Loving Guy (The Flynn Brothers #2)

Chapter 1

Guy

There’s a killer on my doorstep, and she brought mini muffins.

Standing in the cold, a white fur hat balanced on perfectly curled blonde hair, Monty grins up at me. Her lips are red, her eyes are bright green, and anyone who didn’t know her would think she was a real-life, in-the-flesh angel.

The truth couldn’t be more different.

Narrowing my eyes, I resist the temptation to search this woman for weapons. She’s more than a little deadly, and while that may have worked in my favor the night she saved my daughter’s life three years ago, it isn’t a comforting thought now that we’re alone and she seemingly knows where I live.

But the scariest thing of all is that I’m almost glad to see her, because she’s delaying what I was about to do.

“Hello, Chief,” she purrs. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Easy answer.

I fold my arms. “No.”

She tenses her jaw, her smile vanishing. “Rude.”

Resting my shoulder against the doorframe, I look down at her. I’m a big guy, always have been. I was a quarterback in high school and made sure to maintain my size and power so I can be an effective cop. People rarely cross me because I can bench press four hundred pounds, and I look like I can.

But Monty seems to have no issue with it at all.

She bats her eyelashes, gently swinging the basket of mini muffins, a coy smile lifting her lips. “Please?”

My instinct is to refuse her again, but in the years since I met her, Monty has never once come here. So, despite not wanting to invite a known serial killer into my house—I’m curious.

“What exactly is it you need?”

She shrugs. “An alibi.” I reach for the door to close it, and she slaps her palm against the wood, a laugh bursting out of her.

“I’m kidding!” I scowl, and she takes that as an invitation, strolling by me.

She smells like cherries and brings in a chill, as if the frost follows her.

Maybe that was a side-effect of selling her soul to the devil.

She places the mini muffins on the kitchen island, slides her knee-length black coat down her arms, and glances around.

Her red dress hugs her hourglass figure, and impossibly high heels lend height to her small frame—I imagine without the shoes she’s around five foot one, so even with the added inches, she’s still just under a foot shorter than me.

She glances around as she takes off her fur hat.

The open-plan bottom floor looks the same as it has since I brought Ella home thirty years ago.

The coffee table is from a flea market, set on a worn red rug.

The sofa is relatively new, L-shaped and tucked into the corner, not that I use it often.

I prefer to be active. My furniture doesn’t match, and there’s no fancy art on my walls, just pictures of Ella and me.

My running shoes are battered and sitting beside an umbrella that I can’t remember buying.

My house is a home. Lived in, a bit of a mess, but it’s mine.

I shift uncomfortably as Monty slowly turns in place.

It isn’t that I’m embarrassed of how or where I live, not even close, but this is the first woman I’ve had here in a long, long time.

In fact, having Monty here is reminding me just how long, and I make a mental note to download one of those dating apps Ella keeps mentioning.

“This is … quaint,” Monty says, and despite it clearly being an insult, her English accent at least softens the blow.

I close the door. “I’ll ask you one more time, Monty. What do you need?”

She drapes her coat over a chair at the kitchen island. “Do you have any wine?”

“Monty.”

She tuts, turning on her heel to face me, her hands clasped together. “Maybe I just wanted to see you. Is that so unbelievable?”

“Two days before Christmas?”

A shrug. “I was in the area, Papa Gibson. I can’t come and say hi?

We’re practically family.” She steps close, her emerald gaze drifting across my face.

I’ve been toe to toe with the worst kinds of people—rapists, gangsters, murderers.

I don’t blink in the face of evil, but I’m struggling to maintain eye contact with Monty.

There’s something quietly terrifying about her, and it isn’t because she kills men—it’s because I get the distinct impression that she somehow makes them believe they want to die at her hand.

Like bleeding for her is the ultimate portrayal of their loyalty.

No matter the reason, I want her out of my house.

Why did I even let her in?

“Well, you’ve said hi, and I have places to be.”

“Where?” she asks, head tilted.

I let out an irritated breath. “Grocery store.”

Lie.

“Goody.” She puts her hat back on. “I need a few things to take back to my hotel with me. Let’s go together.” Before I can protest, she snatches up her coat again and marches out the door.

There’s more fight in me, but I can’t find it today. I spent most of my morning wishing I’d taken Ella’s invitation to visit for Christmas, but it seems unfair that I impose on them every year. I love seeing Ella and the kids. Gable I could take or leave, but that’s her family now.

And I can spend one Christmas alone, right?

At least, that’s what I thought. But as the day approaches, I’ve realized just how much Ella does for Christmas now she’s a mom. There’s always snacks, food in the fridge, alcohol to help Gable and I tolerate each other. She even makes me a damn stocking.

My house is bare. The tree is pitiful, something I only put up to pass the time, and there’s no homemade desserts or turkey sandwiches in my fridge. There’s butter, beer, and an onion I’m fairly sure is growing legs.

So, fuck it. A trip to the grocery store with a murderer is better than being alone. And at least it puts today’s task off until tomorrow.

Monty waits at the bottom of the porch steps and gestures for me to hurry. I lock the door, and we walk side by side to my truck.

“I’m guessing that electric piece of metal is yours,” I say, gesturing at the car parked on the street. We pause at my truck—a damn sight older than her trendy electric “car.”

“Yes. It’s environmentally friendly, and—” Monty pauses, the only movement a gentle arch of a well-shaped eyebrow. Her gaze darts between the open passenger door and me. “You opened the car door for me.”

“Points for observation, sweetheart.”

She lifts her chin. “Men still do that?”

“I can’t speak for all of them, but I do. Are you getting in?”

Her sudden reluctance is brief but noted. Clearly, she hasn’t been around many polite men. Maybe that’s why she’s so quick to kill them.

Eventually, she climbs in, dusting off her coat.

“Seatbelt.”

She bats her lashes. “Yes, Officer.”

I slam the car door shut, shaking my head as I round the truck.

And fuck me, could my timing be any worse?

“Chief!” Tim Stafford salutes as he crosses the street, and I somehow force a smile.

God, I hate this man. I’m all for law abiding citizens, but this guy would call the cops if he saw a slightly wiry squirrel.

He’s also supremely giddy about the fact that he went on a date with my ex-wife after my divorce, as if that’s anything to be proud of.

The woman tried to set my car on fire when I ended things; I don’t exactly miss her.

“Not going to your fancy cabin this year?” he asks, reaching my side of the street. The man irons his fucking jeans, I can tell.

Gable put his and Asher’s cabin in my name before he “died.” I tell everyone that’s where I go at Christmas, but truthfully, I haven’t set foot in it once.

“Not this year,” I say, making my move to leave.

“Hold up!” he says, and I face him again, giving him my best fake smile. He puts his hands on his hips. “You gonna be okay? All alone on the holidays? You could go to the church. They do things for seniors.”

Somehow, my teeth don’t crack when I clench my jaw. “I’m forty-eight, Tim. Not much older than you.”

“Yeah, but I read somewhere that for every special event you spent alone, it adds ten years to your life. That means you’re pushing a hundred, buddy.”

Buddy.

Buddy.

“Chief, I am not a patient woman,” Monty calls, exiting the car.

Tim’s attention whips to her, and his eyes widen.

She’s removed her hat, her long hair tumbling over her designer coat, and she really does look like a dream.

“Oh, hello.” She strides over, linking her arm through mine and resting her temple against my bicep. “Who are you?”

“More importantly, who are you?” Tim asks. “You didn’t say you had another daughter, Guy.”

I’m about to remove this guy’s spine, when Monty speaks.

“How incredibly rude of you to assume he’s my father.

The man doesn’t look a day over forty,” Monty says.

“And if you must know, Guy’s been blowing my back doors out for the last few hours.

Shagging, as we call it, darling. Maybe you remember what that’s like?

” Tim gapes at her, mouth hanging open. “Come on, Chief. Let’s get some snacks to reward me for riding that monster cock of yours.

” She promptly spanks me on the ass and gets back into the truck.

I grin. “Nice seeing you, Tim.” He simply blinks at me, and I get into the truck. As I start the engine, I can’t hide my smile. “You’re a bad woman.”

Monty laughs musically. “Oh, you have no idea, Chief.”

The car ride is relatively quiet, with just the radio to fill the silence. I cast glances in Monty’s direction—she’s smiling, watching the scenery go by, her fingers tapping in rhythm against her leg.

After losing Ella to her new identity, I threw myself into work. It offered some kind of normality after losing the person who means the world to me.

But God, I’ve been bored. Endlessly, annoyingly bored. I’ve craved for something, anything, to happen.

Is Monty my answer to that?