“Look, it’s not like I’m planning to grab you and kiss you in the middle of the street.”
Even if now the thought’s cemented in my head.
Shit.
All I can think about is how it would feel to do exactly that.
Her mouth against mine, hot and willing and giving.
Her body going soft, melting against me like caramel.
The way her flesh would sink beneath my palms, all softness and hellfire—and damn.
Keep this up, and I’ll end up wishing for looser jeans.
Fliss looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. After a minute, she glances away, scrubbing her palms against her thighs and taking a rough breath.
She’s in skintight jeans tonight, paired with a pretty cashmere sweater in soft yellow, so loose it falls off one smoothly curving shoulder and clings to every line of her curves.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Okay. It makes sense. Being your girlfriend seems better than being the easy slut who stole the new guy from under the Vulture Squad’s noses.”
“They need better hobbies.” I suppress a growl.
“Like smuggling gold?” She offers me a weak smile. “I’d better get back out there.”
“Sure.” I push away from the wall and tug the door open, then step back to hold it for her. “Ladies first.”
“Thanks!”
As she flits past me, she stops in the doorway, one slim hand resting on her hip. She gives me a long, serious look, her blue-violet eyes dark with questions.
“Seriously, Alaska—thank you.”
Then she’s gone, catching her apron from the peg and slipping out with a bag of beans under her arm, her voice rising warm and bright as she returns to the front.
Leaving me alone, wondering what exactly she’s thanking me for.
If she’d let me, I’d do a lot more than hold a door for her.
More than I dare put into words.
The rest of the night passes uneventfully.
Eli and I round off a proper dinner with sandwiches from this shop down the street that’s started jockeying for attention, then head on home.
I put Eli to bed and settle on the sofa with a beer, this tension turning me to pure granite.
It’s too early for me to hunker down for lights out, though I tell myself I’m not waiting up for a certain someone.
I’m not fucking waiting for her. Honest.
Eli’s left his camera on the coffee table. I pick it up to put it on the charger for him—but I’m caught by the images on the screen, a thumbnail gallery I tap to enlarge.
I can’t stop myself from grinning ear to ear.
So that’s Tara, huh? She’s a sweet girl, and she’s wearing the brightest smile on her face as she somehow manages to hold a wriggling armful of feline. She’s got Mozart and another local stray, Van Gogh, together at the same time without the two of them clawing each other’s faces off.
Van Gogh’s a big, fuzzy grey thing missing the tips of both ears, chewed off in these ragged stumps that make him look charmingly grouchy. He and Mozart look like they’d rather eat dirt than be squished together like that, but neither can resist the sunny little girl fussing over them.
Guess my son can’t, either.
I page through a few more photos, lingering on Eli’s eye for lighting and detail—only to stop as the scene changes.
The Nest.
And me, coming out of the back room, looking every bit like the disgruntled beast I try to pretend I’m not.
Hell.
I hadn’t even realized he was aiming that thing at me. Probably because the entire time my eyes were on Fliss, watching her get back to work with this look on my face that leaves me flummoxed.
It’s an expression I don’t recognize.
The soft, thoughtful smile hanging on my face.
The way I’m watching her like she’s the only thing in the world deserving my attention.
How does she do it? How does she split me open without even trying?
I can’t be this—I don’t even know. Pictures don’t lie.
They’re worth a thousand words, or so the saying goes.
The shots my boy snuck of his old man are definitely worth something.
All these feelings churned up inside me like a bad-tempered volcano are there, plastered on my face, showing me a thousand truths I can’t deny. I can’t pretend they’re not there when I can see what Felicity damn Randall does to me.
She pulls on my darkness, my light, my everything, strumming me like an overgrown guitar.
And I’m starting to wonder what would happen if I gave in and tried making her sing.
If I started to pull back, if I strummed the pain out of her, leaving nothing but this beautiful melody about the girl from the coffee shop and the life she deserves.
What if I found the right spot deep in her blue-violet soul and struck gold?
13
Heart of Gold (Felicity)
Ever felt like you were going to explode?
That’s been me for the past few days.
I know. I know we’re just faking it, playing pretend, giving people something to focus on so we don’t seem suspicious running around together all the time, getting up to all kinds of weird stuff.
But suddenly everything Alaska does has meaning.
Everything he says, every glance and braising touch of his calloused hand to mine.
For the hundredth time, I know it’s not real, up in my head.
Too bad the rest of me won’t get the memo. Seems my heart just can’t comprehend a ruse.
God.
I’m a nervous wreck as I close up The Nest a little early tonight, this time for different reasons from the last time I was left shaking in my own café.
I mean, part of it’s the fact that we’re going out for “intel” tonight—and yes, I love how Alaska uses military-speak for my predicament.
Tonight’s the night we’re talking to Flynn Bitters. We’ll see if he can shed some light on this thing with Dad and the gold.
But a far bigger part of it’s knowing Alaska’s on his way to pick me up.
So maybe I drop the roll of quarters I’m holding in a loud thunk that sends my heart racing.
Maybe I knock over a stand of coffee stirrers.
Sigh.
Maybe I almost miss the timer on my latest batch of fresh-roasted beans and come annoyingly close to burning them.
It’s fine. It’s fine. I’m fine.
...I am so not fine.
As the door swings open with a jingle, I squeak, hands clutching the roll of quarters so hard it splits open and goes fountaining all over the place in shimmering silver.
The coins clatter down and miss the open cash register, falling to the bartop, the floor.
Alaska blinks in the doorway, holding up both hands. “Whoa, Fliss, it’s just me. You’re not being robbed.”
I don’t know if I want to laugh or sob.
Another smash-and-grab heist should be what I’m worried about, after all. Paisley’s been too quiet lately, and that’s usually a sign that should make me very concerned, considering what’s at stake.
She’s stayed away for long stretches before, but only because Heart’s Edge became a hotbed of federal agents and special investigators during its other drama.
That grace period is over. The tiger could come flying at my throat any time.