by Elsa Jade
As was typical, she didn’t stand up again until a knock at the door broke her concentration. When she did stand up… Okay, next first thing on the to-do list: Replace the cute but crappy chair.
She winced-hobbled to the door and opened it before thinking to ask who it was.
Or maybe with some atavistic sense never before charted by algorithm, she already knew who it was.
The tall, dark, and way-too-hot-for-peace-of-mind security guard stood on the landing with…a giant wicker picnic basket?
“What?” she mumbled. She actually meant it like ‘What’s up with the picnic basket?’ but it rudely sounded more like ‘What the hell are you doing at my door at’—she glanced past him at the pitch-black sky—’midnight?’ But really, either question was fair.
“You should ask for identification before opening to a stranger,” he said.
Since she already knew that, she started to close the door in his face.
He stuck his boot in the way.
She glowered at him. “You just said I shouldn’t open the door, but now you won’t let me close it?”
“I’m not a stranger.”
But he was, even if his words echoed some deep, cryptic feeeeelings that wanted her to think otherwise.
“What”—she asked again, more pointedly—”do you want?” It was the question she’d been attempting to quantify in the data.
“Evens closed up hours ago and told me to bring you this if you were still going at midnight.”
At least she’d been right about the time. “Are you watching me?”
“The light.” He jerked his chin toward the windows behind her.
With an acknowledging huff, she held out her hands. “Thanks. I do get caught up sometimes.”
“It’s heavy. May I just set it on the counter?”
She hesitated. He was the security guy employed by her boss, so it wasn’t like he was completely a stranger. But he was also tall, dark, and way too hot for peace of mind, and who needed that when the bedroom was only, like, ten steps, three layers of clothing, and one weak moment away?
A little quiver went through her at the unsolicited thought.
He tilted his head. “Do you need me to show you how to turn up the heat?”
Turn up her heat? Oh, he did that just with the hard flex of muscle visible in his exposed forearms. What exactly was in the basket? …And why the hell was he watching her so closely that he knew she was awake, saw her shiver?
But it was chilly in the room. She hadn’t noticed. Her stomach growled as if speaking up for all the creature comforts she’d ignored, like food and bathroom breaks and blood flow in her lower half—no, not that part of her lower half, sheesh.
Oh god, her brain was obviously missing blood flow too. And as Evens had noted, her brain was why people kept her around.
At least until they got what they wanted.
“Tyler?” With a frown, Cross stepped toward her.
Taking a loooong step back away from him, she shook her head. “Sorry. I’m just… I get lost in what I’m doing.” She winced. “Did I say that already? Yeah, thanks again. Just throw that stuff on the counter. For the heat… No, I mean, no worries. I can take care of that myself.” She needed to shut up before she actually blurted out the make and model and review average of her vibrators.
She toddled away from him—not that there was a lot of space between the kitchen area and the rest of the room, but putting the chintz couch between them was some sort of barrier. Although the wide cushions offered enough space even for a tall (dark and way-too-hot-for-peace-of-mind) man to lie down, and the raucous floral pattern would hide any evidence…
She realized she was staring at his butt as he bent over to set the big basket on the floor, and she yanked the plug on that imaginary moment with the same sense of crisis averted as disconnecting during the rare lightning storms over the bay.
By the time she got her wayward brain under control, he’d unpacked the basket—efficiently shuttling some items to the empty cabinets, some to the refrigerator and freezer. She caught a glimpse of the gallon of double chocolate chip ice cream before he turned back to her.
Oops. Hopefully her tongue wasn’t lolling.
“You should make something to eat,” he said, “and I’ll get the fire going.”
She gave herself a shake. “Fire?”
He lifted one eyebrow. “The stove? For heat? It’s cold in here.”
Right. Not only had she not noticed the temp outside her own riotously fluctuating responses to him, she hadn’t even realized there wasn’t central heat. Although reluctant to leave her safe space behind the couch, she hovered behind Cross to watch him crouch in front of the cast iron stove. The narrow, black box sat high on four curving feet in the middle of the inner wall, but her gaze had passed over it as just another piece of antique décor.
As if to atone for her distraction, now she couldn’t seem to focus anywhere but Cross. Lean, strong, deft with his fingers as he assembled a little pyramid of flammables. In minutes, he had a small, fierce fire blazing.
She unfasted the buttons on her good interview sweater that she’d forgotten she was wearing. Although maybe taking off a layer of protection was a bad idea…
“Put these logs on before you go to bed and you’ll still be toasty in the morning.” With a flex of thick thighs, he stood and turned to face her. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Unless he could explain why her libido had suddenly decided to go to war with her common sense… But that was her job, wasn’t it? To quantify the dreams and desires and decisions that went into the meeting—and mating—of matched kind.
Again she realized she’d been silent and distracted too long when he frowned at her.
“Ms. Lang? Tyler, are you all right?”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, even as she detested the need to explain herself, much less apologize. “I guess I do need something to eat. I skipped dinner on the road to get here before dark.” She edged around him to the freezer and that ice cream she’d glimpsed.
He frowned again and she swore if he made any comment about ice cream for dinner she’d—
“Don’t forget the chocolate syrup,” he admonished.
She blinked at him. “Chocolate syrup?”
Abruptly he stiffened and averted his gaze. “Is that wrong? I thought all you…people like chocolate syrup on ice cream.”
Inexplicably charmed by his uncertainty even if he was making assumptions, she smiled at him as she pulled out the ice cream. “By ‘you people’ do you mean all women or all programmers or…”
He slanted a quick sideways glance at her. “Yes?”
She laughed. “Maybe not all. Really, there’s nothing that applies to all, right? Like, this dating app? Some people will want chocolate. Some will want vanilla. Some will want both, or neapolitan with three flavors, or maybe sprinkles or crushed candy. Or maybe they don’t want the ice cream at all and really only want the cookie dough part, so we need to recognize that too.”
After a moment, he nodded. “I suppose that makes the development of a universal matchmating algorithm more of a challenge.”
“Honestly, it’s impossible,” she admitted. “Even before I knew the exact nature of the data set I’d be working with, I told Evens no system is ever perfect.” It had taken her too long to discover that herself.
Cross rocked back on his heels. “But he seems convinced that you would make something unique, something powerful.”
“That isn’t the same as perfect.” She wrinkled her nose. “He does seem to overpromise, doesn’t he? That could be a problem.” She went to the cabinet for a bowl and when she glanced back, he had the syrup out. “Um, would you like a bowl too?”
He drew himself up again, as if he’d made a mistake. “A bowl of ice cream?”
Now who was vaguely not making sense? “Yes, ice cream,” she said patiently. “With syrup, if you want.”
“I…don’t know.”
“I just don’t know if I’d like ice cream.”
“Are you lactose intolerant? Taking allergies and sensitivities into account around food, drink, drugs and other chemicals, plus cultural and ethical choices and simple preferences is a whole subroutine of matching compatibility.” She gave him a softer smile, hoping to ease some of his tension over what was a relatively common issue. He probably worried it made him look weak that his gut couldn’t handle a sugar molecule.
“No.” His jaw flexed as if he was trying to hold back an answer—he had warned her he wasn’t the one to answer questions—but the confession popped out of him: “I’ve never had it.”
“Never…” She blinked. “Okay, circling back to the original query. Do you want to have some?” When his amber gaze hooded, she added, “I mean, you did carry all this all the way up here, so I’m willing to share. If you want.”
There was a wary cant to his body as he approached the counter again, as if—despite all those flexing muscles and intense focus—he wasn’t sure about her. Like a stray cat caught between longing and fear.
It was how she’d been caught once, though her hunger hadn’t been for food.
Suddenly determined not to force him to choose, she didn’t ask any more questions, just scooped up two bowls worth of premium chocolate and doused each liberally with glistening dark syrup. She nudged one, along with a spoon, down the counter so he didn’t have to come any closer.
“Happy to be on the team,” she said. “Here’s to matchmating, whatever that is.”
Chapter 4
Cross took a big bite of the ice cream to stop himself from probing her about the work. She’d only just started, and if there was going to be a match for him, it would have to be perfect to stop his descent. Until then—
“Oh.” He blinked in surprise. “I thought it would be just flavored ice, and my kind doesn’t like ice. But this pleases me.”
Then he frowned. “Wait. This hurts.” He touched his temple, squinting.
“Ice cream headache,” she explained. “Caused by brain freeze.”
“Maybe my kind aren’t meant for ice cream either.”
“It’s temporary, from scarfing it down too fast. Push your tongue to the roof of your mouth to warm up your brain.” She opened her mouth to show her tongue curling upward.
Oh. Now his brain seemed frozen while the rest of him was starting to simmer…
“Then take smaller bites,” she went on, “and savor a bit.”
Small bites. Savor. Yes…
Shaken, he had to fight back his beast clutching only a spoon.
Before she noticed his tension, he followed her example by taking a more measured spoonful. Too small for a being of his size. But as she’d promised, the ache in his head eased and the delight on his tongue flowed sweetly through his veins.
As for what else he wanted to taste…
He cleared his throat to dislodged the beast’s hungry growl. “I would’ve thought that chocolate three times would be redundant.”
“I know, right? It’s funny how flavors and textures might seem similar and yet together they are more than what they were apart.” She grinned. “Sort of like the relationship ideal that Evens is trying to sell.”
“Maybe he should stick to ice cream instead,” Cross mumbled around another mouthful.
She laughed. “I feel the same way about relationships these days.” She gathered another mini scoop, but this time she inverted the spoon into her mouth, pressing her tongue into the concave curve of the spoon. He watched—too closely—and then did the same. The technique delivered the experience in a different way and he hummed in approval.
She laughed again, and he found himself wanting to invoke that husky chime repeatedly.
“I guess your kind officially likes ice cream,” she said. “Always good to have more data points. Next, you’ll have to try gelato, sorbet, and sherbet.”
“Are those all icy too?”
She nodded. “Is there some reason you thought you wouldn’t like icy things?”
“It’s a sensitivity,” he said at last. Controlling a wyvryn demanded exacting discipline and focus. Even a seemingly minor deviation or distraction might break the balance.
His crew hadn’t just broken the balance; they’d shattered it. And rogues had no place in a battalion and were always dealt with accordingly.
“And when you say ‘my kind’ do you mean security guards or tall men or…”
Maybe the ice cream had frozen his caution, because he answered even though he shouldn’t. “Those from my homeland with my congenital anomaly.”
“I couldn’t quite place your accent. Where are you from?” When he didn’t answer immediately—taking a dangerously big bite of ice cream while he considered the right lie—she shook her head. “Sorry, that was rude of me. I know better than to pry even when I’m curious.”
“I’m not from around here,” he acknowledged, deciding the partial truth was easier. “I left my home under hard circumstances, and it still aches to remember.”
She reached across the counter to touch his wrist. “That’s rough. You don’t have to say anything else.”
Though the brush of her fingertips sent a tremor through him, he was focused on her voice. Something in her tone told him she understood more than what she was saying too, and suddenly he wanted to ask her why she’d come so far to Sunset Falls when she hadn’t known more about why than the vague lure Evens had dangled. But he had no right to ask when he had no intention of sharing—couldn’t share—himself.
Carefully, he extricated his hand from under hers and took another huge bite of ice cream instead. If he suffered brain freeze again, maybe that would distract him from her touch.
She focused on her own bowl. “If you don’t like cold you should probably wait until summer to try other frozen treats. From what I’ve heard, Montana winters can be brutal.” She gestured with her spoon. “Or we could just crank up the stove higher until we’re sweating.”
“Did I make it too hot in here?” He straightened. “I’ll open a window.” Maybe a draught of fresh air would clear his mind, stop him from drowning in the rich scents of her and the chocolate.
“No way. Took me forever to pull them down.”
Meanwhile she was pulling down his defenses without even trying. Her green-gray eyes caught a hint of reflected flames and turned to wyvryn gold. Despite the chill of his tongue, the beast stirred, one restless twist, testing his hold.
He tightened his grip on his spoon and the beast. If he lost his hold, he’d lose everything.
Despite the threat of an ice cream headache, he gulped down the rest in one bite. But then chased the last little bit of the melted pool with the edge of his spoon because it was too good to waste. “Thank you for sharing with me,” he said quietly. “If you need anything else, just ask.”
From the way her lashes dropped over her eyes, he knew she was thinking of the questions he already hadn’t answered. And a strange wistfulness gripped him even more fiercely than the beast. But it was the wrong place and time, her on a closed world and him on the verge of extinction.
She walked him to the door, but before he stepped out, she said, “Cross?”
He turned back. “Did you think of something else you needed to ask?”
“Sort of.” She lifted her storm-sky gaze to him. “Can I kiss you goodnight?”
He knew what a kiss was; he’d researched all relevant mating rituals along with other topics he’d deemed of importance while working for Evens. But much like ice cream, he’d not had an opportunity for personal experimentat
ion.
But he couldn’t very well tell her that or she’d really be curious about this further evidence of his lacking. “Yes.”
Slowly she boosted up to her toes and brushed her mouth over his. For a heartbeat, their lips clung, a little sticky and sweet with chocolate.
And even though he stayed as still as if pure ice had frozen his blood and bones, an impossible fire roared through him.
As she withdrew, her breath whispered across his tingling skin, fanning the flames.
“Thank you,” she murmured, “for bothering to notice I was still awake and caring if I needed anything. It’s been a while since… Well, it was nice. Nicer than I can tell you, even better than chocolate syrup on chocolate ice cream. I guess I needed the reminder that this project might not be hopeless.”
Unable to think of a reply that wouldn’t expose something he needed to hide—his inexperience, his beast, his lies—he took that step out the door.
Even though every muscle in his body, as well as some that must never again manifest, burned to get closer to her.
He must never unleash that fire or it would burn what was left of his hope to ash. “Goodnight,” he rasped.
And he went in search of ice.
***
The next morning, he warned himself away from the narrow stair up the side of the building. But after he completed the first round of his twice-daily review of the security measures he’d put in place—which took essentially no time because he’d been very thorough at the start and, more to the point, faced zero challenges to date—he found himself again in the doorway of the back room of the shop where he’d first glimpsed Tyler Lang.
It was only Evens himself seated behind the counter now, marking something in the locked ledger he kept somewhere that Cross hadn’t yet located.
Not that he was surveilling his employer. Except where he thought it might matter.
Evens didn’t look up when Cross paused but held one finger aloft while he scribbled out whatever engrossed him. Finally he closed the ledger with a thud and smiled at Cross. “Good morning, Cross. How is Sunset Falls today?”