Just as I’m trying to put my finger on what’s different about Gunnar Erickson and why I feel safe with him, he steps closer. The table displaying my mother’s items for sale is still between us, but it might as well be made of water because it’s not holding him back in any way. “You sure are amicable today. I kinda like it.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My mouth has lost the ability to form words and sounds while my eyes only seem to focus on his lips. He seems to be encouraged by my silence so I stay quiet, daring him to make a move.
So he does.
And so do I.
His lips are light as air at first, not teasing but gauging my reaction, and when a whimper escapes my mouth, he lets go of the restraint. Gunnar’s mouth dominates mine and I follow his lead, gladly allowing his tongue access.
This man is absolutely delicious.
Too soon, he pulls away, forcing both of us to come back to reality. I can feel my face flaming with embarrassment because I’ve never let myself go like that, especially while out in public. And, although I can recognize what we just did was still fairly tame, it’s still a big freaking deal to me and my small world.
Thankfully, no one around us seems to have noticed or care in any way about us kissing at the farmer’s market. This being a small town with a big mouth, I’ll still be shocked if this moment doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass.
Gunnar clears his throat. “Um, that was . . . wow. Yeah.” He shakes his head and I get the feeling he wants me to say something, but I can’t. That kiss rendered me speechless. He’s all on his own.
After a few moments, he finally collects his thoughts—that makes one of us—and says, “So, there doesn’t seem to be as much product on your table as last week. Is, uh, everything okay with your mom?”
I’m grateful for the change in conversation and this bone he’s throwing me for neutral conversation, but I wish he’d ask me anything but that.
It’s true I don’t have a lot to sell this week but the reason why has nothing to do with my mother and everything to do with my visit with the Iron Wraiths. After I left the compound, I was too emotionally drained to drive out to her house. Instead, I called her and lied, saying I had to be at work for an emergency. I, of course, have worked every day since then and haven’t had time to go back.
But I’m not ready to share anything about that day with Gunnar. So I evade.
“Yeah, she’s, uh . . . fine. Just a slow week. I’m sure she’ll have more for me to sell next week.”
He must sense the change in my demeanor, but in true Gunnar fashion, he’s not deterred. Where most people would let it go and change the subject again, he persists.
“Frankie, you know you can tell me anything, ask for anything. Right? If you’re ever in trouble or need help, I’m here for you—ready, willing, and able.”
He’s also entirely too perceptive. The way he says in trouble leads me to believe he’s speaking about the Iron Wraiths without coming right out and asking about them, because he told me he wouldn’t. So, he’s keeping his word but still trying to get the information he wants.
If feels a bit manipulative and makes my defenses go up.
“Just because I let you kiss me doesn’t mean you have the right to know everything about me. So, if that’s what you’re after, you might as well leave.”
My words sound icy to my own ears, so I know they must sound that way to Gunnar.
I admit, it’s kind of a shitty thing to say given the moment we just shared, but my stubbornness rears its ugly head and I clamp my lips closed, waiting for Gunnar’s response.
Like hell will I be letting Gunnar get mixed up with the Wraiths. Not on my watch.
I’m the one who voluntarily goes into their compound, but I refuse to let anyone get involved with them on my behalf. Especially someone like Gunnar Erickson.
He and the Iron Wraiths just stink of violence, and although he looks menacing, I’ve come to know different. And there’s only one of him and too many of them. If he got hurt because of me, I’d never be able to forgive myself.
The look on his face tells me everything I need to know. He pulls back as though I’d just slapped him and I instantly regret it. I should apologize and explain myself, but when I go to speak, Gunnar holds a hand up to stop me.
“No, that’s fine,” he says, his tone sounding just as hurt as his expression. Those sea glass eyes looking anywhere and everywhere, except at me. “I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want. Forget I said anything. I didn’t mean to pry.”
My fingers twitch to reach out.
My throat tightens with unspoken words to call him back.
But in the end, all I can do is stand there, watching as he walks away.
Chapter 11
Gunnar
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Cole Cassidy asks as I walk up the drive. When I mentioned to Tempest I wanted to talk to him about something, she was her usual self and didn’t push for answers. She just told me he’s off duty today and I’d be able to find him at home.
I smile and accept his hand for a shake. Cole is good people. I’ve known it since the first time I met him. I might be young, but I’ve always had a good bullshit meter and an ability to judge people. Not judge them for what they do or don’t do, but gauge what type of person they are. My mom calls it a sixth sense.
Regardless of what it is, it’s always served me well. Which is why I’m here.
“Hey man,” I greet. “I just need some information, and you’re the only person I know who might be able to give it to me.”
Cole scrunches his face in confusion. “You’ve been in town what? A month? What kind of information could you possibly need? If you’re here to complain about the speed limits or lack of stop lights, I’m afraid that’s above my pay grade.”
Laughing, I shake my head, wishing it was something as trivial as speed limits and stop signs. “I was actually wondering if you could tell me about a group of bikers I’ve seen around town.”
There’s no sense beating around the bush. After the way Frankie flipped the switch yesterday when I hinted around at her possibly being in trouble, it solidified my need to know more about the company she’s been keeping. Even if she doesn’t want mine.
“Bikers?” Cole asks, scratching his head. “We’ve got quite a few of them around here.”
I can tell he’s holding back on me and, quite frankly, it pisses me off a little. “You know who I’m talking about. Mean looking dudes, lots of leather, up to no good.”
“The Iron Wraiths,” Cole says, almost dejectedly.
“Iron Wraiths?” I heard him, but Iron Wraiths? Really? Is this like Green Valley’s version of the Sons of Anarchy?
Cole glances behind him at the front door of his house and then back at me when he’s confident no one is listening. “They’re no good, man.” His statement comes out hushed, like if he talks too loud one of them will materialize out of thin air.
Are they fucking Beetlejuice?
“I kinda figured that much,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
“What do you know about them?” he asks, cocking his head.