Chapter 8 Under One Condition
UNDER ONE CONDITION
CORBIN
My gaze snaps to my arm, where a small stream of blood appears to have traveled down my biceps and dried there. “What the—oh, it’s from the cat.”
“Let me get you a Band-Aid.”
I jerk my attention to Mabel, who’s empty-handed. “You carry Band-Aids with you? Also, no. I don’t need a Band-Aid. I’m a hockey player.”
“Right. You just free bleed. Cool.” She drops the mockery and stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Also, gross.”
“Mabel, it’s a cat scratch. I’ve gotten back on the ice after being cut with a blade.”
“You’re not on the ice right now.” She circles me and gasps when she gets to my back. “I hate to break it to you, but there’s a streak of blood down the back of your shirt. How did you not feel this?”
“Like I said, I’ve been cut before.”
“Yes, by blades and by men. But cats are like gods. They are stronger, and also, this could lead to infection. We’re cleaning this up now.”
“Cats are not stronger than—”
But there’s no point in arguing since she’s already gone, marching down the street to her car where she yanks open the door and grabs a backpack. When she returns, she eyes me in full triage mode. “Let’s go inside the firehouse. I don’t want anyone to know you’re human.”
“If you think you can handle my bionic self, go ahead.”
“I definitely can.” There’s a little bit of flirt in her voice. Is she thinking of yesterday, up against the trailer door? But, with a mischievous grin, she moves on, nodding to her new property. “Want to see it?”
I really do, but I don’t want to sound too eager. “Sure.”
“Perfect. My first order of business in my inheritance will be tending to your wounds. Fitting, since it’s a firehouse.”
“I am not wounded.”
She snorts. “Right.” Mabel nods to the door, and I follow her.
“Theo and I only took a quick look around. Not enough to kick the tires. Apparently, some company bought it a while ago and started to work on it, so it’s…
half-converted. The lawyer explained it to me a little while ago.
But I don’t know what they wanted to do with it.
” After she slides in the key and turns it, the door opens with a loud and aggrieved groan, like it’s been ages since it moved its rusty hinges.
Once inside, Mabel stares wide-eyed at the open, empty space, a smile shifting her lips.
Light streams in from the doorway. The floor is concrete, and the ceilings are high with exposed beams, giving an industrial but surprisingly cozy feel.
A vintage fire department sign hangs on one wall, next to an antique helmet.
But there’s also a new set of turnouts hanging next to it.
The sliding brass pole looks like it was polished recently. The whole place exudes firehouse charm.
A freshly framed wall divides the space. It’s been drywalled, but not finished, so it definitely needs work. But right away, I can see how this could house a bakery—after a bunch of upgrades. The half-done reno has left a clear front and back of the house.
“I was pretty skeptical when I first opened the door with my brother, but then I looked around and I thought…this could really work,” she whispers, as if speaking too loudly would ruin the dream.
She points to the ceiling. “There are even still bunks upstairs from when the crews slept here. Not that I need bunks. But maybe that space could work for storage.”
I can hear now how much she wants this. I don’t want to rain on her parade, but I’m not sure the time is right for me. Still, I’m intrigued by that newish fireman’s outfit. I stride over to it, reaching out a hand, and discovering…
“Mabel. I think these are tearaway pants.”
She gasps, then her gaze whips from the gear to the pole and back. “I bet they were going to convert it into a strip club. Please say they were going to convert it into a strip club.”
“I believe the evidence speaks for itself,” I say.
“I’m almost sad that didn’t happen. I so would have gone to a fireman-centric strip club in Cozy Valley,” she says.
“That would have brought you back? Patronizing a strip club?”
“Don’t be jealous, Knight. I just enjoy a good show.”
“Not jealous,” I say, and it’s the truth, because I can picture her there, cheering on the dancers. Mabel would go there, ironically, to have fun with friends. “Maybe you can open a combo. Bakery by day, strip club by night.”
She spins around, eyes flickering. “You’ll be my star dancer?”
I scoff-laugh. “Yes, moonlighting on a pole won’t pose any risk of injury whatsoever.”
“Excellent,” she says, then heads over to the brass pole and runs a hand down it reverently.
She turns quiet, looks thoughtful. I don’t think she’s picturing the strip club anymore.
“My grandmother marched in here and pitched them on a calendar. She was so…bold. I still can’t believe she pulled this off. For me.”
“It is an amazing gift,” I say.
“It sure is. It feels unreal.” As if testing the integrity of it, she walks toward the wall and raps on it. “Looks like the expensive structural work is done. It’s far enough along to be functional quickly but not too finished yet.”
“It’s got good bones,” I acknowledge. “But there’s probably not even running water, so no need to play nurse with the cat wound. I’m all good.”
She snaps out of her decorating haze. “Hey. I didn’t argue when you wanted to clean my hair.”
“Really? You call what you did not arguing? You said, and I quote, ‘Look, I appreciate the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing you have going on. It’s on brand and all. But you don’t have to stay. I can clean myself up.’”
She gives me an overly appreciative smile. “You memorized my words. Impressive.”
If she only knew how she was lodged in my brain. “Thank you. I am pretty impressive. Which is why you don’t need to bandage me.”
She hoists her backpack strap higher. “C’mon, tough hockey player. Good news is there’s a bathroom. Which is great because one of my life’s mottos is Yay for indoor plumbing.”
“What do you know? That’s one of mine too.”
“See? Good team,” she says.
I’m not ready to agree to that. Instead, I tip my chin toward her. “So, pickleball?”
She juts out a hip. “What? I don’t look athletic?”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t know you liked…playing sports.”
“Oh please,” she says with a scoff. “I don’t.”
“But you play pickleball?”
“For the fashion. The outfits are so cute.”
Does not compute. “You took it up for the clothes?”
“Of course. I have a whole collection of thrifted dresses. Some with ruffles, some in gingham, one has a super-cute preppy collared top. They’re all ridiculously adorable.”
I don’t get it. How do you play a sport for the fashion? “Do you just…model on the courts?”
“I play. Badly. Like most people,” she says, then motions to the doorway.
I leave that perplexing conversation behind as we push through an open doorway leading toward the back of the house.
And yup. Strip club for sure. This room has been half outfitted as a dressing room, with makeup tables in front of mirrors framed by lightbulbs.
The kitchen is on the other side, where the afternoon light streams in through a window above a big farm sink.
“Not sure what the plan was—maybe they were going to serve wings and mozzarella sticks in the club?”
“Sticks and dicks,” she offers.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “That’s a terrible name for a strip club. I’m not sure I want to know what you’ll name a bakery.”
“Just you wait. I’ve been letting some ideas percolate.” She waves to the kitchen. “I know you’ve been waiting for me too. But I’ll check you out soon,” she says affectionately…to the stove.
It’s distractingly adorable that she’s talking to an appliance.
And I cannot get distracted, so I move past her, turning the corner into the bathroom. When I switch on the tap, nothing happens. It just spurts air. “See. I was right. No water.”
She pats the backpack. “I have hydrogen peroxide. And listen, tough guy, your back is covered in blood, and you’re not on the rink. Let me help.” Echoing my words from yesterday, she adds, “That work for you?”
I heave a sigh but relent. “Fine.”
I close the lid on the toilet and sit down, grumbling for good measure.
She squeezes my shoulder, and it feels better than a shoulder squeeze should. But I stay stoic as she says, “I know, I know. You’re so tough. Still, let’s clean you up. I get that you’re in love with your gray shirts but make like a Sticks and Dicks dancer and strip.”
Cracking up, I drag a hand down my face.
“Mabel, you missed your calling. You really should open that strip club. Are you trying to tell me something? Is that what you really want us to do?” I reach for the hem of my shirt and peel it off, getting a good look at it.
Shit. It is streaked in blood. That cat did a number on my back.
When I glance up, though, Mabel’s frozen. She hasn’t responded. She hasn’t fired back. Instead, her eyes are locked on me—my chest? No, it’s the abs she’s gawking at. Or could it be the biceps? Wait. Seems it’s the forearms now.
Well, how about that? Might as well help her out, give her a better look. Blowing a lazy breath, I sit a little taller, stretch my arms over my head, and give her a full view of whatever she wants.
Several seconds later, she seems to blink the fog out of her eyes, her voice a little gravelly as she says, “I’ll…um…so…”
This just got real interesting. Even though nothing can happen between us, my ego and I sure like knowing she wants something to. “Cat got your tongue?”
She lifts her chin, then scrunches her brow as if she’s trying to activate her brain cells. “Of course not. Just…turn around.”
I smother a smile as I shift so she’s got a full view of my back.
Her breath hitches again. I stop fighting my smile. What can I say? I have back muscles for days.
And a bit of a troublemaker streak. “Feel free to enjoy the view.”
“Oh, shut up.”