by Skye Jordan
She kept her back to him and settled the totes on the floor, crouching to unpack the various brownies, fudge, truffles, and other goodies she’d already cut and stabbed with pretty, bright toothpicks or wrapped in gold foil for tasting. Pulling out the clear plastic cake plates she kept under the counter, she focused on breathing steadily as she arranged them, making sure her marketing sign with the title of the item and the Wild Harts logo was secure and she had plenty of business cards and brochures to lay out.
“I’m not here to chat, and this is not negotiable.” His boots stepped into her peripheral vision on the left. His voice sounded directly overhead, quivering down her neck.
Oh, he was so testing her patience. And her strength. And her nerves. But she lifted her voice as if she didn’t notice his attitude and this was all just foolery between friends. “Then you best have your handcuffs out and a charge handy, because,” she finished in a singsong, “I’m a busy woman.”
She turned right instead of left, dodging his interference, and placed a cake plate on top of the counter holding lotto tickets. She’d have to move it, but she’d worry about that later.
“Hey, Joe, Marv,” she greeted some regulars. “Take a truffle home to your wives.”
“Austin,” Rita said, her voice as soft and pleasant as pudding, “there really isn’t enough space back here for a man as big as you. And we’re really busy.”
He ignored Rita, a lot like Avery was ignoring him. She crouched to pick up another cake plate, and Austin’s hand closed around her forearm.
“Avery.” His bark came from behind clenched teeth.
Avery couldn’t take her eyes off his hand on her arm. Her mind flashed back to her father and the beatings she’d received. Every one had started with a hand on her arm just like this. Her insides chilled and quivered. But her mind continued to work. This was wrong. And she didn’t have to take it from anyone. Ever. For any reason. That was only one of a thousand things she’d learned during the last eight years.
Her gaze held on a ring he wore. Some kind of law enforcement ring with a TO PROTECT AND SERVE slogan wrapping the eagle on the front and the name HAYES carved into the design on the side. She reached for her phone, which was sitting on top of the tote right in front of her. “What time—”
“It doesn’t matter what time it is.” He spoke low, but the rise in Rita’s voice as she helped customers told Avery people were noticing. She didn’t need people noticing. She couldn’t afford negative gossip at this stage of her business’s growth. She needed Austin to back off and stay off. “I’m trying to tell you that Hutton is bad news. Delaney got him cheap, and you get what you pay for. He’s gonna fuck up. All cons fuck up.”
Avery moved her thumb over the phone and opened her camera. She didn’t know why her fingers weren’t shaking because she felt as if she were vibrating on the inside—with fury. With a sense of futility and weakness so ingrained she wanted to scream with it. Her father, David, the military, and now Austin. She was dead sick and tired of feeling helpless.
“He’s a criminal,” Austin rasped in her ear. “And he lived with other criminals like a pack animal for years. You’re not safe with him. And you shouldn’t be putting everything you have in his hands.”
She clicked the shutter of her camera.
He shook her by the arm. “Are you listening to me?”
“Whose hands do you think I should put my future in?” She held her phone steady and looked up at him, met his gaze deliberately, and said, “Yours?”
Click.
His dark gaze darted to her phone, then to his hand on her arm. He released it as if she were on fire, leaving a beautiful white print where he’d been squeezing the blood out of her skin. Her focus never had to leave his face to know it would be visually stunning. She’d learned that in childhood.
Click.
She slid her phone into her back pocket and stood, then tilted her head and gave him her best Stepford Wife smile—she’d learned that after she left home. Turning herself into the perfect army wife may not have saved her marriage, but it might prove useful in other aspects of life.
“Actually, the time does matter, because I happen to be on my way to Mrs. Holland’s house to deliver Sheriff Holland’s birthday cake. Is there anything—you know, any photos, any video clips, any . . . anything you’d like me to pass on while I’m there?”
Hands on hips, Austin pressed his mouth into a hard line. Avery never looked away.
“Don’t fuck with me, Avery.”
She lowered her voice for Austin’s ears only. “I may have left here a scared little girl, but I had my own training over the last eight years. If you thought Delaney was a bitch, you ain’t seen nothin’. So take your own advice.” She leaned back and switched into Stepford Wife mode again. “Would you like a truffle for the road?”
He started to turn.
“Oh, and Austin, just FYI, those cameras Trace installed at the beginning of the renovation before I got to town, they’re still there, they’re still remote, and their footage still feeds directly to a server.”
By his I’ll-kill-you-later look, she knew he’d caught the reference to his previous threat toward Delaney that had been saved by those cameras, as well as the reference to the ability to catch any future threats swimming in his head now, should he decide to act on them at the café.
Avery waited until Austin had peeled out of the parking lot to turn to Rita, who met her gaze with worried, shocked eyes and asked, “Are you okay?”
Avery laughed with far more relief than humor. “As in, am I crazy? Yeah, I’m probably a little crazy, but yeah, I’m also okay. Do you mind taking care of these when you have time? The samples are out. All you need to do is slide the goodies into their trays.”
“Of course not, honey.”
She kissed Rita’s cheek. “You’re a peach.”
Avery wandered from the store, drained and numb. She could pull out the strong and use it when necessary, but the truth was, the last eight years had taken their toll. In her two short months home, Avery had quickly adapted to having family around her. Having Trace around her. They shored her up so she didn’t have to be strong all the time, and she really enjoyed the stability that created in this crazy world. The truth was, being strong and alone wasn’t all that. It also wore her the hell out.
Avery dropped into the driver’s seat of the Jeep, ready to find a little peace of mind for a change. Maybe once she found it, she could even figure out what to do about Trace.
SEVEN
As the sun set, Trace loaded the last of the reclaimed maple from the specialty lumber store onto the rails of his truck and tied them down.
With the load secured, he jumped off the running board, pressed his palms to the edge of the truck bed, and closed his eyes until the burn in his shoulders faded. Everything hurt today. He was definitely getting too old to go at it all night if this was how he felt the next day. But he hadn’t met anyone he’d been that passionate about in years, so the problem was most likely less about age and more about disuse.
At least that’s what he liked to think.
Regardless, he still had a lot of work to do to make up for the time he’d lost. Zane was taking Dad again tonight, so this was Trace’s last chance to get caught up on the café for a while.
He straightened and rounded the truck. As soon as he slid into the driver’s side, his stomach growled and rumbled. He glanced at the dash and realized he hadn’t eaten in eight hours.
Instead of heading back to Wild Harts, he walked across the street to Finley’s Market, ordered a sandwich at the deli counter, then wandered to the cooler for a drink. He pulled a couple of water bottles from the case, and when he closed the door he caught sight of Tiffany Mulligan. She was standing in the wine aisle with a bottle of red in her hand, but she was frowning at her phone.
When Trace was living with his grandmother in Wildwood, he’d gone to school here. He’d been in the same class as Tiffany’s older brother and had gott
en to know the family. “Hey, Tiffany.”
She looked up, her expression still distracted, but her gaze cleared and she smiled. “Hey, Trace. How are you?”
“Good, thanks. Congratulations on your wedding. Avery’s real excited about doing your cake.”
“I know she’s going to do an amazing job.” Concern returned to her eyes. She leaned her shoulder against the nearest shelf. “How is she? I could tell by the look on her face that she didn’t know about David. I can’t imagine how hard this transition must be for her. She certainly didn’t need the news that he’s getting remarried. Hell, the signatures on the divorce papers are barely dry. My mother, I swear.”
Trace fought to hide his own surprise. “You know Avery. She’s as tough as they come. When did that come up?”
“At the bridal shower. And I feel horrible. I’m the one who saw it on Facebook earlier in the day because I still follow David. I was shocked, and stupidly told my mother. If I’d thought for a second, I would have kept my mouth shut.”
“Facebook, huh?” He had ugly flashbacks of his good-for-nothing fiancée who’d left him for another guy at the mere hint of trouble. “That’s pretty shitty.”
“Oh, it’s terrible. There isn’t anyone sweeter, more loyal, or with a bigger heart than Avery. I hope she hasn’t seen all the comments on his engagement photos. It just breaks my heart.” Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at it with a shake of her head. “The comments just keep coming.”
Trace flashed to the sight of Avery sitting on the café floor with a pie and a wine bottle. “I’m the goddess of fine.”
So last night had been a revenge fuck. Or a rebound fuck. Whatever. Same difference.
The realization hammered him in the chest. What an idiot he’d been, thinking something real had happened last night. Thinking there might be something different, something special, some sort of unique connection between them.
Worse, he felt like an absolute sucker for believing that she’d wanted him, knowing who he was and where he’d been. That she’d wanted him, knowing she could have any of a dozen other men who were better than Trace in every way that mattered. Yet she’d chosen him.
“I’m cured of ever wanting commitment again,” she’d said. And it was a hell of a lot easier to avoid commitment with a guy you really didn’t want for anything but a rebound fuck, wasn’t it?
Tiffany’s phone pinged again. “Jesus. I’m just going to turn it off. I can’t take it.”
“Mind if I look at the posts?” he asked.
She pushed the phone into his hands. “Be my guest. Then just turn it off. I have to pick wine for a dinner party. Maybe I’m just having pre-wedding jitters, but as soon as I get home I’m unfriending everyone associated with that bullshit.”
Tiffany wandered down the aisle, and Trace took a deep breath and turned his attention to the Facebook posts on her phone. He scrolled to photos of David and his fiancée, a cute, chestnut-haired girl. They’d been professionally done, and the two looked absolutely in love in every photo. Kissing. Embracing. Holding hands. Looking deep into each other’s eyes. David carrying his fiancée in his arms.
A mess of emotions whipped through Trace, and he found himself filled with an irrational level of both hurt and betrayal on Avery’s behalf. But reading the messages friends had posted only angered him more. Things like “Congratulations on finally finding THE ONE,” “You’re perfect for each other,” “Second time’s a charm,” “Never seen you so happy,” and “Hooah, doin’ it right this time.”
“Jesus.” Trace’s stomach burned with so much anger in so many directions, he couldn’t read any more. He returned the water to the cooler and grabbed a six-pack of Wildcard’s high-octane triple IPA instead. Striding down the wine aisle, he handed the phone back to Tiffany. “You’re right. That’s bullshit. Thanks for being such a good friend to Avery.”
Trace checked out without his sandwich, his appetite gone.
Two hours later, nearing ten o’clock, Trace had gone through four of the six beers and laid maple hardwood in half of the café’s event space, upstairs and across the building from the little apartment where he’d spent the night with Avery. He was shirtless and dripping sweat when headlights flashed through the windows.
He paused, rubber mallet in hand, and watched Avery’s Jeep come to a stop out front. He knew his anger was irrational. Knew she hadn’t promised anything more than she’d given, but he still felt like she’d lied to him.
Trace dropped a piece of maple that had once graced the gym floor of the local high school, and followed on his knees. After setting the grooves, he used another piece of wood to hammer the eight-foot length into place.
The front screen door squeaked open, then slammed shut, and the soft tap of Avery’s boots sounded on the hardwood downstairs. Despite his hurt, his anger, his disappointment, Trace’s stomach flipped and tightened.
“Goddammit,” he muttered and stood to grab another piece of maple.
“Oh, wow,” she said. “You got the piano moved already?”
He didn’t answer. The fact that it was sitting by the front door should be answer enough.
“Trace?” she called up the stairs.
He closed his eyes, rested the end of the maple on the floor, and leaned into it. “What?”
“Thank you.”
Why did she have to be so fucking sweet?
When he didn’t answer, she said, “You’re working late.”
“Yep.” He dropped the wood and repeated the placement process.
“I’m just here to pick up sugar. I ran out at Phoebe’s.”
He lifted his hands out to the side. What the hell did he care? “Great.”
Her boots tapped into the kitchen, and Trace breathed a sigh of relief. He’d laid two more boards by the time she yelled up the stairs again.
“I’m gonna head out. Do you need anything?”
Yeah, he needed a lot of things, and she was at the top of the damn list.
But he gave her a clipped, “Nope.”
She hesitated. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Trace saluted the empty room. “Later.”
More boot taps, another slam of the screen door, and Trace picked up another piece of maple. But this time, he threw it at the floor, dropped his head, and planted his hands at his hips. “Fuck.”
He lowered to his knees and put his frustration into the hammer. When the piece was in place, he sat back on his heels and wiped the sweat from his face with a gloved hand.
“Trace?”
Her voice startled him, and he swiveled to find her at the top of the stairs looking just as breathtaking as she had that morning.
“What?” he barked.
She hesitated. “Is your dad okay?”
“What?” he asked confused. “He’s fine. Everything’s fine. Fucking perfect. What do you want?”
Her expression went from open and worried to baffled and hurt. “I wanted to check on you.”
“Gee, thanks, Cream Puff. I’m fine. Go get your baking on.”
He pushed himself to his feet even though he was spent and grabbed another piece of maple. When he turned to drop it on the floor, Avery jerked it out of his hand.
He spun on her, grabbing it back. “What the fuck?”
“Are you drunk?” she asked, angry now.
“No, I’m not drunk. What difference does it make to you?”
“You’re not working drunk. You could hurt yourself.”
He laughed. “You’re not the boss of me, baby. Go make your cookies. Leave the heavy lifting to me.”
He dropped to his knees, which ached despite the heavy-duty kneepads, and bent to place the maple. Avery’s boots stepped right in his way. He gritted his teeth and lifted his gaze slowly, trying to hold his temper, trying to ignore her bare thighs, the sway of her skirt, the outline of her full breasts, the fall of her rich, dark hair.
“Woman, you have pushed enough of my buttons today. Get off my fucking floor.”
She crossed her arms. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’ve been working fourteen hours straight on about two hours of sleep after fucking you all night, and now you’re standing on my floor, which is keeping me from finally getting some good shut-eye. That’s what the hell’s wrong with me.”
“Bullshit. And I’m going to stay standing on this floor until you tell me why you’re acting like this.”
He sat back, rubbing sweat off his face with his forearm. “I saw Tiffany Mulligan at the market. She told me what you wouldn’t—why you were so bent last night.”
Avery frowned, shook her head, and lifted her hands out to the sides. “What does that have to do with anything?”
He got to his feet and put less than a foot between them, knowing he had to smell worse than the Niners’ locker room and not giving a shit. “It has to do with you and me last night.”
“No,” she said, adamant. “It doesn’t.”
“If you wanted a revenge fuck or a rebound fuck or whatever the hell you want to call it, you should have just told me that’s what last night was about. You should have been straight up with me.”
Fury broke out across her face, and she shoved him back with both hands, then followed. “How dare you insult me like that. I don’t know what your problem is, but don’t take it out on me.”
“My problem is you”—he shook a gloved finger in her face—“using me to make yourself feel better about your ex getting remarried.”
Her mouth fell open, and anger transitioned into hurt. “That’s what you think of me? You think I’m so weak I need to fuck another guy to bury hurt? If that were the case, I’d have fucked my way through my entire marriage. But I didn’t. I coped. I dealt. I believed. I hoped. And what did I get? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
She paced a couple of steps away, then back. “When I heard he was getting remarried, I realized that unless I changed the way I live my life, I would always be lonely. Unless I went after what I wanted, I’d live without any kind of intimacy the way I have for the last six fucking years.”
