Oh, sweetheart. Ido.
I lower my phone, glancing up at her. Shit. Her pretty brown eyes are a little glossy from the earlier tears, but the way she’s looking at me instead of thelaptop screen… fuck. She’s even more gorgeous than I thought.
My cock agrees.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, resisting the urge to drop my hand to my lap and fucking squeeze—or follow her to the restroom, lay my palm on her luscious tit, and squeeze that instead. She looks so damn soft, but also tentative, and I’m beginning to think that this woman would be so easy to break if she hasn’t been already.
I don’t want to break her. I have this sudden urge to put her in a cage, tokeepher, to make her mine just like Damien captured his Savannah.
But I’m a pro. I’m a planner, too, and I haven’t gotten where I am by being reckless and impulsive. I might not even remember her face tomorrow. Odds are I’ll leave the coffeehouse, jerk off if I can’t get my erection to behave, then move on to another conquest.
Or I could give in to my possessive, obsessive instincts for once and do a little research… research that begins with that laptop right there.
I give her a little nod, wordlessly assuring her that I’ve got this.
“Thank you. I’ll be right back,” she mumbles softly before scurrying away.
I allow myself a few seconds to watch the sway of her hips as she crosses the floor. Then, once she’s disappeared down the hall that leads to the publicrestroom, I stand up, stretch, and drop down in front of her computer.
If anyone in the coffeehouse notices, they mind their own fucking business.
Smart.
I don’t do impulse. Every move I make is measured, considered, and inevitable once decided on… and I’ve decided that I want to learn a little more about this woman, especially when I get a better look at what’s still on the open document she left up on her screen.
Right beneath the header that announces this is her wish list, I can finally tell what the red image I noticed earlier was: a Christmas poinsettia. Makes sense. This has got to be a Christmas list, and I almost think it charming that she went through the trouble to import some clipart of the traditional holiday flower into her doc.
But then I see the next line and, shit, I can’t deny that there’s more to her tears than I would’ve first thought…
If life were fair, they would get what they deserve. But since life’s never been fair, I can only wish that, this Christmas, they do.
Beneath that, I see five names. All male, with no other notation. Just the five names—and, with a quick snap of my phone, I have a list of my own. The continued hum of the coffeehouse swallows the soundof theclickbefore I place it face down on the tabletop, brain whirring.
My gaze returns to the poinsettia. A festive flower with bright red leaves often mistaken for petals. Now that I can see that this isn’t a wish list of odds and ends like makeup or bags or clothes, I’m even more intrigued by the symbol. A plant often associated with celebration as part of a header for a… what? A revenge list?
Possibly.
Probably.
My lips curve.
Then, because I’ve never been the sort of man to waste such a golden opportunity—and because she still hasn’t returned from the bathroom, though she will soon—I close her document long enough to search the computer for its system settings.
Not everyone sets their computers up with their full names, though I’ve run across more than enough of them who do that it’s a good bet to start there if I want to know who she is. And there it is, right under her account name: Noelle Halliday.
I repeat it silently, committing it to memory. Once I have, I close the settings, return the document to the full screen, then move one seat over. I’m just picking up my tea, pointlessly scrolling through my phone again, when she reappears.
I catch the flash of relief in her eyes when shenotices that I’m still sitting here, her ‘untouched’ laptop left exactly where it was. She breathes out another thank you as she returns to her seat. I nod, brushing it off, and drink my tea.
At least, that’s what it appears like from the outside. Inside, I’m already wondering what the hell Charles Dutton, the VP of Marketing for Evergreen & Co., could have done to earn a spot on Noelle’s shit list—and how I can make sure that he, along with the other four names I didn’t get the chance to look up yet, get exactly what they deserve.
Because Noelle Halliday didn’t make a wish list.
She issued a request. A plea.
And I’ve never been very good at ignoring those.
I’ve also found it impossible to let things slide over my thirty-eight years. Fairness might be a concept that few believe in, but ‘Saint’ Patrick North has made a career out of balancing the scales. For ten years, I did it on my own. For another decade, I killed for the Libellula Family, racking up thirteen leaves on my right bicep—thirteen green leaves to represent thirteen kills that benefitted the Dragonflies—until I quietly retired earlier this year.
