Chapter 22
Damian
“ Watch her,” I order the team. Crossing the road, I lean against the brick wall of the coffee shop and watch Mila through the window as she nibbles on the cookie. Her eyes keep glancing at me, and I know it ’ s only a matter of time before she starts to ask me more personal questions. She ’ s careful about it, never prying too much, as if she ’ s scared to push me away and be truly alone in this world.
Cookies.
The last time I had a cookie was the day my mother killed herself. She baked them, filling the house with the sweet smell before she ruined it all. I remember her filling up a huge glass of milk and handing it to me, along with the entire tray of cookies. My small eyes went wide with excitement. Usually, she limited me to 1 or 2 cookies, but that day, she offered me the whole tray. She left as I began to devour everything; maybe she hoped the sugar would seduce me into an early nap.
It didn ’ t.
My stomach started to hurt because I ate too much, and that ’ s when I went to find her, but instead, I found her in a bathtub filled with her own blood.
I ’ ve never eaten a cookie since.
I look away from the gallery, trying to erase that memory.Running down the street, I catch a glimpse of reddish-golden hair attached to a female rushing to work.
That ’ s a pretty color—like molten gold, still gripped in a fiery furnace. The long tresses belong to a tall girl sprinting toward the small bookstore beside the art gallery.
I know everything about this town. The bookstore usually opens at 8 a.m., trying to stay ahead of its rival across the street. Toasted Beans, the local coffee shop, is where I usually sit and watch Mila as she hands over artwork and helps hang it in the gallery.
The coffee is decent, but the bookstore is famous for its hot caramel lattes—or so I ’ ve heard. I haven't been inside the bookstore because the vantage point doesn't allow me to see Mila.
The local bakery supplies cookies to the coffee shop and gallery owners. I know the old lady doesn ’ t bake her own cookies, but I won ’ t tell Mila about this harmless lie.
It ’ s that kind of town, one that supports each other. It ’ s small, but like every aspect of the world, it has good and bad sections.
I glance at my watch. Hmmm, the bookstore usually opens at eight, but judging by the employee's mad dash, she ’ s the culprit.
The cold wind has me slipping my hands inside my jacket. I glance at Mila. Good. She looks happy as she points to where her painting should hang. I wish I could keep that smile on her face. Fuck, Dash and his antics!
I ’ ll talk to him. Again.
I ’ m fucking tired of his bullshit.
I roll my eyes, but they land on the bookstore employee again. Nice ass, but wait, why is she dressed like that? Are those pajama pants? Flannel pants with a pattern of candy canes and Christmas trees fill my eyes.
The girl ’ s hands shake so badly from the cold she drops the keys, cursing as she tries to get them. Her jacket, if you could call it that, is full of tears and stains.
I never understood that fashion statement. Why bother putting a jacket on when it ’ s full of holes?
She drops the keys again and then hits the door in frustration. My feet are crossing the road as I prepare to get to the bottom of what ’ s going on.
“ Come on! If you drop it again, you better buy a lotto ticket.” She babbles to herself, flicking her long hair back to reveal a face that has me pausing. It ’ s rare to see a woman without any makeup on, but here one is, living in the shivering flesh.
The only color on her cheeks comes from the first chill of winter, leaving them flushed. Like always, I was prepared for the cold front we got overnight. I even texted Mila to add another layer just in case she got a chill when we traveled.
My eyes look at her trembling hands. She ’ s freezing. That ’ s when I really look and note that her jacket wasn ’ t a fashion statement. She ’ s just…I look at her shoes, her torn socks that don ’ t match; one shoelace is a string, the kind you'd find on the end of a balloon; her fingernails, which are unpainted and chipped, and the inside of her palms, which are the hands of someone who works. Vogue might call her a fashion statement, but the cold, hard truth is she ’ s poor.
However, she wears it with such confidence that it makes you want to give it a try, just for one second.
“ You need help?”
She jumps, turning suddenly. “ Oh shit. You ’ re here for a latte. I ’ m opening the store. I promise! I just,” she struggles with the key and finally gets it into the old lock. “ Shit, I ’ m sorry. Oh shit! I shouldn ’ t say shit in front of a customer! Fuck.”
I snort a laugh, “ You probably shouldn ’ t say fuck either.”
Her gaze rises, and a grin spreads across her face. “ Don ’ t tell my boss.”
Fuck. She ’ s stunning. Not in a supermodel way; she ’ s not a size zero; she has curves and hips, a woman ’ s body. She ’ s the girl next door if I hadn ’ t grown up in a castle.
She has no idea she ’ s smiling up at a dragon. Her lack of sense angers me. I could be a serial killer, and she ’ s opening the door now, waving me inside with her. Alone.
I look left to right, then step inside, following her. No other employee is inside. Just me and her.
You can ’ t be that naive today.
It ’ s unsettling.
“ Please. I need this job. I love this job. I ’ ll give you a latte on the house; just don ’ t tell my boss I was late.” She rounds the counter, keeping her back to me as she grabs her apron and starts to turn on the machines.
Look at me; don ’ t turn your back on a stranger.
Who the fuck raised this girl? I need to have words with them.
“ My alarm batteries died.” She grabs a jar of coffee beans and pours it into the grinder. Her voice is barely heard over the trickling thump of the beans filling the canister.
I walk closer to the counter. Next to the register, there are only two seats. I grab a stool and sit on it, but it wobbles under my weight.
Did she say batteries? “ What about your phone?” I ask as I look around the store. It ’ s small, but it has much more comfortable seats placed in the corners. I can imagine reading a book in one of those chairs.
“ Don ’ t have one.” She shrugs.
Why did you tell me that? Now I know you ’ re all alone here with me without a phone. I lick my lips, feeling more irritated than I have in years.
“ You shouldn ’ t tell me that.” I can ’ t help but advise.
“ Why? Do I need to be embarrassed that I can ’ t afford one?”
“ No,” I cringe. “ It ’ s not safe to tell strangers that.” I deadpan.
That has her turning, hands on her hips as her brow arches. She tries and fails to look stern in her flannel pajama pants. “ Are you a serial killer?” She taps her foot.
What would her feet look like in high heels tapping and pressing into my back as I had her against this wall? Great, now I have to stay sitting because my cock is hard.
“ No, but I ’ ve killed,” I reply.
She holds my gaze, then tips her head back and laughs. “ You ’ re funny. Nowadays, it ’ s rare to find a man who can kill bugs. The last guy I went out on a date with gasped when he saw a spider.”
I never said bugs, but sure, let ’ s go with that.
“ You might just have stolen my heart.” She fakes a swoon, but now my eyes follow her hand as it presses over her heart—right over her breast.
Maybe you stole mine. You thief. I think a punishment is in sight.
She grabs the caramel sauce and then turns, bending down to open the small fridge to grab the gallon of milk.
That ass!
Is she clueless or a huge flirt? She ignores my body's reactions as she starts to steam the milk. The high steam makes the ends of her hair begin to frizz slightly. “ The gallery owners are next door, and the coffee shop across the street is filled.” She announces.
“ And?”
She smiles at me again, and it has all the blood leaving my head rushing towards my other head.
“ If you are a serial killer, I just want you to know that I can scream.” She states as she nods, “ Loud.”
Fuck! How loud? Because I want to hear you scream as I bury myself inside of you.
Right here.
Dare me.
Challenge me to bend you over this counter and scream for me.
I clear my throat, raising my hand to rub my jaw. “What if screaming turns me on?”
Her eyes flirtatiously narrow, “I have tricks up my sleeve, so this is me warning you . If you want to kill me, that is.” She shrugs as she chuckles. “ Harry, who is on shift at the coffee shop, has a gun. He thinks it ’ s hidden under his shirt, but you can see it when he turns.”
I know. He got a permit for the gun after the coffee shop was robbed five years ago.
“ So don ’ t try me…Mr. Serial killer.” She raises her brow, still in a playful manner. “ I'll kick your ass. A heel up your ass might sound sexy, but how about a good old pair of running shoes? Not as comfortable now, is it?” She spins on her heel, kicking one foot up behind her until it taps her butt, flashing her running shoes at me with a playful smirk.
I can ’ t help but tip my head back and laugh. “ No, it doesn ’ t; let ’ s keep your feet firmly on the ground.” While I ’ m fucking you, that is.
“ Damian. My name is Damian.” I want to hear my name on her lips.
“ Hmmm,” she tilts her head, looking at me from shoulder to shoulder. She likes what she sees; that much is clear from the now redder cheeks. “ That ’ s a pretty name.” She replies.
My lips turn up. “ What ’ s your name?” I ask her as she pours the hot espresso into the mug that has the bookstore’s logo on it.
She doesn ’ t answer me at first. She grabs the caramel sauce and swirls it into my latte. Before she sets the caramel sauce, she grabs a plastic spoon and fills it with more sauce. I ’ m a silent witness as she lifts the spoon to her mouth, enjoying the taste of her mischievous accomplishment. “ Shhh, I didn ’ t have breakfast,” she says, then slips the spoon into her sexy-as-hell mouth, closing her lips around it.
“ You ’ re dangerous.” My cock throbs as it threatens to tear open my zipper and replace the caramel in her mouth.
“ Says the man who is a killer.” She playfully giggles as she drops the spoon into the small sink.
I slowly shake my head. She ’ s naughty, and I want to see how bad she can be for me.
“ Your name?”
“ What will you give me for it?” She glances over her shoulder, still flirting with me. That ’ s when I noticed her eyes. It ’ s a unique shade of mossy green. She slides the hot latte to me as she leans her elbows on the bar. Little streaks of yellow surround her pupils.
“ What do you want?” My reply comes out deep and husky. She and I look at each other, both leaning on our elbows. It ’ s the strangest encounter I have ever had, but I don ’ t want it to end.
“ You can ’ t give me what I want.” She finally whispers.
“ Try me.”
Her lips twitch. She was going to be honest, but she got too scared. She grabs a card and pen and slaps it in front of me. “ A good review I can show my manager.” She slides the comment card towards me and then turns her back to me as another customer enters and orders a caramel latte.
I ’ m completely engrossed in watching her work, especially when she catches my eye. Her face reddens, and she quickly engages in conversation with the customers.
A text from the security team has me standing. Her eyes look up, and I see a flash of disappointment at my departure. “ Thanks for the latte,” I say over the morning conversations.
She pauses, her face sad as I prepare to leave. My eyes drift to the card, and she follows my gaze, a smirk playing on her lips.
I push the door open, not feeling the cold air, but warmth instead. I haven’t felt my chest heat in so long. I can’t help it, I look back just as her fingers grab the card. Along with a five-star review, I left her my number, knowing I shouldn ’ t have. As I walk to the gallery, I feel like a teenager again, hoping she calls me.