Chapter 2
KIERA
“Un-fucking-believable.” I got off the couch and resumed pacing.
My phone call with Braden had ended at ten-thirty. I’d made it home by ten-forty-five. Now, it was seven o’clock at night and so far, no mysterious delivery. It should have come as no surprise that, as unreliable as my brother was, his associates were no better.
All day, I’d been too worked up to eat—first with worry, now with annoyance—and the donut had worn off hours ago. My stomach growled noisily, and I headed to the kitchen, specifically to my petal-pink, vintage inspired toaster to make toast.
Man, I loved that freaking thing. At the end of the day, sure, it was just a toaster. But it was also super cute, and it made me feel happy just looking at it—something I needed right now—and to top it all off, it toasted the image of a flower right into the bread.
I needed to fill my stomach with something bland that carried little risk of revolt, because who knew what kind of crap my brother had gotten himself into this time?
When it came to Braden, the possibilities were endless, and I’d had all day for my imagination to run wild.
For example, he fancied himself a big man in the drug world, even though he’d never been more than a low level asshole selling meth and Oxy to kids in the park. Did he owe his supplier money? He’d talked me out of cash to cover his debts before.
Then there was two summers ago, when he got in on some kind of black market action in Vegas. He called it the black magic market, and claimed to be its headliner magician.
Yeah, right. After a few months, Braden had to disappear and get the hell out of Vegas. Again on my dime.
He still talked a big game though, name-dropping people I’d never heard of, but were apparently impressive players in the resort and casino business.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d found trouble in Sin City, and it followed him home.
Maybe his recent thefts had been the latest way to cover his debts.
I dropped two pieces of sourdough into the toaster and lowered the lever. I grabbed a butter knife and—
The doorbell chimed.
My hand froze above the open silverware drawer, and I twisted over my shoulder to stare at the door. Sweat prickled along my hairline.
They won’t hurt you. Just do what they say.
I exhaled slowly to calm myself, remained (stupidly) armed with a butter knife, and walked out of my kitchen while wishing for the umpteenth time that I’d installed a peephole.
I put my palm and forehead to the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s Murph.”
Murph? As in, Sean Murphy? Oh no. What was he doing here? My brother hadn’t said anything about being alone when the delivery arrived, but I had a strong suspicion I wasn’t supposed to have company.
I opened the door just a few inches and though it was dark—the light had burned out and Tony, my landlord, had yet to fix it—I could clearly see that the very handsome, very dryad-nymph-meets-hockey-player-meets-lumberjack Sean Murphy was wearing an unbuttoned green and white flannel shirt over a crisp, high-quality, white cotton tee and jeans so worn I bet they felt like silk.
As per usual, his long brown hair was tied in a knot at the nape of his neck, and his moss-green eyes sparkled. His lips parted, then curled into a smile as his gaze descended my body, taking me in.
“Nice, Kiera. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed so casual.”
I looked down at myself. Shortly after getting home, I’d changed into purple yoga pants and the oversized Led Zeppelin sweatshirt I’d acquired back in college.
Obviously, it wasn’t anything I’d be caught dead in outside of my apartment, and it might not have been the most obvious ensemble for receiving nefarious deliveries from my brother’s shady associates, but it was what I wore whenever I felt miserable and unable to face the world.
It had good juju, and I needed that today.
Sean’s gaze slid to my exposed seafoam green bra strap—exposed because I’d cut the ribbed collar off the sweatshirt years ago, and the neckline had a tendency to slip off my shoulder and halfway down my arm.
I pulled up the neckline to cover myself. “What are you doing here?”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what are you doing here?” I repeated.
Out of all of our so-called coincidental run-ins, Sean had never come to my apartment before. I was surprised he even knew where I lived.
He tipped his head. “I’m taking you to dinner.”
“What? Why?” Or more like how could he think that? I knew nymphs could be bold, and Sean was—as previously mentioned—the king of polite persistence, but this was pretty presumptuous.
He looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. “This morning. At the bakery. I asked if I could take you to dinner tonight, and you said, ‘Should be fine.’”
I said that? I didn’t remember him making the suggestion, let alone me agreeing to it.
“Granted…” He put his hand against the door jamb and leaned toward me. “It wasn’t the most enthusiastic of yeses. Can I come in?”
“Um…” I took a step back. See what I mean about giving him mixed signals? Gah.
Sean pushed the door open a little further, stepped into my apartment, and closed the door behind him.
He glanced around my space. “Cool digs.”
“Thanks,” I said because he was right, and I appreciated the compliment even as my anxiety surged. “But there’s been a mistake. Now isn’t a good time.”
He shot me one of his patented shit-eating grins. “Now, that’s what I expected you to say this morning. And here I was, thinking I was finally making progress with you.”
My heart skipped. It was true I’d been dodging Sean’s attentions for weeks. Not because I didn’t like him. He was kind and sweet, a little funny, and definitely hot. If I were anyone else, if my history had been anything else, I would have jumped his bones the first chance I got.
But I was me. My life was my life. So, why did he have to torture me with his unflappability?
“I’m expecting company,” I said.
He glanced down at my outfit again, lingering on my shoulder, which had fallen bare again. Thank God the sweatshirt was thick. It was at least doing a decent job of masking my nipples—which were right now, under his gaze, hard as pearls.
“That’s what you’re wearing for company?” he asked. “I would’ve thought you’d go for one of those tight black skirts, maybe a matching silk sweater, and some of those high heels with the red soles.”
I was impressed. That sounded like a killer outfit, though Louboutins were a little fancy for at-home entertaining. Then I shook my head because I was getting off track. “Seriously, Sean. You’ve got to go.”
“Is it another guy? Did you double-book your dates?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
Sean leaned casually against the wall just inside the door and folded his arms. “Who’s your company?”
“Just…” I waved the butter knife around like a magic wand. “You know…people.”
“When are these people gonna be here?”
“I don’t know exactly. Soon. Whenever they get here.”
“So, we could hang until they arrive?”
My toast popped in the kitchen, and I was wound so tight I actually jumped.
Sean laughed. “You’re serving your company toast?”
“Stay right there.” I went into the kitchen. I still wanted something to settle my stomach, and I needed that toast to be warm so the butter would melt. Globs of hard butter on cold toast was disgusting.
“I’ll be a tree,” Sean said, “rooted to the spot.”
Normally, I would have asked if that was a dryad joke, but at that exact moment, the doorbell rang again.
“That’ll be your company,” Sean said. “I’ll get it.”
“No!” I exclaimed, and I practically sailed out of the kitchen. I don’t know what I was planning to do. Tackle him to the ground?
Didn’t matter though; Sean had already opened the door. He leaned outside. Looked left, then right, then down.
He bent over—it had to be said, his ass was fine, especially in those jeans—and picked up what looked like a black gym bag. “What’s this?”
“I’ll take that,” I said, reaching forward. “It’s…uh…my dirty gym clothes. I forgot them in my friend’s car. She said she’d drop them off.”
He closed the door. “Does your friend normally just knock and run?”
God, I was a terrible liar. “She works nights. She was probably running late.”
“Finish your toast,” he said. “I’ll start your laundry.”
“What?” Who did that? He didn’t even know where my laundry room was.
None of that seemed to bother Sean, though. He unzipped the bag and looked inside.
A beat passed. Then he looked at me, his eyebrows drawn in an expression of equal parts concern, incredulity, and anger. “Gym clothes?”
My lips parted, and I stared up at him. This was exactly why I usually kept my mouth shut. Secrets were way safer than lies.
I grabbed onto the bag and though he didn’t let go of it, I still got a good look inside.
I gasped. “Oh my god.”
I’d been imagining a lot of terrible possibilities over the course of the day, but not this. The bag was stuffed with more cash than I’d ever seen at one time. And sitting on top of it all was a black handgun with a mother-of-pearl inlay in the handle.
“Kiera,” he pressed, his expression having morphed to unnerved frustration.
All the blood drained from my head, and I put a hand to the wall to steady myself. Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
I turned—demonstrating questionable equilibrium—and staggered into my pretty blue living room and collapsed onto my prima donna couch. My stupid, stupid brother.
I heard the sound of a zipper closing, then a thud as the bag hit the floor.
“Is this about that call you got at the bakery?” Sean asked.
I didn’t answer, just leaned forward and put my head in my hands.
“Elli said it was your brother.” Sean’s voice was closer now, near the side of the couch.
“He’s in trouble,” I admitted, breaking my number one rule: never impose family garbage on innocent bystanders.
“His trouble doesn’t have to be your trouble,” Sean said.
I scoffed. As if life were ever that easy.