CHAPTER TWO
CADANCE
I stood outside the patisserie next to my rented upstairs room and reconsidered my life choices for all of a second.
I mean, it came down to the pink glitter truck that really did stand out like a sore thumb parked out the front of our combined business and sleeping areas, and the chef in the patisserie who doubled as a cowboy during his noon moonlighting hours.
You know, the one who carved gourds and waltzed about the inside of his shop wearing jeans and an apron.
And that was all.
My mind really didn’t take that much time to decide on who to ask for help after I sucked in that delectable sight, all the pretty gourd carvings that littered his windows with their delectable, sugared treats inside.
Oh, and the knife buried hilt deep inside my flat tire. Which was why I stood outside the gourd-chef's shop at midnight, ready to beg for help.
Not because he looked good without a shirt, or because his other assets bulged as he finished carving up his current artwork. That took a significant amount of talent as well as a steady, gentle hand. Even I could see that.
Some of the larger displays nearest the window that I loitered near looked like pure lace around the edges.
He’d placed lights behind and even inside some to illuminate the thinnest layers as well as the sugar encrusted pastry creations nestled inside.
Tiny creatures of the woodlands featured there: squirrels, robins, a spotted deer.
Even a wild turkey. And those weren't guesses.
The depiction in pastry was clear, his stunning art work surrounding the mouth-watering dessert just as delectable.
And then there was the man himself.
Bulging kind of everywhere, covered in powdered sugar, the occasional fleck of paint from his alternative creation, his dark eyes focussed on the work in his hands.
And if I hadn’t already had a bit of a hand fetish…welp, I sure as all get out did by now.
Long fingered, rough and calloused and all things both gentle and firm. Swoon me sideways and pass me a gourd carving cowboy artist pastry chef, pretty please.
Clearly, this was the perfect man to ask to change my tire, once I stopped perving on him.
I blinked, but the shop was empty.
Damnit, I missed my chance.
But there he was, dressed—well, dressed. As in, wearing a shirt. A long sleeved, black Henley, done up to the neck except for those top two buttons that were left open. Somehow, being dressed was all the more sexier on him.
What did you expect, Cadance? That he’d head back to his dude ranch wearing an apron and jeans?
Maybe my ovaries had hoped that was the case, but my logical brain—that appeared to have gone on hiatus the moment he appeared in the middle of the kitchen like an oversized, cowboy wraith.
Gone was the gourd-perv-worthy chef of moments before, when I'd vague out over carving hands and bulging biceps. Okay, so I starved for male specimens to ogle. Which, naturally, was why I was in this mess to begin with. You’d think that was enough to cure me of over active ovaries to start with, but apparently not.
My mouth opened as Mr tall, dark and Gourdy strode toward the door, keys in hand, where I’d been waiting on the other side all night. I did the only logical thing I could think of in that moment.
I ran.
And hid near the side of the building where mine adjoined his.
It wasn’t like I’d been practicing my speech for the past twenty minutes in my head or anything like that while I loitered out the front of his ship like a stalker instead of knocking, waxing and asking for help on the mostly deserted—okay, completely deserted— street front.
Nope. I acted like a complete stalker, unsure if I liked his display better, or him.
The retail manager in me adored the display.
The one hundred percent female in me appreciated the man.
Could I just love both? Who knew. Instead, I cowered in the tiny space between buildings, thinking how stupid this whole scenario was.
I should go back up my stairs to my brand new rental, lock myself in, and deal with the vandalism in the morning.
I was sure the locals would have a damn fine and logical reason why a knife was implanted into my tire.
The distraction might cost me a day’s trade but hey, maybe I could run my wax and nail service from the street front and use it to drum up business where I’d parked earlier in the afternoon instead of running appointments as a door to door service?—
An oversized hand folded around my shoulder, yanked me from my hiding place, and a serrated knife crushed my windpipe to a mere thread of breathing space. Dark eyes I barely recognized from the gourd patisserie fixed on mine in an unyielding stare.
“You’ve got three seconds to tell me why you’re out here,” he rasped, digging the blade against my throat.
I swore flesh parted and life blood drizzled like frosting over my skin.
The hulk of a man bore his weight down on me.
Actually, he kind of towered. My distant view from outside his window didn’t do the enormity of this man, in all his glory, any form of justice.
Any pithy words I wanted to speak in my defence of my midnight perving habits came out in a rush of breath and part of a squeak.
Holy hells, I hope he can change a tire after this.
And hot on the heels after that thought: that knife handle does not match the one jammed into my truck wheel.
At least my logical brain was still on its game while the rest of me was in freeze-prey mode.
My pathetic little mouse sound slipped between us like a whisper. A whisper that echoed along the otherwise silent street while my mountain man cowboy glared at me with some serious intent in his eyes.
Who the hell hurt this man, and what did I have to do to make it better?
His intense gaze sharpened, and with that focus the man I thought I recognized returned.
“What the hell were you doing out the front of my shop at this time of night, glitter bomb?” he seethed.
Ah, okay. So maybe he got grumpy after midnight. I wondered what would happen if I added water.
“I’m your neighbor. Upstairs,” I added helpfully, darting my eyes sideways since I couldn’t move, didn’t dare breathe, and hoped that he wouldn't get a case of the jitters any time real soon. “I own the Bare Bear Travelling salon.”
He bared his teeth in what might have been a smile, but came off as only a little terrifying. “I noticed, glitter girl. I saw your van at the Off-Duty ranch earlier. Why the hell are you out here at this time of night?"
I put on my prettiest, best, most sparkly emergency smile. “Someone impaled my tire. I hoped you might help me change it before work tomorrow.”
“What?”
I took a deep breath, and ran into the edge of his blade. “Help, please.” I pressed my hand to his forearm, tracing corded tendons strung tight over hard musculature beneath.
His gaze flicked downward, and the blade retracted. “Fuck. I didn’t—” He raked the scarred, whitened knuckles of the hand still gripping the serrated blade through his hair, leaving the ends in a haphazard mess. Sugar dusted his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Ca—” His teeth snapped together like a bear trap had been set off.
I would have winced, if I hadn’t been invested in catching that little slip. “You know my name?”
He ignored me, sheathing the knife at his back and reached out. His hands brushed my skin in the lightest touch, then he drew back. “May I?”
I barked out a laugh, disturbing the night on the silent street a second time. “It’s a bit late now, isn’t it?” and far too late for me, the shivers set in, a delayed reaction of what had just happened.
“I’m sorry.” One arm braced against the bricked shop wall behind my head as he dipped his head and studied the damage he’d created.
I held back tears—just—as he swiped a fingertip across my throat.
I swore that imprint would come up bloodied, but when he showed me proof, all I saw was skin the same as the rest of his hand: scarred from a lifetime doing who knew what, if a knife large enough to take on the proverbial bear was his first thought, coated with residual sugar from tonight's activities.
The two actions were so at odds with each other, a dichotomy in this man, that for a moment, all I could do was stare.
“You’re okay,” he coaxed, shifting his bulk as he eased closer.
“Cadance,” —all facades were dropped there about knowing who I was— “I’m sorry I scared you.
I thought— Well, it doesn't matter what I thought. I shouldn’t have reacted like that, not on a street.
Not here, and not with someone… Not with you,” he finished, keeping his voice soft, regular.
His thumb brushed back and forth across my throat in a smooth motion I didn’t want to break, but his words slammed into my mind like a fresh trauma slap.
I peered up at him through slitted eyes.
“What’s so wrong about someone like me ?” I asked, my own voice far from calm as the edges of panic set in. “I just needed a tire changed, that’s all.”
“And you couldn't come in and ask like a normal person?” The corner of his mouth flickered up.
“No, Elijah. I couldn’t,” I sassed him.
It wasn’t until the hand still stroking back and forth across my throat where his blade had been breaths before that I realized how much I’d screwed up.
Oh, fuckity.
I rallied my best fake ass smile again.
“Apparently, I know your name, too.”