“Who? I’ll buy them from them.”
“A regular. You wouldn’t know him, of course, since you’ve never been by.”
Okay, I deserved that.I should’ve at least sent flowers, but when I saw those photos of Mike and his fiancée, I thought it might be best to just cut ties. If I could turn back time…
“Are you still upset about the calla lilies?” I say, trying to communicate that I haven’t forgotten anything about her. That she means so much to me.
The faux serenity slips from her face. “No, Noah. I was, but not anymore. I’ve decided to quit you.”
“Ah, come on. We both know you’re not a quitter.” I give her my most winning smile, which never fails.
“I am when we’re talking about a cigarette.” Her gaze sweeps over me meaningfully, lingering on my crotch.
I let out a reluctant laugh. All right, she wants to take a cheap shot about my dick. Understandable, given the situation. I can be the bigger man, no pun intended. She can do a lot more if she’ll just forgive me. “I’m at least a cigar, based on girth and length. And, you know, class.”
Her eyes are like stones. “You’re a cancer-causing agent, and I’m not going to tolerate your toxic BS.”
For a moment, I’m speechless.
“Get out, or I’m calling the cops for trespassing.”
Chapter Five
Noah
As a last-minute customer walks in to grab whatever’s left, I walk out of the bakery like Bobbi wants. No matter how happy I am to see her or how much I want to make my case that I’m back for good, she obviously needs a bit of time.
I head to her place. She lives in the house she inherited from her traitor father. The SoCal sun warms me inside and out, driving the chill from the Pacific Northwest—and Bobbi’s cold shoulder—out of my system. I’m clutching the bag of Bobbi’s bread I got from Mom’s pantry like a security blanket. I know Bobbi will come around. I’ve never failed to charm her, and soothing her is the easiest thing in the world because all I have to do is spoil her the way I want to.
The two-story house hasn’t changed. Squat. Unassuming. Dark brown roof and pale green paint on the exterior. A two-car garage and well-maintained yard with a couple of orange trees. I know there’s a basement as well. The property blends in with the middle-class neighborhood, and nobody would look twice while driving past.
Wonder if Bobbi got to redo the kitchen floor. When she inherited the house, it had the ugliest tiled floor imaginable: bright lime green and reddish-brown tiles with cracked, yellowing gout. Whoever picked those shades was at least color-blind. Her father never bothered to redo it, probably too busy being a traitor, and Bobbi swore she would replace it as soon as she got a chance.
I slow down, then stop. I have to blink…but yes, there is in fact a pair of human legs sticking out of one of the windows. Shitty old jeans and ratty white tennis shoes. Not Bobbi’s style. Not her ass, either.
I park my Bugatti on the road and climb out. Munching on the bread, I approach the person—a skinny Caucasian guy in his twenties, with mousy brown hair that could use a comb. His white T-shirt doesn’t look that old, but it’s still dingy. Mom would say that’s what happens when you don’t separate your laundry correctly.
He’s wriggling his bony ass, legs kicking, like he’s trying to air-swim. Given that the upper half of his body is inside, it’s obvious he’s trying to enter Bobbi’s home and failing. Not sure why he’s using the window when there’s a door. He can’t possibly be a burglar because he’d starve. Even crime requires some level of competence to earn you a living.
“You stuck, buddy?” I say conversationally, like it’s normal to see a person wiggling in a window.
He twists a little and something cracks. “Ow.”
“You okay?”
“Think I pulled something. Shit.”
Definitely a starving criminal. What an opportunity to practice the enhanced interrogation technique I’ve always wanted to test. I’m trained to do it, but unfortunately never get a chance. The top brass assigns me targets they want dead, not singing.
“Just trying to get back inside, man,” the guy says with a faint Nova Scotian accent. “Got locked out.”
“Didn’t leave a spare key under the welcome mat?” The fucker broke one of the glass panes to unlock her window. What an asshole. I thought Canadians were supposed to be nice.
I pull his wallet out of his back pocket, which he doesn’t seem to notice. A California driver’s license, issued last year. Lorcan Duncan, with an Orange County address. My God, what was his mother thinking? She should’ve at least given him a dignified middle name he could’ve used. Lorcan Duncan sounds like a particularly stupid tropical bird.
“Nah. Bobbi doesn’t do that,” Lorcan says. “Says it’s begging to be robbed.”
I smile. Smart girl. Although…trying to rob her would be a mistake. She owns at least four guns and isn’t afraid to use them. On top of that, her license and permit are up-to-date. I know because I checked. If they weren’t, I was going to take care of it. I can’t have my girl getting into trouble over some bureaucratic bullshit.
