Customers come in all day. As soon as they take a bite of the samples, their eyes widen, then they grab whatever is calling their name the loudest. When the last person finally leaves, I lock the front door and stand in the empty store, my legs sore from being on my feet for hours without a break. I’m going to have to get busy tomorrow to restock. Everything sold out, even the crusty multi-wheat bread, which was a pleasant surprise. But instead of feeling like a million bucks, I tighten my jaw and tap my fingers on the cool countertop for I don’t know how long as thoughts churn through my head.
He didn’t come. No text. No flowers.
The special mini-cake I baked for the two of us—to share later, in private—mocks me from its silver tray. The dancing modeling chocolate couple seems like a monument to my ludicrous hope thatthis time would be different. But how was I supposed to know? He said he’d come yesterday. He knew my favorite flower. And he was so sincere.
But then when was he evernotsincere?
Sudden rage erupts, incinerating what feelings I still have. I dump the cake in the trashcan. It breaks into ugly pieces, the couple upside down with chocolate frosting splattering the girl’s face, like she’s been made the butt of a joke.
Who am I kidding? Nobody made me the butt of a joke. Iletmyself be one.
I let out a shuddering breath as I struggle to swallow my tears. One of the most important moments in my life, and it basically meant nothing to him. Waiting is hard, but waiting for someone who never comes is just wretched. I gave a man who doesn’t care the power to ruin what should’ve been an amazing celebration.
Never again.
Impatiently, I wipe the tears streaming down my face. It’s well past time I cut Noah loose. Forever.
Chapter Two
Noah
–a year later
“Every woman loves the guy who rescues her,” says the senior coordinator.
Spoken like a man who’s probably still a virgin. I resist the urge to face-palm myselfagainover the lack of creativity and medieval sensibility of the people I have to work with. I don’t need their help picking up a woman. I certainly don’t need them to come up with a moronic scheme to have three would-be thugs “attack” her while she’s on vacation in Mexico, so I can “rescue” her.
I tell them it’s unnecessary, but they look at me like I just told them to kill her. The fake thugs are already on their way, and if I don’t do my part, horrible things could happen to her.
“Make sure to get punched in the face or get knifed on the side because then there’ll be a logical reason for her to stick around.”
You’d have to have the brain of a single fat cell to come up with this. I’ve never had to do more than flash a twinkle-eyed smile to get laid. There’s no need to get punched or knifed.
I keep track of the target in the crowded club. Bobbi Bright, the only child of Otto Bright. I need to retrieve his dossiers, which nobody has been able to recover so far despite a fine-toothed combing through all his known associates. His daughter’s the only one left to check.
She might have them…or she might not. She didn’t seem that close to her father. After finishing college, she started working as a bodyguard for Hollywood celebs and influencers while Otto continued with his career at the State Department. But you can’t trust a traitor—or even a potential traitor, and not even if they come in a package as beautiful as Bobbi.
All that soft golden hair tumbling down her back, the smooth lean muscles of her long arms and legs flexing as she dances. Her breasts aren’t big, but they only need to be big enough to feel good in my palms with sensitive nipples. The lithe torso dips into a tight waist and somewhat narrow hips, her body wrapped in a tight black top and flaring skirt. She’s not voluptuous, but she keeps in shape. And that’s sexy.
As she tilts her chin at the climax of the music, a smile curves her soft lips. Her long lashes cast crescent shadows around her wide eyes, and the dim lights from the ceiling creates shadows that showcase the perfection of her cheekbones.
Unlike the many women who contour to bring out their facial structures, Bobbi is one hundred percent natural. She buys a cocktail, smiling at a bartender who grins at her like he’s in love, then fans herself.
She finishes her drink and steps outside. The air in the club is cold and stale with sweat and alcohol. I follow her out.
Her hands on her hips, she inhales and exhales slowly. The parking lot isn’t too well-lit, and drunken tourists and laughter from the locals shatter what little silence the night would’ve brought.
I stay out of view and do my best to avoid becoming impatient. The “thugs” should pop out of the shadows any time now. I would, if I were as boring and unimaginative as the people who orchestrated this farce.
On cue, three scruffy looking types strut forward. All big beefy guys with thick muscles underneath stretchy shirts and jeans. Three gold rings flash on the sausage-like fingers of the guy in the middle. Impressive. Maybe even scary if you didn’t know they’re fake gangbangers.
They approach Bobbi, then say something in fluent Spanish, getting a little too close. They’re the kind of folks the State Department website warns you about, and the Mexican authorities want to eliminate to allay the fears of the gringo tourists.
The one in center steps into her personal space, then grabs her wrist.
Guess that’s my cue. I take a step forward—
There’s a sudden movement; Bobbi twists his arm, bringing the guy’s head down a bit and then kicks him hard on the point of his chin, her leg shooting up at an impressively vertical angle. He drops like a rock.
