by Sarah Monzon
Adam nodded, flicked on the blinker light, then pulled into a parking lot. “Got it. Which means now I’m supposed to go into judgment mode?” He pulled the car into a parking spot and turned off the ignition.
“I’m twenty-eight and still live with my parents.” She unclicked her seat belt and pushed open the door, slamming it a little too hard behind her. She wasn’t going to spill that she’d only moved back to help her folks out. Her dad already suffered from his pride. She wouldn’t dare drop him another peg by airing what he saw as his deficiency to provide. “Might as well have Loser stamped on my forehead, right?” It was what everyone thought when they found out her living arrangements. She didn’t care what other people thought, especially since their perceptions were skewed.
Olivia turned, but her movement was cut off by a broad chest in her path. Her eyes tracked from the button at the front of his shirt, over the aviators he’d tucked into the dip at the top, across the small cleft in his chin, which sported more hairs this morning than it had the night before, past lips quirked in a small smile, a straight nose, and into the eyes that had enthralled her with their depth and warmth despite the coolness of their color. They held her captive again, as well as his warm hands on her cheeks. He tilted her face down, then up. Side to side. Then he released her and took a step back, his grin spreading.
“Sorry, couldn’t find any evidence of a loser.” He winked. “And trust me—I’ve seen my fair share.”
Her cheeks heated, and if her skin had been as pale as her mother’s instead of the constant tan given to her from her father, they would have sported a bright-red color. She blinked as she let her gaze roam over the parked cars in the lot so she could get the rush of blood out of her face. He’d surprised her, but it was her fault for momentarily forgetting his penchant for contact and flirtation.
Turning her head back toward him, she took in his lazy stance, hands shoved into the front pockets of his slim-fit slacks, grin fully in place. A fun one, this guy.
Shoving him on the arm as she passed, she called over her shoulder. “Come on, Chef. We’ve got ingredients to find.”
Chapter 6
No way Olivia had never been to a farmer’s market before. Watching her inspect produce and interact with vendors was like observing an impassioned lawyer during the final arguments—she had the jury eating out of the palm of her hand.
Adam hung back, content to watch her and to ignore the irritating rub at the back of his mind that said he was witnessing true passion at work. She stepped into the role like Cinderella’s glass slipper—a perfect fit—while he’d been bumbling around as if he were Dopey from the seven dwarfs.
Thank you, Amber, for those very manly references. Being the oldest, he’d often babysat his youngest sibling. Apparently, the endless hours of Disney-princess movies were sticking around.
Olivia turned and flashed a triumphant smile as she held up two loaves of crusty bread like a trophy. The vendor bagged the baguette-like New Orleans french bread and exchanged them for the money in Olivia’s hand. She pushed the loops of the plastic handle up the crook of her elbow and took her change.
“Hungry?” He hadn’t had anything other than black coffee, and his stomach had long since protested that decision. Later in the day, there’d be a vendor selling the best Jamaican food he’d ever tasted, but jerked chicken with coconut rice and peas might not be the best choice for breakfast.
She hiked her bags higher up her arm, and he reached over and took them from her. With a smile of thanks, she asked, “Have you had Laura’s crepes?”
Point proven. She’d been here before. If he hadn’t hung back to watch her all morning, he probably would have caught her calling all the venders by name. “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Oh, we have to rectify that right away. Come on.” Weaving in and out of the crowd, she was a lady on a mission. A mother pushing a stroller stepped in front of him, and he stopped dead in his tracks so he wouldn’t plow them over. Moving around them, he kept Olivia’s shiny black hair in sight. His fingers itched to reach out and grip her hand so they wouldn’t lose each other in the press of bodies, but he’d already overstepped the bounds of social propriety in the number of times he’d touched her. If he didn’t want to get slapped with a sexual harassment lawsuit, especially now that she worked for him, he needed to do better to implement a hands-off policy.
He lengthened his stride to catch up to her, then slid to a halt when she stopped at a blue pop-up canopy. Arms outstretched, a woman with purple streaks in her flour-white hair, and older than his grandmother, came around a table covered in a red-and-white-checkered cloth.
“Olivia! I haven’t seen you in ages, child.” She engulfed Olivia in a hug, squeezing like the two were old friends, then stepped back, hands on her hips. “And just where have you been hiding? Your apartment and my shop have been too quiet since you left.”
Olivia ducked her head and turned slightly, her body language one Adam recognized from his years questioning clients. Usually the ones who were guilty of what they’d been charged. A motion of concealment. But what was she hiding? Definitely not anything sinister, or his radar would have picked it up. Whatever it was, she was embarrassed and worried that he’d find out.
The woman, who he assumed was Laura, squeezed Olivia’s arm and said something in a low, soothing voice. Olivia nodded and shrugged, then turned toward him.
“Laura, I’d like you to meet my new boss, Adam Carrington.”
Laura’s brows hiked as she stuck her palm out. “New boss?”
Adam cupped the older woman’s hand in both of his and offered her his most charming smile. The one that had always afforded him extra cookies from the ladies at church when he was a kid. “More like new friend.” He glanced at Olivia and winked.
“I see.” Laura looked between the two, her smile widening. “Oh yes, I do see.” She shuffled back around the table and stationed herself behind an electric griddle designed especially for crepe making. “So what can I get for you two?”
“I’ll have a peanut butter, Nutella, and banana crepe please.”
Laura turned to Adam. “And you?”
He perused the painted menu hanging behind her before making a decision. “I’ll try the spinach and Brie.”
While Laura buried herself pouring the batter and using the spreader to make a perfectly thin crepe, Olivia leaned into his side and whispered, “You do realize she now thinks we’re together.”
He leaned down and matched her volume. “We are together.”
She looked up and grinned, jabbing him with her elbow. “I mean together together, and you know it.”
He let his lips settle and gave her what he hoped was a serious look. “Should we play along? It might prove terribly upsetting for her to learn we aren’t madly in love, and I do so hate to upset little old ladies.” Harassment lawsuit, Adam. Reining in his personality had always been difficult, but the challenges Olivia kept issuing, first with his truck and now with a match of wits, were proving impossible to back down from. She knew he was only teasing and didn’t mean anything by it, didn’t she? If she didn’t… If she thought…
Her dark eyes gleamed, as if baiting him. “And just how would you go about doing that?”
At the suggestive tilt to her head, heat climbed up his neck. He’d only been messing around. She was too, right? A game to play in which no one got hurt…as long as both players knew the rules beforehand. If he continued, he could find himself in some boiling-hot water, especially if the game took a jackknife turn across his no-man’s-land line in the sand. The one that went from friendly banter to…Well, he never wanted to be one of those guys.
He stared down at her, trying to read the motive in her gaze—wondering if he should keep playing the game or fold—but then her stoic expression cracked, and she busted out laughing.
“Oh man, you should’ve seen your face.” Her shoulders shook as she grinned up at him. “Sorry. You’re just so easy to mess with.”
He let that statement go, all too thankful that Laura interrupted by handing them their orders.
Olivia picked up a folded triangle and took a bite, chocolate hazelnut spread leaking out the edges. Using her fingers, she wiped at the corner of her mouth. “What would you have done? If I’d been able to keep a straight face a few minutes longer, I mean.”
The smell of creamy cheese and wilted greens tickled his senses as he lifted the paper plate closer to his face. “I don’t know. I hadn’t decided if the challenge was worth being sued over.” Or if whatever he’d say or do would be going too far. It took all his self-restraint to reel himself in from his expressive behavior and speech, often failing, especially with her. Winning a match of wits wouldn’t have been worth the loss of friendship. Not to mention self-respect.
Her nose scrunched. “Sued?”
He pinned her with a look, and she nodded. “Yeah, okay, I see what you mean. But for the record, I know you’re a good guy. Your motives aren’t those that would land you in jail.”
He took a bite of his crepe as the worry tightening his muscles began to uncurl. “And how do you know that? We met yesterday.”
She stopped, and it took him two steps before he realized it. Turning, he found himself under scrutiny.
“That may be true, and I hope this doesn’t come across as crazy, but I feel like we’ve known each other longer. Our whole lives even.”
No, he couldn’t call that crazy. He’d thought the same thing. Weird how quickly he’d felt comfortable in her presence. And maybe that was why he’d felt himself relaxing, his constant vigilance over his words and effusiveness slipping when he was around her.
Movement in his peripheral vision snagged his attention, and he let his gaze be pulled in that direction. Lean frame. Lanky like only years of hard drugs could do to a body. Buzz cut. A tattoo on the side of the guy’s neck.
Adam’s blood froze as his stomach clenched. No, it couldn’t. Not here. He reached for his cell phone with his free hand to call the police but stopped with his palm hovering over his pocket. The police couldn’t do anything. Not now. And whose fault was that? No one’s but his.
Olivia shifted in the middle of the walkway, tugging his focus back to her. His heart rate escalated as his vision spotted. She was too close. Any minute now she could be—
He had to do something. Shield her. Protect her. Things he should have done for another girl. And hadn’t. A quick glance back to his nightmare let him know Olivia wasn’t in the guy’s sight. Yet. There was still time.
His half-eaten crepe fell to the ground. In one long stride, he was in front of her, gripping her shoulders and propelling her backward. He didn’t stop until her spine pressed against the side of a building. Using his body, he shielded her, a palm to the rough brick on either side of her head. He brought his face down to the side of hers, blocking the view of anyone passing by.
Her warm breath fanned against his cheek, and his muscles constricted even more. He was aware of her. Of how close she was to him and how his manhandling must’ve been perceived. What must she think of him? He didn’t care. There were more important things than his reputation. A lesson he’d learned too late.
Turning his head, he watched the sallow man advance toward them. With each step, Adam’s body grew tighter, the space between him and Olivia shrinking so that he could feel her tense muscles and shallow breath. His vision spotted again, and he blinked to clear it, eyes zeroed in on the tattoo. A rose. Air whooshed out of his chest. A rose, not a diamond.
His head hung, his forehead almost brushing the exposed skin on Olivia’s tank top–clad shoulder. He gulped in air and waited for his heart to return to its normal rhythm.
“I see your brother isn’t the only one in the family to get the protective gene.” Olivia’s whispered breath smelled of peanut butter and chocolate as it danced across his cheek and played with the ends of his hair curling behind his ear.
Adam lifted his head, putting them nose to nose. Caught in the beam of her gaze, she searched his eyes. He swallowed and pushed off the wall, straightening. But he didn’t step back. Couldn’t, since Olivia gripped the sides of his shirt in her fists at his waist.
He swallowed, trying to push down the rising embarrassment. Tearing his gaze from hers, he followed the wake of the man who’d reminded him of someone he’d tried so hard to forget. Adrenaline leaked from his veins, and his thoughts returned to a cohesive order.
“My brother?”
Slowly her fingers uncurled from the cotton of his shirt. “The one that was in the navy.”
“Michael.” The crowd swallowed the tattooed guy, allowing Adam to concentrate on what Olivia was saying. “What about him?”
She leaned against the brick building like she hadn’t a care in the world. Like she hadn’t been roughly pushed there against her will by a man haunted. Tilting her head, she regarded him with too much insight. “I’m just saying he isn’t the only one good at playing knight.” Her lips tilted in a soft smile. “So from whom did you save me, noble Galahad?”
Noble? He didn’t deserve that distinction. Although he was glad he didn’t have to explain or defend his actions, that she understood the motivation behind his harsh and abrupt treatment, this was a topic he preferred never to discuss. “Nothing. It was…nothing.”
She watched him for moments that stretched to eternity, and though he tried to hold the black clouds of guilt and self-loathing at bay, he felt them rolling in like a thunderstorm. The faster they finished their shopping, the sooner they could get out of there. He’d come up with some excuse to put off the taste testing.
Forcing his lips to bow, he held out his elbow. “If a knight I be, then allow me to escort yon fair maiden around the marketplace to collect her vittles.” He sounded ridiculous, but he’d do or say anything to get her to stop scrutinizing him like that.
She hooked her arm through his, and they turned to stroll among the popped-up canopies once again. When they reached a vender selling fish, Olivia stopped and inspected the product. Adam took the opportunity to hang back. With a deep breath and a shake of his wrists, he tried to fling off the melancholy pressing against him, but guilt flayed his thoughts.
No matter what he did or how hard he tried, he couldn’t scrub his soul clean. Couldn’t forgive himself the unforgivable role he’d played. Couldn’t get the memory of Brittany Foresythe’s anguished face from his mind.
Dear God, she’d only been sixteen—three years younger than his own sister. Brittany hadn’t deserved any of the horrors done to her. She should be looking forward to prom-dress shopping, hanging out with friends at the Friday night football games, and giggling over the quarterback, not reliving a nightmare. One she’d had to recount in front of an audience. One where he’d defended the monster. He pressed his palms against his temples and squeezed, the memory of Brittany’s tear-filled, terror-filled eyes ripping his insides to shreds.
It was his fault. No one’s but his. If he’d done the right thing, the just thing, there’d be no reason to fear for women when skinny guys with tattoos on their necks came around. But instead of justice—what the legal system should uphold—he’d done his job, and he’d done it well. The price? A rapist set free.
Chapter 7
Olivia lifted a tilapia fillet to her nose to smell for freshness, discreetly glimpsing Adam from the side of her eye.
He stood under the canopy, but just barely. He hovered in the corner, his stony expression and crossed arms making him look more like a bodyguard than a food truck chef. An occupation she didn’t doubt he could excel in, given her limited experience with his expertise.
She wasn’t sure what the whole rough-and-tough protector moment had been about back on the thoroughfare, but she had learned a few things from it. One, Adam Carrington had a fierce defender streak that left a woman catching her breath. Two, he was hiding something that had wounded him enough to leave scars. And three, she was more intrigued by both than was good for her.
She sniffed the fish for freshness. Odor not too strong. The eyes were bright and gills a nice pink hue. A recent catch. Perfect for her fish and grits. She shifted to let another shopper closer to the bin filled with ice and seafood.
Adam’s jaw worked back and forth, bulging and releasing. Lips that were always ready to smile and tease flattened against a face more in tune with joviality than brooding.
This would not do at all. Whatever danger he’d perceived her to be in had somehow erased all light and laughter from his face. And if her guess was correct, had agitated whatever wound he hid, until it seeped with raw emotion.
She checked her own feelings, making sure pity wasn’t a part of the equation. Sympathy, concern, a desire to help—to make him smile again. Those were the driving factors that made her approach him on quiet feet.
Lifting the cold, slimy fish in her hands until it was eye level, she pressed her fingers on either side of the tilapia to make its mouth open and close. Deepening her voice, she said, “Excuse me. I’m Mr. Grumpy Gills, and you, sir, have stolen my frown. I can’t be Grumpy Gills without my frown, you see, so I simply cannot let you off the hook. But tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to give it back?”
He stared at her like she’d lost her mind, and she very well may have. Giving a dead fish a persona wasn’t in her daily repertoire. But for some reason she felt determined to shake him out of whatever funk had sunk its teeth into him. With her other hand, she made the fish flip its tail back and forth, and she pretended he swam around them. Using her best pouty face, she held the fish back up in front of his chest. “Don’t make me bait you further, sir.” She turned the tilapia’s face away and leaned in secretively and whispered, “Seriously, I’m running out of fishing puns here. Help me out.”
He stared at her, his gaze moving between her eyes. His face relaxed, and the corners of his mouth spasmed.