by Stacy Gail
“Not in everything. There are things in this world that are ugly all the way to their core.”
“This, from the guy who makes the fashion world tremble with fear and awe? I thought you artsy photographers specialized in having an eye for beauty.”
“Generally speaking, I would assume we have an eye for many things.” And his eye had been trained to spot the ugly camouflaged like a steel trap beneath the beauty. But as hard as he looked, there was nothing like that hidden inside her. “You still have not told me of your first flower.”
That dazzling smile of hers popped back into place before she began to wind her way toward the shop’s check-out. “I’d come home from school and found this particular foster mom—she was of the crazy-ass variety—in the middle of a huge wig-out. One of those screaming ones the whole neighborhood can hear, you know?”
He didn’t know, actually. He was more used to icy silences that filled a gut with dread.
“Anyway, she was yelling her head off at one of the other kids. Since I didn’t want to catch any stray flak, I took off outside to practice writing my ABCs in the dirt. That’s when I saw it—this amazing splash of color. It was pushing up between a crack in the concrete walk by the house, reaching up to catch the sun’s rays, and it was just…” She put her hand to her heart in what looked to be a genuine fangirl swoon. “Absolutely. Freaking. Perfect.”
“I can almost see what you would have looked like.” As he covertly took another picture of her, surprise zipped through him when he heard himself speak the thought aloud. “So full of wonder, so full of joy.”
“So full of ‘holy crap, what’s that?’” With a laugh, she dug into her bag with her free hand. “I squatted down next to it, mesmerized by this magical color that didn’t exist in my world—showy, neon yellow that was way better than the color of a school bus or a crayon. Those were the only yellows that I knew, if that makes any sense.”
“It does.” He took another shot of her as the elderly shopkeeper approached.
“It had these tiny spiked petals that were so compact it looked like there were about a billion of them, and they were arranged in this symmetrical sunburst pattern that must have been designed by the angels themselves. God, it was beautiful.”
His eyes narrowed at the description. “Wait, this flower. You don’t mean…”
“Yep. A dandelion. The most spectacular flower I’d ever seen, or would ever see.” Her grin faded, and with a gentle sound of regret she turned to offer a wave at the approaching woman. “Then Crazy-Ass Foster Mom stormed out, stomped on it just for giggles and hauled me inside to give me hell for not coming when she called. As she dragged me away, I remember looking back toward the walkway at this sad, mangled green and yellow knot of something that had been so perfect only seconds before, but was now so hopelessly ruined.” She shook her head. “I cried myself to sleep that night.”
As she greeted the shop worker by name—Zelda—and hugged her as if they’d been separated for years, he took another picture. Scout was a miracle, really, to still have such an obvious capacity to love and laugh after that kind of childhood. They’d traveled similar roads, yet they’d turned out so differently. She had come out of it with a deep understanding of how precious beauty was. He, on the other hand, was what he’d been born to be—a monster who wanted to do monstrous things.
Like find that hideous toad-bitch of a foster parent and blast her off her dandelion-stomping feet for breaking Scout’s heart.
Or uproot the entire city in search of a dandelion so he could give it to her.
Or rage at an uncaring world because it had allowed an innocent child to cry devastated tears.
Instead, when she got her wallet out, all he could do was beat her to it.
“I got this.”
“Oh, no, it’s—”
“Scout.” He gently pushed her hand away, when anyone who knew him would insist there was nothing gentle about him. “I got this.”
He couldn’t give her dandelions. But maybe hyacinths and carnations would do.
“I really need to get these into some water, so I’m not going to stay too long.” Sliding into the corner booth at the back of Pig In A Poke, Scout put the flowers carefully on the table. “Thank you for buying them for me.”
“It was my pleasure, and I am sure the flowers will keep.” To her surprise, Ivar didn’t slide in on the opposite side across from her. Instead he scooted in beside her, and she had to scramble to make sure she didn’t get sat on.
“What the hell.” Annoyed, she pushed all the way to the corner, then stopped when she realized he kept eating up the space she was trying to keep between them. “What are you doing?”
“Sitting down.”
Duh. “You got a problem with sitting on all that lovely bench space over there across the table?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Apparently not in the least bothered by her bid for distance, he slung an arm over the back of where she sat. It took every ounce of will she had not to move again. “I prefer the European way of sitting side by side while dining, rather than having an obstacle between me and my date.”
“This isn’t a date, and you’re Canadian, not European.”
“Ah.” His eyes lit up. “You checked up on me.”
Oh crap. “Naturally.”
“And here I thought you had not noticed me at all.”
“I check up on everyone who shows more than a passing interest in House Of Payne.” No way was she going to admit she’d memorized his stats like he was going into her fantasy football line-up. “That’s what I do best—scouting out potential trouble and eliminating it before it ever becomes a genuine pain in the ass.”
“Scouting out.” The lift of his brow was so insanely charming, it was hard not to just sit there and gape at him like some mouth-breathing idiot. “Is this, perhaps, the reason you have the nickname Scout? Or is that your real name, and your parents were fans of To Kill a Mockingbird?”
“My real name is Theresa, and both my parents were killed in a carjacking when I was a baby, so I have no idea where they got my real name.” As she heard the private information pour out as easily as if her inner censor had fallen asleep at the switch, she had to shake her head. How tragic it was, that she was such a sucker for a pretty face. “Your first name is unusual. It doesn’t sound like any French name I’ve ever heard.”
“Ivar is Scandinavian. My grandmother named me,” he added when she tilted her head, and he looked away when Leo approached. “It is the only non-French name in the family tree, and designed to stand out.”
Stand out, or not fit in? Scout felt the words crowd her mouth, but even after they’d given their orders of tea and coffee, she kept them imprisoned. There was something in the casual expression he wore that bothered her. It was almost as though he was trying not to move a single muscle in his face. It wasn’t that it was a tight expression. In fact, it wasn’t an expression at all.
It was a mask.
That’s it. That’s what wrong.
What was it that he felt he had to hide behind a mask?
“It’s a cool name,” she offered, watching him closely. The mask remained firmly in place as he tilted his head.
“Thank you.”
“Do you like it?”
“Do you know, no one has ever asked me that? How strange.” If possible, his eyes grew even more shuttered. “It is merely my name. Liking it, not liking it—this has never been a consideration.”
“If you don’t like it, you could always pick a nickname and roll with it.”
“A nickname?” He said the word as if sampling its flavor, and the rigidity in his expression drained away as humor took its place. “I have never had one of those.”
“I’m sure you had some kind of nickname when you were a kid.”
“No.”
“Really?” Briefly she remembered Frank Bournival, her benefactor, remarking that her nickname was a good sign; it meant someone had cared enough about her to g
ive her one. “You’ve never been called anything but Ivar?”
A hint of something—was it bitterness?—flashed through his eyes before the mask reappeared. “Nothing that could be repeated in public.”
Interesting. “I’d say Frenchie, but that makes me think of a character in the movie Grease, and she was kind of a bimbo. And also, you’re Canadian, so that won’t fly. What’s your favorite junk food?”
He thought for a moment. “Poutine.”
She stared at him. “I don’t even know what that is.”
The last vestiges of the mask vanished with his grin, and the real Ivar shining through was so breathtaking she thought she might need CPR. “I think you would like it.”
“I’m not even sure I could spell it. How do you like the sound of Canuck?”
“Completely awful.”
When the man was right, he was right. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”
“Flirt with beautiful women.” To prove it, he picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. In an instant, Scout’s heart knocked against the wall of her chest in an apparent search for weak spots. Normally she would have enjoyed the rush—he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever fantasized about, after all—but she was far from the enjoyment zone. This was the second time he’d inspired this crazy, toe-curling reaction. Not a good thing when he was also the guy who tripped every single one of her internal alarms.
His mouth brushed along her knuckles.
Her toes curled so much her foot began to cramp.
Oh, man. This was seriously not good.
“I know you regularly keep company with the most beautiful women in the world, so crap like that is seriously not going to work with me, pal.” Firmly, so that neither one of them could doubt her, she yanked her hand free while flexing her toes to fight off the cramp. “Unless, of course, you want to be tagged with the name Romeo.”
“Would that make you my Juliet?”
“Call me Juliet, and I’ll give you another bloody nose.”
His head snapped back in surprise. Too late, she realized the swan-like women inhabiting his elegant world probably didn’t threaten to throw down. “Why? I thought Juliet was a tragic heroine whom everyone adored.”
“Ugh, are you kidding me? Juliet was a weak-willed sap who offed herself rather than sucking it up and moving on. Life is way different in South Deering, know what I mean?”
“Not really.”
“You freaking celebrate every day you wake up with a heartbeat, because that means you’ve lived through yet another night without getting shot, knifed or burned up in your own bed. To someone like me, life is all about survival, get it? That moron Juliet didn’t even try. That makes her weak, and that’s why you’ll get a bloody nose if you even think about calling me by that name.”
“An interesting viewpoint.” Those arctic eyes glittered over her as if he’d never seen her before. “But I was thinking more along the lines of romance, rather than life or death. It is said that every woman is a romantic.”
“I repeat, South Deering, from the neighborhood of Slag Valley. Romance isn’t spoken there.”
“But you are still, most definitely, a woman.” Her hand was once again confiscated, this time to be molded into the cup of his palm while his fingers curled around hers. “What is it that makes you weak in the knees, Scout? Every woman has something they cannot resist.”
She looked straight into those jewel-like eyes and knew that if she stared into them for much longer, she wouldn’t be able to resist him.
What a terrifying thought.
When she didn’t answer, his hand squeezed hers. “Do you not have an answer for me?”
“Why would anyone share a weakness?” It took a monumental effort, but she managed to tear her gaze away from him while Leo approached with a laden tray. “Besides, crap like that doesn’t really exist in my world. Yours maybe, but not mine. I prefer the ugly truth of reality to all that rosy-hued mumbo-jumbo like romance.”
“I would believe this, except your fingers are now holding onto mine. Quite tightly, I might add.”
She jolted just as Leo slid the tray onto their table. She would have snatched her hand out of his to make a point, but Ivar denied her the satisfaction by letting her go as he looked up at Leo.
“Coffee for the hero, another tea for Miss I’m-Too-Cool-To-Drink-Coffee, and homemade blueberry muffins for you both, on the house.”
Still flustered, Scout glanced up. “Thanks, Leo. You didn’t have to do that.”
“When one of my nicest customers gets mugged on my doorstep, I gotta do something. For four years, she comes in and orders the same thing,” he added to Ivar in a confidential tone. “Extra-hot English breakfast tea with room for milk. Nothing else, but she tips like she ordered the whole freakin’ menu. Now I get a chance to cram some real food into her, show her what my kitchen can produce, so I’m going for it.”
Scout rolled her eyes. “It’s nothing personal. I’m usually too busy to eat when I come in here.”
“Yeah, but you’re not too busy to eat now, so shaddup and get to it.” He nodded at the muffin, looking like he was going to stand there until she sucked up every last crumb. “Tell me how wonderful it is. Go on, already.”
“For crying out loud.” But to make him happy, she pinched off a chunk of muffin covered in sugar and browned to perfection. The tartness of the berries and the sweetness of the muffin melted in her mouth, and she had to close her eyes to savor it all the more. “Wow. Okay, you win. I’m a good cook, but these muffins are the bomb.”
“I knew it.” Leo beamed. “I’m just sorry I don’t have a camera to record this for posterity.”
“Do not worry about it.” Ivar shifted beside her and as she took another bite she heard the faint sound effect of a camera shutter clicking. Surprised, she jerked around to find him pointing his smartphone at her. “If you want, I can send it to you.”
Leo popped a thumbs-up. “Yeah? Thanks, pal. Hey, I like this guy, Scout. He’s okay. Keep him around, yeah?”
“It’s just business between us, Leo,” she hastened to say, mortified. Mainly because the thought of keeping Ivar Fournier around was all too appealing, and it was definitely something she shouldn’t want. On the surface he seemed to be the picture of Mr. Perfect, but he was also the guy who hid behind a mask. If that wasn’t a major danger sign, she didn’t know what was. Thanks to Vishous, she’d learned long ago not to ignore the signs, especially when they came from someone as obviously out of her league as Ivar was.
Then again…
Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer, she thought, pinching off more blueberry muffin. Maybe keeping Ivar close was a good idea. Just to be certain he wasn’t a threat to the House.
And for no reason other than that.
Chapter Four
“Bar none, vanilla imported from Mexico is the best. For real.” Scout watched her friend and former foster sister Sass pop a piece of sugar cookie into her mouth, her dark eyes closing as she savored the goodness. “And the Greek yogurt addition changes the texture for the better. Damn, this is good. I’m going to have to limit myself to this one cookie, or I won’t be able to fit into my leather spank-me pants tonight.”
“If anything, you need a couple cookies to put some meat on your bones.” Scout snagged up a pair of oven mitts and retrieved the last tray of cookies. The sweet scent of baked deliciousness perfumed Sass’s tiny kitchen, a scent that never failed to fill her with the warm fuzzies. “And you’re not actually wearing spank-me pants to Mama Coco and Papa Bolo’s anniversary party, are you?”
“Hell yeah, I’m wearing them.”
“Mama Coco’s gonna crap a kitten.”
“Yeah, but not for long. And my latest thinks my ass looks fine in all that tight, shiny leather.” Glancing over her shoulder, Sage Ambrosia Stone, or Sass, checked out her booty, currently covered in a worn pair of velour track pants. The matching zip-up hoodie was form-fitting and showed off a sprit
ely body that would have done a ballerina proud. “I did make him promise to keep his hands to himself while Mama Coco’s around. If he’s good, he’ll be rewarded later.”
“And if he’s not?”
“I’ll kick him to the curb faster than you can say buh-bye.”
“Thought as much.” Unsurprised, Scout slid cookie after cookie onto a cooling rack. That was classic Sass. From the time Scout had met her in what wound up being their last foster home—the home of Coco and Sergio “Bolo” Panuzzi—that was how Sass rolled. She was the epitome of love-‘em-and-leave-‘em, with a restlessness in her eyes that gave the impression that even when she wasn’t moving, she still somehow had one foot out the door.
“The relationship’s going flat anyway, so we’ll be going our separate ways soon.” She lifted a disinterested shoulder and broke off another piece of cookie. “But I’ve decided to keep him around long enough to get through the party. Do you think that’s bad?”
“Honey, he’s going to get fed prime rib and champagne, and have one last chance to grope you in your spank-me pants on the dance floor. He should send you a thank-you card.”
“Good point. What about you? Who’s your plus-one this year now that Payne’s got himself a lady?”
“Nobody.”
Sass waited a beat. “Haha. Very funny, babe.”
“I’m serious.”
“You can’t be. I mean… that has to be a joke.”
“Nope.” Scout glanced over at the other woman, only to find Sass’s eyes rounded in horror. “What the hell, Sass? Why are you looking at me like I just cussed out Mother Teresa?”
“Holy shit, you are serious. Okay, don’t panic. I know plenty of guys, let me set you up—”
“It’s not the end of the world to go stag to an event.” She turned and hung up the mitts next to the oven. “I’ve been so busy planning this bash that I didn’t have time to think about scrounging up a date.”
“If this is about Payne getting a new squeeze—”
