Chapter 11
Kinsley
Straggler's Big Breakfast
“What can I get for you?”
I asked for the hundredth time this morning. The customer, a regular, was holding a sweet, chubby baby on her hip. She ordered her food to go, and I rang her up. She thanked me and moved to the side to wait.
It had been a busy morning, but I loved working here. It was the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the tingle of spices that always soothed my soul. Even the noise—the employees calling out orders, the murmur of voices, people laughing, the thick whir of the frothing machines—had a comforting effect on me.
I turned to greet the next customer, and my breath caught in my throat. Good god, he was heart-stopping. He had trimmed blond hair, the sides shaved short, and long lashes framed his crystal-blue eyes. His beard was full and neat and outlined his beautiful lips.
The black T-shirt he was wearing fit him snugly, showing off his tall, muscular body. He wore black jeans, and I noticed the tattoo on his right forearm almost immediately. It reminded me of one of those grim reapers holding an hourglass. The top part of the hourglass had cupped hands holding sand, with grains running through the pinkies. The bottom part held a skull.
My father had had a tattoo. I tried to bring it to mind, but like most of those early memories, it was hazy. This man’s tattoo mesmerized me, though. The details were exquisite. Flushing as I realized I was staring and being rude, I quickly asked him, “What can I get for you?”
My heart was beating faster than ever.
“What do you recommend?”
His accent was British, maybe from London or Yorkshire. It was rich and smooth like chocolate, unexpected. My stomach flip-flopped as I continued to stare like an idiot. He chuckled as if he got this reaction often, making me more self-conscious.
“That would depend on how hungry you are,”
I remarked, remembering how to do my job.
“I find myself suddenly ravenous, Kinsley.”
The way he said my name was like a familiar melody. He hadn’t even looked at my name tag. Don’t panic.
“Then I suggest the Straggler’s Big Breakfast. It comes with tea or coffee.”
I pointed to the menu and waited. Heat flooded my cheeks, and his eyes burned into me. Nervously, I looked at my manager.
“Do you, now?”
His eyes were alight with curiosity. His sexy, plump lips were very distracting.
“Sir, what can I get you?”
I asked once more after what felt like a few minutes of him just staring. Thankfully, my manager stepped in and came to my rescue.
“Why don’t you take your break? Mr. King, welcome to Woodinville Café. What can I get for you?” he asked.
Excusing myself, I turned to leave when I heard him say, “Her. I want her”—he paused long enough to make both of us exchange a look—“to take my order, and then I want her to sit over there with me on her break.”
He pointed to a corner table. He spoke with the authority of one who always got his way.
My manager paled, then looked at me, pleading with me to honor the request. He obviously knew who this man was. I didn’t have the slightest idea, but the line was getting longer, and the people were getting impatient with the holdup.
“I’ll take your order, sir, but I don’t see what you could possibly want with me. So I’ll decline your invitation to spend my break sitting with you over there, or anywhere, for that matter.”
I stepped back up to the register.
“Do you know who I am?”
he asked, a hint of humor lacing his voice. He leaned over the counter.
“No, but with a tattoo like that, I would guess you’re trouble. So, are you the Grim Reaper? Come to collect my soul?”
I asked innocently.
With a smirk on his face, he stood tall again and said, “Something like that. If my brothers were with me, you might have cause for concern. As it is, I insist we talk.”
Stepping back a little, I gulped. What kind of response was that? Get it together. I dug my nails into my palms to compose myself. Holding his gaze, I tried to act braver than I was. Try as I might, unease had taken root in my stomach, telling me I wasn’t overreacting to this stranger.
And as the seconds stretched to minutes, the tension in the air became almost palpable. All other sensory stimuli dimmed as the pounding in my heart increased. The long, drawn-out minutes seemed to stretch forever.
Looking down at the register, I chose something from the menu and rang him up. His response, or lack thereof, was enough of an indicator that he wasn’t here for something to eat.
“You insist? Interesting choice of words. The Straggler’s Big Breakfast it is. With black coffee—matches the tattoo and seems fitting,”
I muttered, hitting the buttons.
Maybe this had to do with Pasha? Damn him. How the hell did he find me? It was hard enough seeing him and acting like I didn’t know who he was. It was all I’d thought about that night, and I refused to give my birthday another thought. The club scene was definitely not my cup of tea. I think it would have been better if I’d stayed home.
When I was a young girl, I fancied myself in love with Pasha. I had followed his career over the years as he became popular. He was even more incredible than when we were little.
He was a man now—no longer the little boy who anchored me in every dance move from classic ballet to aerial ropes. I needed to push those memories out of my head. That was my old life. That life, and the one I lived for a season, didn’t control me anymore. My name was Kinsley Anya Marie Taylor.
You are safe.
Maybe this wasn’t even about Pasha. But then, if it wasn’t about him, what did this stranger want with me? Could it have to do with my past? Was I ready to go there if it did? My answer was no, not really. I wrestled with my inner need to know and self-preservation to remain ignorant.
He walked to the table in the far corner and situated his large body into a chair. His intense gaze found mine once more, so I turned away from him, taking my apron off.
“How much do you know about that man?”
my manager asked as he pulled me to the side.
“Nothing, nothing at all. Who is he?”
“Aleksandr King—or the Reaper, as he’s called in some circles. His father is a diplomat on assignment in Seattle, but that’s not what concerns me. There are rumors…how shall I say it? Um…some people believe that he and his two brothers are vigilantes of some sort. Are you okay?”
I must have turned white. Why on earth would a vigilante be interested in talking to me? I could feel his eyes watching me, even though my back was turned to him.
“I’m fine. I didn’t eat this morning, so I’m feeling lightheaded, is all. I’m going to take my break now.”
Every part of me wanted to run from the building and not look back. Unfortunately, I had a feeling the stranger probably wouldn’t let me get out the front door before following.
But in the back of my mind, I heard Owen and remembered his years of drawing me out. It hardly seemed fair. We’d worked so hard to come back from the brink of isolation, and I didn’t want to give that up.
Owen had taught me so much in the years I had with him. Outside of self-defense in using a knife or gun, he’d taught me about reading body language and nonverbal cues, how to recognize suspicious behavior, and how to assess my environment.
Above all things, he taught me not to panic—how to remain composed. And most importantly, to gather as much information as possible in every situation rather than acting impulsively.
It was hard picking up the pieces after he had been killed in a random accident. I had come so far, and my heart wasn’t ready to abandon ship, tuck tail, and run.
“Would you mind taking the tray over to him?”
Mr. Peters hesitantly held out the food. I sighed, squared my shoulders, and nodded. Grabbing the tray, I lifted my head and walked toward Mr. Vigilante King.
The smug look on his face only fueled something inside me. My face flamed in a mix of anger and resentment. I had only recently gotten to the place where I’d made some friends.
My life, while nowhere near perfect, was beginning to take shape. And now this stranger seemed destined to sway me somehow.