Honey and the Hitman

by Hannah Murray

  She blinked. His face and hair were both covered in sugar, the superfine crystals clinging to the stubble on his jaw and on the rest of his face in patches. He must have been sweating a bit, and the sugar had stuck to the damp spots. It sifted down, a little here, a little there, drifting like fine fake snow to land on his shoulders and at his feet.

  Her heart pounded harder, sweat popping out on her skin as she crouched there. He was no longer holding her, but that didn’t mean she was out of the woods. If she moved to run again, she had a feeling he’d be on her just as quickly as the first time. He was bigger, stronger, faster, and she’d have no chance of keeping him from doing whatever he wanted to do.

  Which was why it made no sense that she had to fight the sudden urge to laugh.

  The look in his blue eyes—intense, a little hard, no humor—had her biting her lip to hold back the wild giggle climbing her throat. She saw those eyes narrow a little as he tracked the movement, then warm ever so slightly as they took in the rest of her.

  Her own eyes narrowed as she realized what she must look like: braless, barefoot, in a thin tank top and cutoff shorts that were both likely askew from their brief struggle. My brief struggle, she mentally amended. She was well aware that she was only free because he’d let her go, and while she was panting like a Labrador from the exertion, he was cool as a cucumber.

  Well, except for his eyes, which were growing warmer by the second as they roamed over her.

  Indignant, she pushed to her feet, and with a quick glance down reassured herself that all her clothes were more or less still in place. Maybe they were slightly wrinkled now and not exactly in the same spots they’d been in, but the vital bits were still covered.

  He didn’t move, didn’t blink, but she got the impression he’d come to attention as she gained her feet.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice so low it was practically a growl, and she frowned.

  “That’s my line,” she retorted, and more irritated than scared now, slapped her hands on her hips.

  “You don’t live here,” he continued, those blue eyes still locked on her. There might as well have been laser beams coming out of those eyes; she’d swear she could feel them on her. “Aunt Winnie would have mentioned it.”

  “Listen, it’s none of your business…wait.” She blinked. “Aunt Winnie?”

  Instead of answering her, he folded his arms across his chest, and she immediately noticed two things. The action pulled his t-shirt tight across his shoulders and made his biceps stand out in a display of smooth, firm muscle that might have made her mouth water under different circumstances. And a lot more sugar drifted down from his head to the floor.

  Once again, she had to swallow the urge to laugh. Focus, Honey. He said, “Aunt Winnie.” That must mean… “Oh,” she sighed and sagged with relief. “You must be Ethan.”

  He didn’t so much as twitch. “Why?”

  She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “Why must I be Ethan?”

  She shrugged, and since he was looking a little less like he wanted to kill her, tried a smile. “You’re the only nephew she’s ever talked about. I just assumed. She didn’t mention you were coming for a visit.”

  He relaxed a bit at that, unclenching his jaw and shifting to tuck his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t tell her,” he said, his expression still narrowed, his tone still careful. “She likes surprises.”

  “Yeah, she does.” Honey smiled, pleased, then frowned in puzzlement when he quirked an eyebrow at her. “What?”

  “You didn’t tell me who you are.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry, where are my manners? I’m Honey. How do you do?” She held out her hand.

  He stared at it, amusement twitching the corners of his mouth for just a moment before it once again settled into a firm, unsmiling line. “Just fine,” he rumbled and shook her hand.

  She blinked, bemused, as his hand all but swallowed her smaller one whole. She wasn’t exactly tiny, but good gravy, he was big. He held her hand for the briefest of moments, his palm cool and dry, his fingers strong, before dropping it. She resisted the urge to rub it along her thigh to erase the odd itch in her palm.

  “So, how long are you going to be visiting Winnie?”

  His lips got that odd pinched look again as he tucked his hand back into his pocket, like he was trying not to smile. “I haven’t decided yet. You didn’t answer my question.”

  She frowned. Yes, she had. “Yes, I did.”

  He shook his head. “What are you doing here?”

  “You didn’t ask me that.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “No, you didn’t.” She frowned harder. “You asked me who I am. I told you. I’m Honey.”

  He took a deep breath, that funny, pinched look on his face again. “Okay, Honey. What are you doing here?”

  She tore her eyes from his chest. What that deep breath did for his chest was almost hypnotic. “Borrowing some sugar.”

  This time both eyebrows went up, and more sugar sifted down. “Really.”

  She cleared her throat and attempted to look sober and contrite. “I’m making cookies, and I ran out of sugar for the frosting.”

  “So, what? You broke in to borrow some?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she sniffed, offended. “I didn’t break in.”

  “You have a key?”

  “Well, yes. But I didn’t need it. Winnie never locks her back door.”

  He frowned now. “Or her front door, either.”

  She shrugged. “Most people around here don’t.”

  He sighed. “What—” He broke off, frowning, and seemed to be listening intently to something. “Your pants are ringing,” he told her.

  She blinked, momentarily confused, then jolted as the soft ping of her cell phone timer reached her ears. “Oh!” She dug into the back pocket of her cutoffs and yanked out her phone. “My cookies.”

  He shook his head like he was trying to clear his ears, and most of the rest of the sugar in his hair floated to the floor. “What?”

  “My cookies.” She turned the phone around to show him the expired timer. “I have to go, or they’ll burn.”

  She glanced around, and spotting the empty bowl on the floor several feet behind him, darted around him to get it. He didn’t move, just turned his head to keep her in sight, and she blushed furiously when she realized where his eyes must have landed when she bent over to scoop up the bowl.

  “Um.” She looked around helplessly at the fine dusting of sugar on the floor. “I really should clean this up before I go.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he rumbled.

  “Are you sure? I feel bad. It shouldn’t be too hard, Winnie has a really good vacuum, it shouldn’t take you too long to get it all up.” She winced inwardly. God, she was rambling, and the only way to stop was to get the heck out of Dodge. She began backing toward the kitchen door, talking all the while.

  “Tell Winnie I’ll pick up some sugar for her on the way home from work tomorrow. I’m going to get some more on my way out. I still have to make the frosting, so I still need some. Sugar. I still need some sugar.” She jolted as her butt hit the swinging door. “Um. Nice to meet you. See you later.”

  She pushed through the door and dropped the bowl on the counter. Heat stinging her cheeks, she picked up the entire sugar canister and bolted out the back at a dead run.

  She dashed across Winnie’s lawn, then her own, taking her back steps in a single leap. She flew past a startled Milo—he actually raised his head—to set the canister down on her counter, then dove for the oven mitt resting next to the stove. She pulled the cookie tray out of the oven, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw they were fine. She slid them one by one onto the waiting wire rack, set the cookie sheet down on the stovetop with a clatter, and buried her face in her hands.

  “Oh, my God.” She slid to the floor with a thump. “I just made a complete ass of myself in front of the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. I’m such
a dork, Milo.”

  Milo merely closed his eyes as if to say, What else is new, and rolled over to face the wall.

  Chapter Two

  Ethan heard the door slam and started to laugh. His arms crossed over his abdomen, and his shoulders shook as he laughed so hard he thought he might crack a rib. He laughed as he shook the sugar out of his hair, laughed as he went to the front closet to find the vacuum, laughed as he spent at least ten minutes going over the golden hardwoods to make sure he got every speck of sugar off the floor.

  He was still laughing when the front door opened, and Aunt Winnie walked in.

  Her eyes widened in surprise, then she tossed her bag to the floor, squealed his name, and rushed to envelop him in a crushing hug.

  “Oof,” he managed and laughed again. “Hi, there.”

  “Oh, it’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed, then pulled back to scowl at him. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  He grinned. “I know you like surprises.”

  She managed to hold on to the scowl for a few seconds, then let the smile come. “I do. Oh, dear boy.” She wrapped her arms around him again. He bent down and folded himself around her five-foot-nothing frame to return the hug. He closed his eyes and breathed her in; she smelled as she always had, of lemons and Shalimar.

  He pulled back to look at her. Tidy and svelte, she wore jeans and a pale pink t-shirt that read, “Feminism is the radical notion that women are people.” Her hair was a short cap of gleaming silver that curled fetchingly around a face surprisingly free of lines. Her blue eyes danced with delight, her skin was flushed with health, and she looked the same to him as she had as a boy. He snagged her hands and squeezed. “You haven’t aged a day.”

  She shook her head at him disapprovingly, but her eyes twinkled with humor. “You always were a charmer, and handsome as two devils.”

  He grinned. “It’s good to see you, Aunt Winnie.”

  “It better be,” she countered with a wink. “And I hope you’re planning on staying more than a couple of days this time. When you blew through town a few years ago, I barely had time to catch my breath before you were off again.”

  He squeezed her hands again. “My calendar is clear, and I’m staying till you kick me out.”

  Her eyebrows shot up at that. “Well, unless you’ve collected some unsavory habits on your world travels, it’ll take me a while to get sick of you.”

  “Good,” he said, and she laughed.

  “Charmer.” She looked him over with a critical eye. “You’ve lost weight.”

  His grin widened. “I was hoping you’d be able to help me with that.”

  Her lips twitched. “Have you eaten dinner?”

  “I had a candy bar around three o’clock.”

  She huffed at him, eyes narrowed in frank disapproval. “A candy bar? I made lasagna yesterday, you’ll have some of that.”

  “I love you,” he said fervently and made her laugh again.

  “Well, come on then, let’s fix you up.” Her eyes lit for the first time on the vacuum next to him, and she raised a questioning eyebrow. “Were you cleaning?”

  He chuckled as he crouched to wind the cord. “There was a bit of an incident with a bowl of sugar and a woman named Honey.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she peered down at him, his crouched position making it possible for her to see the top of his head. “Is there sugar in your hair?”

  He reached up and felt the grit against his scalp. “Yep.”

  Both eyebrows shot up. “Come on into the kitchen. You can rinse the sugar out of your hair while I heat up the pasta, and you can tell me how that happened.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, moving past her to the big, old-fashioned sink. He switched on the faucet, then bent over and stuck his head under the spray. He scrubbed his hands over his head, making sure the sugar was completely rinsed out, before shutting the water off again.

  Aunt Winnie handed him a dishtowel, then slid a plate with a generous slab of lasagna into the microwave. “Beer?” she asked, swinging back to the refrigerator.

  “Please.” He scrubbed the towel over his head, then slung it over his shoulder. He took the dark brown bottle and noted the lack of a label. “Where’d you get this?”

  “I decided to try my hand at making beer this year,” she told him, popping the top on a bottle of her own before handing him the opener. “Tell me what you think.”

  He took the opener, popped the top, and took a long pull of the cool, golden liquid. “Not bad,” he mused. “Pretty smooth. What is it, an amber ale?”

  She nodded. “I think I want to try a stout next time.”

  “Sign me up,” he told her and took another drink. “That hits the spot, Aunt Winnie.”

  The microwave dinged, and when Winnie opened the door, the scent of spicy red sauce filled the air. Ethan gave a deep sniff, his belly rumbling. “And so will that.”

  Winnie dug a fork out of a drawer. “Go into the dining room and sit down like a civilized person, and you can see if it tastes as good as it looks.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ethan headed into the dining room, Winnie trailing behind him with the plate. He pulled out a chair for her before choosing his own, draping the paper napkin she pulled out of the holder on the table over his lap. When she handed him the fork, he wasted no time digging in.

  After the first three bites, he glanced up to find his aunt watching him with an indulgent smile. He swallowed and sent her a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

  She waved a hand. “I like seeing you enjoy my cooking. If you stay long enough, I’ll make a pot roast.”

  The grin that curved his mouth was pure happiness. “With carrots and onions and those little potatoes?”

  “All the trimmings,” she promised.

  “Cool.” He dug back into the lasagna, pausing only to take the occasional drink of beer.

  “So. Honey came to borrow some sugar?”

  He nodded, taking a sip of beer. “That’s what she said. I take it that’s not unusual?”

  “We’re neighbors,” Winnie said as if that explained it. And he supposed it did. “How’d the sugar get all over the floor?”

  He scooped up more pasta. “She threw the bowl at me when I surprised her.”

  Her eyes widened. “She threw it at you?”

  Ethan nodded. “I came in through the front door when she was coming out. Threw the bowl at my head, screamed her head off, then turned and ran.”

  Winnie burst out laughing. “If she ran, how’d you know her name?”

  He shrugged. “I caught her.”

  “You what?”

  “I didn’t know who she was. For all I knew, she was robbing the place.”

  Winnie shook her head, amused. “Robbing the place. What do I have to steal?”

  He shrugged again, vaguely embarrassed. “Force of habit.”

  “Hmmm.” She sent him a look that had him fighting not to squirm in his seat. “How’d she take that?”

  He winced. “She tried to hit me in the head and kept screaming. I may have permanent hearing damage.”

  Winnie laughed again. “She hit you?”

  He winked. “She missed.”

  She watched him all but lick his plate clean. “Want any more?”

  “No, I’m good.” He sighed in satisfaction. “That hit the spot, Aunt Winnie.”

  She reached out and patted his hand. “Good. Now that you’re refreshed, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”

  He reached for his beer and sprawled back in the chair. Belly full, beer in hand, he almost felt human. “I can’t visit my favorite aunt?”

  “Boy, I’m your only aunt, and don’t try that on me.”

  He had to grin. Nothing got by Winnie.

  “Are you in trouble?” she demanded.

  “No.” He lowered his beer to look her in the eye. “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  She was silent for a moment,
then nodded. “You’d tell me if you were.”

  It wasn’t a question, but he answered her anyway. “Yes.”

  “Okay, then.” She nodded once, firmly, as though the matter was settled. “How long are you planning to stay?”

  He played his fingers over his beer bottle. “I’d like to stay for the summer, at least.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want,” she told him. “What about your work?”

  He was careful to keep his expression calm, his eyes on hers. “I’m considering a career change.”

  Her brows rose. “Tired of managing other people’s money?”

  “Something like that,” he allowed.

  “Hmmm.” Her lips pursed as she studied him. “I never did think you were suited to it. Glorified bean-counting is what it is. Blah blah blah, and boring.”

  He had to grin. “You ought to do ad copy, Aunt Winnie.”

  She ignored that. “You should learn a trade.”

  He choked on his beer. “Excuse me?”

  “You should learn a trade,” she repeated. “Something you can do with your hands. Plumbing, maybe. Plumbers make a good living.”

  “Ah...” He was somewhat stunned to find himself literally speechless.

  “Or carpentry. There’s a great deal of satisfaction to be gained in working with wood. You were good at that, as I recall.”

  He kept his mouth shut and drank his beer. He thought of the work he did with his hands; he was pretty sure manual strangulation didn’t count as ‘a trade’, at least in Aunt Winnie’s book.

  “I still have that lamp you made me in woodshop,” she continued.

  “That was twenty years ago, Aunt Winnie.”

  “So? You could pick it up again.”

  I’m a millionaire several times over, I speak three languages, and I can kill a man with a taco sauce packet. And she wants me to make lamps. “Ah...”

  Winnie waved a hand. “Well, there’s plenty of time to consider your options.”