Chapter 8 #2
The final stretch to Rosewood's was pure exquisite torture.
Every bump in the road pressed her against me.
Every turn required her to hold tighter.
By the time the tea shop's Victorian facade came into view, I was harder than the fucking chrome on my bike and seriously reconsidering this whole "public date" idea.
I pulled into the small parking lot, killing the engine with relief. Or disappointment. Hard to tell which.
"That was . . ." Lena's arms stayed wrapped around me for a long moment, like she wasn't ready to let go. "Can we just keep riding? Forever?"
"Thought you wanted tiny sandwiches," I managed, voice rough.
"I want lots of things." She finally released me, sliding off the bike with a grace that made the dress flare again. Fucking sundresses. Who authorized those?
I swung my leg over, standing carefully to adjust myself without being obvious about it. Failed completely if her knowing smirk was any indication.
"Need a minute?" she asked sweetly, already reaching for the helmet straps.
"I'm fine."
"Mm-hmm." She pulled the helmet off, hair wild and static-charged, cheeks flushed from wind and excitement. "So if I said that ride made me all tingly and warm, that wouldn't affect you at all?"
"Lena."
"Or if I mentioned how much I loved being pressed against you? Feeling all that power under me?"
"You're playing with fire." I stepped closer, backing her against the bike.
"Am I?" She looked up at me through her lashes, and fuck if she didn't lick her lips deliberately. "Maybe I like fire. Maybe I want a little burn."
My control cracked. Just for a second. Just long enough to cage her against the bike, hands braced on either side of her hips, not touching but close enough she could feel the heat rolling off me.
"Careful what you ask for, little girl." The endearment slipped out, rough and possessive. "Push too hard and you might get more than you bargained for."
Her breath hitched, eyes going dark. "Promise?"
For a moment, we stayed frozen like that. Me looming over her, her tilting that defiant chin up in challenge, the air between us electric with want. Anyone could drive by. Anyone could see. Duke could get a fucking phone call in the next thirty seconds that would end everything before it began.
"Tea," I ground out, forcing myself to step back. "We're here for tea."
"Right. Tea. Tiny sandwiches. Very proper." But her voice was breathless, affected. Good. Let her suffer too.
She smoothed down her dress with hands that trembled slightly, and I felt like I'd won something. A small victory in this war of wills we were waging.
"Shall we?" I offered my arm like a gentleman, like I hadn't just been imagining bending her over my bike.
"So formal," she teased, but took it anyway, fingers curling around my bicep. "Lead the way, Soldier Boy."
T he door to Rosewood's Tea Shop stood all of five-foot-eight, painted pristine white with frosted glass panels etched with roses. I had to duck to enter, and the little bell above the door announced my arrival like a warning siren. Every delicate head in the place turned.
Doilies. Everywhere. On tables, chairs, under potted plants that looked like they required daily affirmations to survive.
The air smelled old lady perfume, with classical music tinkling from speakers hidden behind arrangements of silk flowers.
Tiny tables with tinier chairs filled the space, occupied by women who looked like they'd been born clutching pearl necklaces.
I'd infiltrated Taliban strongholds that felt more welcoming.
"Oh my," one elderly woman whispered to her companion, loud enough for the whole place to hear. "They're allowing anyone in these days."
Lena's hand tightened on my arm, and I could feel her fighting laughter. She pressed closer, playing up our couple status with a brilliant smile that dared anyone to comment further.
"Table for two?" The hostess materialized—another grandmother type with silver hair in a bun so tight it looked painful.
She eyed me like I might steal the good china or track motor oil on her pristine floors.
Her gaze lingered on my tattoos, visible where I'd rolled up my sleeves, and her mouth pursed like she'd sucked a lemon.
"Yes, please!" Lena chirped, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Somewhere private if you have it. My boyfriend's shy."
Boyfriend. The word hit unexpectedly hard, even though I knew it was cover. Her boyfriend. Hers. The hostess's expression suggested she'd rather seat us in the dumpster out back, but hospitality won out.
"This way."
The booth she showed us to had clearly been designed for people half my size. Maybe children. Very small children.
"This is perfect, thank you!" Lena slid in easily, patting the space across from her. "Come on, baby. Don't be scared."
The hostess huffed and click-clacked away on sensible heels, leaving me to figure out how to fold six-foot-two of muscle into a space meant for garden gnomes.
I tried sliding in normally—knees hit the table, sending the china rattling.
Tried angling sideways—shoulders too broad for the high-backed booth.
"Having trouble there, Godzilla?" Lena had her phone out, absolutely recording this humiliation for posterity.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered, finally managing to wedge myself in by sitting at an angle, one leg in the aisle. The table pressed against my ribs, and every movement threatened to topple something expensive.
"You look like you're at a tea party in Wonderland," she giggled, snapping photos. "All you need is a tiny hat."
"Blackmail material?"
"Memories," she corrected, but her grin was pure mischief. "Besides, you look hot when you're uncomfortable. All grumbly and trying not to break things. Very controlled. Makes me wonder what it would take to make you lose that control."
"Lena." Warning in my voice that she cheerfully ignored.
"What? I'm just saying. Big dangerous man, all contained and careful. It's doing things to me."
Christ. In public, surrounded by disapproving grandmothers, and she was still finding ways to test my limits.
Our waitress appeared. Another older woman, this one with cat-eye glasses and a mouth permanently fixed in disapproval.
"What can I get you fine folks?" The question was directed entirely at Lena, as if I might not be capable of speech.
"We'll have the full afternoon tea service, please," Lena said brightly. "With all the fixings. Extra clotted cream, if you have it."
The waitress's pencil scratched disapprovingly. "And to drink?"
"Earl Grey for me. Tyson?"
Every instinct screamed for coffee. Black. Strong enough to strip paint. But Lena's eyes were dancing with challenge, and I'd be damned if I let a bunch of judgmental grandmothers see me flinch.
"Same," I ground out.
"Two Earl Greys. Full service. It’ll be about twenty minutes."
She shuffled off, shoes squeaking against the floor. Around us, conversations resumed in hushed tones. I caught fragments— "tattoos," "that poor girl," "young people these days."
"They hate you," Lena observed cheerfully. "Like, personally offended by your existence level hate."
"Not the first time I’ve been judged on looks."
"It's the shoulders, I think. And the jaw. Very aggressively masculine." She propped her chin on her hand, studying me. "You're like their worst nightmare. Proof that dangerous men exist outside romance novels. They’re probably all crushing on you." She waggled her eyebrows.
"Should we leave?" I didn't want to ruin her date because of a bunch of gossips.
"Are you kidding? This is the most excitement they've had in years. We're practically community service." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Besides, I like watching you try to be civilized. Very sexy."
"I’m not so hot on tea-house etiquette."
"I'll teach you. Pinky out when you sip." She demonstrated with an invisible cup. "Very important. Shows breeding."
"If I stick my pinky out, Thor will materialize and smack me round the face."
"That's a risk I'm willing to take." Her foot slid higher up my calf, and I trapped it between my legs before she could do more damage.
"Behave," I warned.
"Make me," she challenged, then squeaked when I squeezed her foot with my calves. "That's cheating!"
"It’s called tactics."
After a brief wait, the server returned with a three-tiered monstrosity that looked like it belonged in a museum.
Delicate plates lined each level—microscopic sandwiches on the bottom, scones in the middle, tiny cakes and tarts on top.
She set it down with a clatter that suggested she hoped it might break and give her an excuse to throw us out.
"Clotted cream—imported from Cornwall, in Britain. Jam. Lemon curd." Each item was placed with aggressive precision. "Tea will be out shortly."
I stared at the display. The cucumber sandwiches were the size of my thumb. The scones might last two bites if I was careful. A normal meal for me involved pounds of meat and potatoes, not whatever this dollhouse furniture was supposed to be.
"Is this meant to be food?" I picked up a sandwich, thing disappearing entirely in my hand.
"It's an experience." Lena popped one in her mouth whole, eyes closing in exaggerated bliss. "Mm. Cucumber and cream cheese. Fancy."
"It's a garnish. This is a garnish pretending to be food."
"Try one before you judge." She selected a sandwich and held it up to my mouth. "Open up."
"Lena—"
"Come on. Let me feed you. It'll scandalize the grandmas even more."
Against my better judgment, I opened my mouth. She placed the tiny sandwich on my tongue, fingers lingering against my lips just a second too long. The old woman at the next table actually gasped.
"Good?" Lena asked, voice gone husky.
I chewed the nothing sandwich, tasting more of her fingers than cucumber. "It's fine."
"Liar. You hate it." But she was smiling, already reaching for a scone. "These are better. More substantial. Plus you get to play with the cream."