Chapter 2 #2
It’s so odd having a normal conversation with a man.
I so rarely do it. The first date I ever had, and damn near every date since, was arranged by my father.
The only time I ever dated a guy that wasn’t a friend of the family, he ended up finding out who I was and what my father did, and never replied to my texts or called me back.
I’m terribly inexperienced in the art of seduction or flirtation.
I quickly shove the memories away and flash Mac a smile. “Just on a lunch break.” For some reason, I feel the need to tell him about where I actually work and what I actually do. “I work at a nearby boutique.”
I wish I could tell him more. My shop’s my baby. My pride and joy. I try to keep it less flowery and sentimental, but he might see in my eyes how much the boutique means to me.
“Where?” he asks, taking another bite of his food.
I shrug. “Oh. Just a little boutique nearby.”
He smiles at me and tips his head to the side, curious. “Is it a secret, then?”
I feel my cheeks heat.
“Not exactly.”
It is absolutely a secret.
My father will find out eventually, but I’d rather he not know until I’m successful.
“C’mon, then,” Mac says with another one of those damn smiles. He’s turning on the full blast of his charm and I… well, I like it. “We’ve been fast friends for a full ten minutes, doesn’t that count for anything?”
I don’t tell him that the sad part is, yes, it actually does. I don’t care if this man is hot, I don’t care if he’s friendly and cordial. I’m so lonely, sometimes it makes me ache inside. It’s nice sitting across from someone who’s actually interested in… me.
I sit up straighter. “I work at Cherry Blossoms.”
“Ah, the little boutique in town that does the custom dresses? I heard my sisters talking about that.”
Had he?
I swallow, trying to hide my surprise. “It is.”
“I can’t believe I actually remembered,” he says with a laugh. “And where do you get your designs from?”
I blink in surprise. “Oh! Gosh, I do them myself.”
He puts his fork down, leans back in his chair, and crosses one ankle over his knee. Clearly impressed. I melt a little bit more.
“Are you kidding me? Oh, c’mon, no one designs clothes these days. Do you really?”
“Gosh, now why would I make something up like that?”
He shrugs, his eyes twinkling again as he takes another large bite of chicken. He chews, then swallows. “I know literally nothing about designs, so I’m just talking out of my arse. But damn, lassie, I’m impressed. Tell me about your designs.”
I know he’s hitting on me, I know it. But it’s hard to resist the urge of telling all, when I’m not sure if he really cares.
“Well, you don’t really need to hear those details,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh.
He tips his head to the side and sobers a little. For some reason, the look he’s giving me makes my heart pound a little faster, like he wants to lecture me or something. He seems stern all of a sudden.
Did I anger him?
“Are you questioning my sincerity?” There’s just enough hardness in his tone to make my heart thrum.
“No, of course not,” I say with a bashful giggle. “It’s just—”
He nods. “I get it. You’re a beautiful woman. I’m sure you get approached by men all the time.”
Ha. As if he had any idea. No one ever hits on Bryn Aitkens, daughter of the most vicious mobster in all of Scotland.
“Not quite.”
He frowns. “I’m shocked. I was going to say, you’re probably so used to men trying to hit on you under false pretenses,” he takes another bite of chicken before he continues, “that you’ve learned to question the sincerity of men.”
He does hit on a kernel of truth, though, and the validity of what he’s saying pings me straight in the chest.
I exhale a breath I didn’t know I held and decide I won’t lie to him. “Maybe I’ve learned to question the sincerity of everyone. Not just men.”
I’m a pawn in a game of life or death, just one of the many disposable pieces. But he can’t know that.
He gives me a grim smile. “I understand.” He blows out a breath. “More than you know. Now, tell me, Bryn. I really want to know.” His eyes hold mine. “Try me.”
The intensity in his eyes makes my stomach feel all melty. I let my gaze wander briefly over his beautiful, heartbreakingly handsome face, from the depths of his blue, blue eyes, to his perfect nose, to the fullness of lips that look like they’d know where to go and what to do.
I lick my lips. I swallow. And I give him the truth.
“My style could be best described as nouveau chic,” I begin, holding his gaze while I give him the pitch I’ve prepared for investors. “Essentially, I design modern-day apparel with a historical flair…”
This is usually where people begin to lose interest, where their eyes glaze over. He nods with sober curiosity, and gestures from the peasant-style top with the trim bodice and laced-up back I’m wearing, to the slim skirt that hits my ankles.
“Did you design your own outfit?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Go on,” he says, and the way he says it makes it feel a bit like a command.
I go on. When I’ve finished, he’s leaning back in his chair, his fingertips placed together, and he’s wearing a curious expression.
“That sounds amazing,” he says. “I bet you’ve got buyers knocking down your door. The market must be hungry for such brilliant innovations in this day and age when everything’s factory-made and flimsy.”
I wince. “Not hardly. I haven’t had a buyer for much of anything since…” I sigh, giving him the whole truth. “Not since I sold half a dozen hair bows to a little church craft fair. Though I am finishing up a commission piece I’m proud of.”
“Really?” he says, brows raised. “Tell me more.”
So I do. I tell him everything about how I create my designs, what I plan next, my hope for expansion and how to hit the French market.
I’ve never said any of this out loud, and I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.
I’m not sure what it is about this man that makes me feel such a wide range of emotions all at once.
Maybe it’s just that he’s paying attention. People rarely do.
“It’s just been… well, a very slow start,” I finish with a sigh.
“Every single successful business in the history of the world started off like that, though,” he says soberly.
“Every business?”
He shrugs and smiles. “Enough of them.”
I quietly take another sip of my smoothie, finishing it, then place the empty cup in my salad dish. He reaches for my tray. “I’ll get it.”
I watch as he rises with our trays and heads to the trash bin, just as a commotion picks up near the register.
“I’m sorry, those are the rules, sir,” the cashier says, frowning. “And if you don’t comply, I’ll be forced to ask you to leave.”
“That won't be bloody necessary,” the guy says, as he heads to the door. He pushes his way past several others in line, and literally bumps my table as he walks by. My energy bite falls to the floor, the container opening and the little pieces rolling underneath the table.
"Hey!"
"Oh, shut it. Hey yourself,” the arsehole mutters.
The next second, Mac is in my space, standing between me and this arsehole. Jesus, is he intimidating, all large and muscular and furious.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks. “Terrorizing the entire store because you think the rules don’t apply to you?”
The prick turns to retort, then his eyes go wide at the sight of Mac. He glances at his neck, his shoulders, and sees something that makes him start.
“I was just leaving,” he mutters.
Mac steps closer to him, grabs him by the back of the shirt, and drags him toward the door. “Allow me to help you with that.”
He drags him to the exit, opens the door, then throws the man bodily into the street. When he turns back to the shop, people literally clap. I grin at him.
“Bloody brilliant,” I say with a grin.
But he’s frowning and shaking his head. “Bloody bully is what he was. He’s lucky I didn’t kick his scrawny arse.”
I blink, surprised to realize I’d have liked to see that.
What’s wrong with me?
“Tell you what,” he says. “Forget those damn energy balls.” He lowers his voice and mutters, “Trust me, they’re fucking awful anyway.
Let’s get a proper dessert at the coffee shop before you have to get back to work?
My treat. I have to balance off that healthy meal with something delicious and laden with refined carbs. ”
I glance at the clock and bite my lip.
“I’d love to, but I really don’t have time.”
He nods. “Ah, right. You’ve got work to do. So tell me how you take your coffee, then, and I’ll bring it by.”
He’s a stranger, though. Should I let him?
His eyes twinkle at me, and I decide what the hell.
“Medium, with a shot of vanilla, dash of milk, no sugar.”
I reach for my wallet to get some cash, but he rolls his eyes, giving me a withering look. “Really?”
I smile. “You let me buy my salad.”
He reaches over and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “That was before we were friends, darlin’.”
Oh God, he’s playing me like a fiddle, and my body is singing.
“Then in that case, I’ll take the coffee, a brownie, and two slices of the Rich Man’s Shortbread, please.”
It’ll be a late night at the shop. It’s dinner.
He winks at me. “Atta girl.” My heart somersaults again. “On it. See you soon.”
I go my way and he goes his, but I know he’s heading back to me soon, and I find it hard to focus.
I pace the shop, twiddle my hair, chew my nails, and finally fire up my computer and pull up the next design I’m working on.
I’m completely procrastinating about the one I’m on a deadline to finish, but I feel odd picking that one up knowing Mac is due in at any moment. I don’t know why it feels so secret.