back—“at your mouth, all I can wonder is how good you’d taste.”
“Archer . . . I . . . you . . . I want . . .” She swallowed, blinking rapidly.
Someone tried the shop door. Perfect timing. He glared over his shoulder to see a couple frowning at the closed sign before walking away. When he turned back around, Edie stared at his neck.
“I nearly fell for it.” Her mouth twisted into a sad smile as she stood. “Waiting, you’ve been waiting for me? How long? Since lunchtime? Or should I be extra flattered that you held off since breakfast?”
Her words threw him. Here he was, again on defensive, even after his big move. His jaw clenched. “What are you talking about?”
“Hickeys weren’t cool in high school. They are much less so now.”
“Hickey? I don’t have a hickey.”
She laughed at that, a real laugh as if she was completely unaffected. As if she wasn’t trembling against his words a few seconds ago. “You don’t know, do you? I almost feel sorry busting you, but really, you walked right into it.”
“Busted me? Walked into what?”
“You don’t have any idea you have a hickey the size of a fifty-cent piece on your neck?”
“What—how—that’s impossible!”
She pointed at a brass-framed mirror on the wall and he crossed the room. He hadn’t been with anyone since that ill-fated Vegas trip. He glanced in the mirror, nothing. Was she messing with him?
“Right at the collar line,” she called.
He tilted his head and there it was, a bruise from the damn leech above his clavicle. “That’s nothing,” he said, giving it a rub.
“Oh, I’m sure it was.”
“No seriously.” He rubbed his thumb and index finger over his eyes. “I had an accident this morning.”
“Bedroom mishaps must be an occupational hazard. Or are you going to say you ran into a vacuum cleaner?”
“I mean it. There was a cow stuck in a bog and—”
“Is this a convoluted metaphor?” She wrinkled her brow. “Because I don’t need to hear—”
“Never mind.” He’d blown this shot so hard that it vaporized itself. There weren’t even pieces to pick up. “Forget it. There’s no point explaining anything. You already think you have it all figured out, that you know all about me. But so help me, I know one thing. I want to know you better. And that’s the part that makes you different to any other woman I’ve ever known.” It hurt to look at her, see the little silver speckles in her eyes. It was agony to watch the slight outline of her breasts hitch with her inhaled breath.
She held up a hand as if to ward him off, averting her gaze.
He lifted his hat and scrubbed his forehead. Freckles didn’t want to hear t
he whole truth, only the parts that pertained to his past, not his future. Outside, across the street, his cousin, Kit, walked through the saloon doors into The Dirty Shame. When in doubt, run—a drinking buddy was always there for you. If Sawyer worked late, maybe he could con a ride home after a couple of heart-deadening bourbons.
“Sorry to bother you.” No point sticking around and making an even bigger fool of himself.
Edie reached out. “I’d like to be friends. Please . . .”
He stared at her hand. “I made myself clear. I don’t want to just be your friend.”
“Please.” A raw twinge of desperation crept into her voice and, shit, those were actual tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. “I really could use a few.”
He rocked on his boots. His resolve melting into a mushy puddle. This was a bad idea. He wanted her and despite the fact she gave him the boot, there was no denying her reaction when he leaned in close. Men and women who were attracted to each other couldn’t be friends.
Apparently everyone knew this except Edie Banks.
But hell, she looked so hopeful.
And he knew, before he even opened his mouth that he was going to agree to the impossible idea.
EDIE LOCKED THE door behind Archer and yanked the blind cord closed. Well, mostly closed. There was just enough gap remaining for a peek. Archer crossed the street with his unhurried swagger. Why was that loose-limbed gait so appealing? Maybe because it was so different than what she was used to. In the city, men walked fast, with purpose, head down and rushing. There was something undeniably attractive about a man being confident about going a little slower, at a pace he set. If she teleported Archer to Times Square he’d no doubt navigate through the crowd with the same gait he maintained in Brightwater.
You could take the man out of the place, but the place didn’t leave the man.
He turned as if sensing her secret ogling and glanced back. She dove behind the blind so fast the canvas swung from the action. Would he know she watched?
She pressed a hand over her eyes, attempting to take a deep diaphragmatic breath.
All her fine big talk had come straight out of her backside. Today had been a success. The shop had been full all day, and as soon as there was a lull, she had barely enough time to wipe off tables before a new person came through. For a quiet town, this was a more than promising start. And yet, every time the door opened, her eyes searched for a face where the jaw was a little too square, the mouth the perfect type of wide, the eyes a hypnotic green.
Wanting wasn’t going to help her become independent. Neither was becoming jealous of the many women in Archer’s life.
She needed to focus. This coffee shop was her big shot. And if she got quivery in her lady parts when Archer leaned in and set his lips on her ear, making her stomach flip, she had to ignore it.
Fantasies were dangerous and distracted from real life. She didn’t even own a vibrator. The Big O existed only in memory. She picked up Archer’s pie plate and mug and walked to the kitchen and dropped them in the sink. On the counter rested a block of baking chocolate. She broke off a corner and shoved a piece in her mouth, grimacing as the bitterness of the cacao spread over her taste buds. Talk about a bad idea. She grabbed a spoonful of sugar and shoved in a mouthful. Much better.
What was she doing?
Trying to prove chocolate was better than sex.
And it was, at least better than any sex she’d had.
But that leanly muscular, 100 percent male-grade body Archer pressed against hers promised something that even mousse au chocolat couldn’t hope to deliver. She flicked on the stove, grabbed milk from the fridge, and poured a cup into a saucepan, adding more chocolate, sugar, and cinnamon and whisking furiously. Hot chocolate was a poor substitute for sexy times, but it would have to do.
She stared in the pan, watching the swirls undulate. She didn’t need to rely on anyone except herself. Pouring herself a small mug, she started to cut herself a piece of cherry pie. Oh, who was she kidding? She grabbed a fork, slid to the floor, propped her back against the cupboard, and hoed in. If she didn’t cut it, it counted as one piece. She hadn’t eaten all day and ran five miles in the pre-dawn. It was a wonder she was still going.
“Oh yum,” she groaned to herself. The pie was delicious if she said so herself. She took a sip of hot chocolate, reveling in the cinnamon. Sometimes all it took was a dash of the unexpected to zap the flavor into full force.
She slammed her knees together, ignoring her internal clenching, the want that still went hungry. More pie. She took a bigger bite but no matter how delicious the flavors were, nothing could drive away the memory of Archer Kane’s perfect ass, lovingly hugged by faded denim, walking in the opposite direction.
Chapter Twelve
ARCHER SIPPED HIS top-shelf whisky or as top-shelf as it got at The Dirty Shame, which wasn’t saying a hell of a lot.
“Incoming,” Kit muttered beside him.
“Barely,” he retorted, staring straight ahead.
The woman in question had tottered by twice before, weaving suggestively on her three-inch heels. “I’m not interested.” He wasn’t here for a one-night stand—unusual but the gospel truth. And besides, even in his heyday, he never took home anyone too drunk to walk.
He took another slow sip.
“What crawled up your ass and died?” Kit had a way with words.
“Tired, that’s all.”
“Sawyer mentioned you’ve been around Hidden Rock more. What’s the angle?”
“I need an angle to help our eighty-year-old grandma?” Archer asked with exaggerated outrage.
“Something’s up. Spit it out.” Kit wasn’t just a deputy sheriff. He’d been an interrogator/debriefer who screened and interrogated enemy POWs held on overseas bases. What went down during his military service was a mystery because Kit steadfastly refused to discuss his experiences. He laughed louder than anyone at Archer’s antics, but when no one watched, his gaze would drift to empty space, his mouth drawing down on the edges.
“She asked me to help more.” Archer shrugged.
“Grandma doesn’t ask for help. She’s up to something.” Kit peeled at the corner of his IPA label. “Think you’re tapped for Hidden Rock?”
Archer slugged more whisky in lieu of a reply.
“I don’t know, man.” Kit took his own swig. “You’re full of mystery these days.”
“Me?”
“There’s been talk about you and a certain redhead who’s new to town. You been holding out on me?”
“There’s nothing to say,” Archer muttered.
Kit looked thoughtful. “She’s cute. Got to love a woman with that head of hair. Never seen anything quite like it.”
Archer’s throat tightened. He couldn’t stake a claim. Edie made it clear that not only did she want to reinvent herself, she also didn’t want anything to do with him, except for that blow off about the lifetime supply of pie and them being friends. Wasn’t that the line women gave guys to let them down easy?
“Are you into her?”
“She’s not interested,” Archer mumbled.
“Come again?”
“She’s not interested in me,” Archer said louder, through gritted teeth.
Kit leaned in close, and for an unsettling second Archer got a sense of what it would be like to be grilled by his cousin. This guy didn’t miss a trick.
“And you are?”
“More than that.” Might as well tell Kit as much of the truth as he could. “Something about her has gotten under my skin. I’ve never had anything like this happen before.”
“Sure it’s not poison oak?” Kit cocked a brow. “An itch you can’t scratch?”
“Fuck off,” Archer grumbled. Forget it. He wasn’t going to sit here and bare his heart like a chump only to have Kit bait him.
“Look.” Kit’s face grew serious. “If you really want this woman you’re going to have to shoot straight.”
“And you’re one
to give me advice?” If Archer was the manwhore of Brightwater, Kit was the monk. A wise-cracking, hard-drinking monk who always went home alone.
“Guess I am, and you better take it because if I have to spend the summer on this bar stool watching your ugly face look like it’s about to burst into tears, I’m going to kick your ass.”
“Burst into tears? Why I ought to—”
“I’ve known you since forever and I’ve never seen this.” He waved his hand. “You. Torn up about a woman.”
“I don’t even know her. Not really.” Just enough to understand Freckles was the single most fascinating person he’d ever encountered.
“Then get to know her, and keep being yourself . . . except without the whole sleeping with whoever comes your way part.”
Archer shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You’re blushing like a school girl, so don’t pretend you’re not going to give it a shot.”
And the shit of it was, Kit was right.
Archer stood. “I got to go take a leak, man. Back in a minute.” The men’s room was in an alcove near the front—he turned back to see Kit chatting with Bruce, The Dirty Shame bartender, and then walked out the door.
No matter what she said in the coffee shop, her eyes told a different story. It was time to get Edie out of his head and into his arms.
A CAT IN heat yowled in the alley. Edie turned up the iTunes volume on her laptop, but the whimsical Amélie soundtrack did little to mask its god-awful screams and moans. Probably the same bedraggled white cat that perched on the small balcony off her bedroom this morning. At this rate she should invite the poor thing in for a bowl of milk. Tell it to bring its friends. Might as well embrace being a crazy cat lady and buy tuna in bulk.
Someone pounded on the door and she jumped, glancing down at her bathrobe, her hair still wet from the shower. Who could that be? Quincy had flown to LA this afternoon for a meeting and no one else had cause to visit.
Tiptoeing across the room, she peered into the peephole.
