No Gentle Giant: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  She’s always been the coffee chick before yesterday.

  Sweet, nice, pretty to look at, but just kind of background noise during the times I made my grab-and-go runs.

  Now, she’s pried my eyes wide open.

  Now, abraca-frigging-dabra.

  She’s Miss Felicity and I think I’ll never see her as anybody else.

  Call it rash, but suddenly I give a good goddamn what she thinks of me.

  Suddenly, I give a lot of damns about her.

  And I don’t want her thinking I’m the kind of dude who dodges his debts.

  I know what it’s like to run a business. Sometimes it’s fifty bucks in cashflow that makes the difference between staying open one day and having to shutter up the next.

  I took the cash out of the ATM this morning. And I promised her I’d bring it by quick, but work turned into a frenzy with working a late-night shift on that wiring, taking a nap, and coming right back in this morning without even time to stop for coffee when we’re working on an inspector’s schedule.

  By the time we wrapped up today, I needed food and a drink before I could even think about being human around anyone but my son.

  Thank the gods of sandwiches I’m human now.

  So if I want to catch her before she heads home, I’d better get moving.

  I toss down the last of my beer and pitch the bottle in the little outdoor bin, then lever myself up with one last longing look for the twilight sky.

  Shit, I hadn’t noticed how much time passed, me sitting out here making Felicity queen of my head.

  I realize Eli’s gone quiet.

  When I look through the glass of the back door, he’s curled up in the corner of the couch, half drowsing with his lidded eyes on the TV.

  I step inside and close the door quietly so I don’t startle him, then cross over to the sofa and rest my hand on top of his head, gently ruffling his hair.

  “Hey, little man.” I smile, watching as he jerks with a sleepy snort before blinking up at me muzzily. “I’m gonna drop by and give Miss Felicity her money. You want to come, or you ready for bed? I can send the Fords around to check on you.”

  He perks, instantly awake, eyes shining.

  “Can I bring my camera?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You want to take pictures of an empty café this late?”

  “Well...yeah.” He lowers his eyes sheepishly.

  That makes me smile fuller than the moon and belt out a laugh.

  He’s a bright boy, and he gets all shy whenever you bring up his photography. It’s how you can tell he loves it—that and the way he lights up anytime he gets a chance to even talk about it.

  “I bet it’d make for some cool black-and-white shots with the way the lighting’s set up. All those little gleams of light, you know? Or if I adjust the aperture ring just right, I can do it in color, but make it so only the golden reflections pop and then—”

  There must be something in the way I’m looking at him. Because he stops mid-speech, looking at me and turning bright red.

  I can’t help it.

  I’m damned proud of my boy.

  After everything he’s been through with losing his mom, with me hauling ass to find steady work, it makes my chest blow to see him so lively and passionate. He’s growing up with a spark in him, and I feel like I’m not letting him down by keeping it alive.

  “You were saying?” I urge, folding my arms.

  Clearing his throat, he says a bit more gruffly, “I mean, it’s just easier when it’s later like this, Dad. ‘Cause I have to ask everyone for permission if they’re in the shot, and if Miss Felicity’s the only one there, then I only have to ask her...”

  “As long as you make sure you do ask. Glad you remembered.” I ruffle his hair again, then snag the collar of his shirt and tug. “C’mon. Bring your tablet, and I’ll finish that online order for you, too.”

  Eli practically bounces after me out to the car. Before we start up my Jeep, I tap through the shopping interface to check out for him.

  Sure enough, he’s gotten some kind of smelly fish treats, meaning I’ll have to resign myself to the cabin stinking like a cannery till he and Mozart have made up.

  It leaves him beaming, at least, as we make the drive from the outskirts. Charming Inn dominates the fields and bluffs at the edge of town, and we’re heading into Heart’s Edge proper.

  Dusty little place. Looks like every truck-stop diner town in the Pacific Northwest, but it’s slowly growing while keeping its rustic charm.

  I’m part of the reason it’s blowing up. My boss, Holt Silverton, grew up here. When his construction biz failed in New York, he came home to lick his wounds and brought his crew with him, starting up fresh.

  The work hasn’t been half bad.

  The views, even better.

  In New York City, I missed being able to see the sky, unfettered and strewn with stars.

  Maybe there’s no aurora borealis here in Heart’s Edge, but I get to see the night unfiltered by city lights, the Milky Way sprawled out in a path that feels like it’s leading me to something big.

  Something special.

  A treasure map of sorts.

  Damn, why do I have this weird feeling in my chest, all curious and wondering?

  I’ve been out of the dating pool for so long I don’t even know if this is what it feels like to have a crush on a pretty lady.

  Technically speaking, taking that money in could’ve waited till morning.

  There’s just something hot and prickly under my skin about wanting to see Miss Felicity again. No denying it.

  Look, I’m a cautious man, but sometimes a man lets impulses lead.

  By the time I park my Jeep in front of The Nest, I wonder.

  This feels less like impulse, and more like raw intuition telling me I’m here for a reason.

  And I think Miss Felicity could use a little help.

  There’s a battered old station wagon in the parking lot—her beater I’ve seen around town.

  Next to it, there’s this tall, slick, shiny SUV that looks like it just rolled off the assembly line yesterday after being tricked out to the nines.

  My gut churns.

  I get the briefest glimpse of a woman, petite and blond in the back seat, before tinted windows roll up. It’s the big guys tumbling themselves into the front and back that worry me.

  I know the militant, focused way they move.

  I know that type.

  Roughnecks.

  The kind of dudes where you take one glance and know they’re up to no good.

  What the hell do they want with The Nest? With Felicity?

  Especially when they’re carrying what looks like zippered bank bags.

  Especially especially with the way they go tearing out of the lot, fishtailing it so fast they manage to tear up dust on dry concrete and leave skids of stinking, hot-smelling rubber in arcs on the pavement.

  Shit.

  I don’t think they even noticed me, stalled in the street just before the café and with my brights turned off so my vehicle blends into the darkness.

  Still, I don’t move till they’re gone, weighing my options.

  I’m worried about Felicity.

  I’ve got a son to care for, too.

  Eli’s a smart boy—the second he saw those guys, he ducked down in the seat, shrinking himself small and holding still, staring up at the dash with wide eyes.

  Eyes narrowed, I watch their taillights retreat in glaring red dots, then glance at Eli.

  “It’s okay, polecat.”

  He scrunches his nose at me.

  He’s gone pale as a little moon in the shadows, his eyes still too wide. “Dad! I’m too old for you to call me that.”

  “Never too old.” Especially not when I can tell he’s freaked out. I reach over and grip his knee, squeezing. “It’s okay. They’re gone. We’re just gonna check in on Miss Felicity and make sure she’s all right.”

  He swallows, his mouth turning down a
nd crimping at the corners, his brow wrinkling.

  “Do you think they hurt her?” he asks in a small voice.

  “They’d better hope not,” I answer grimly. The razor-edge in my voice surprises me, but suddenly there’s a wary tingling on the back of my neck, an urgency building in my blood.

  Felicity’s fine, I tell myself.

  Even so, I won’t be satisfied until I see for myself.

  I kick the engine into gear again, turning in slowly so the noise won’t startle Felicity, making sure to flash my lights as a bit of a warning that I’m coming.

  Just in case, though, as I park I murmur, “Stay in the car. Don’t unfasten your seat belt. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to come in. If you see them coming back, get under the back seat and text me. Don’t come out no matter what you hear, if that happens.”

  “Okay, Dad,” Eli whispers.

  His face is still pale, but he’s steady and listening attentively.

  He’s a good kid.

  If anything goes wrong, I know he’ll do what’s right.

  Clapping his shoulder one more time, I step out of the SUV, slam the door shut, and lock it before approaching The Nest slowly.

  One glance makes my stomach twist like a stripped screw.

  I can already see the mess inside, a tangle of chaos in the smoky golden light spilling through the tall windows out front.

  Looks like the place was tossed, a whirlwind of papers and disposable cups and coffee grounds flung everywhere. The confections in the display case are ruined, right down to the grubby fingerprints gouged through a cake, leaving furrows through the icing.

  My eyes search frantically and I double my steps, reaching for the door.

  That’s when I see something worse.

  Right there in the middle of the bedlam.

  Kneeling on the floor.

  Felicity Randall.

  She’s got her face buried in her hands, her hair tumbled over her face in mahogany ribbons, her slim shoulders heaving as she sobs and sobs and sobs.

  Fuck.

  3

  Black Gold (Felicity)

  A Few Hours Ago

  Seriously.

  I’d like to know just once who and what I pissed off in a past life.

  A witch? A djinn? A particularly cantankerous old herbalist, maybe?

  I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure somebody cursed my soul for the next thousand years, and even now they’re punishing me for a past crime from beyond the grave.

  That’s the only reason I could possibly be walking out of Mitch’s garage with a little black book in my hand filled with Dad’s handwriting.

  Before everything went digital, most men kept little black books of women’s phone numbers. One-night stands, regular hookups, whatever.

  I wish that was as far as Dad’s dirty little secrets went.

  What’s actually there in the crabbed handwriting that goes on for pages and pages?

  Trouble, guaranteed, and not the sexy scorned lover kind.

  I only flicked through it for less than a minute and I already know it. Even if I’m not quite sure just what sort of trouble’s lurking there yet.

  It sits on the seat of my old station wagon like a menacing hitchhiker, watching me expectantly as I make the drive back to The Nest, trying not to shudder.

  I left my part-timers to close up the shop, but I still need to roast a fresh batch of beans and do some accounting catchup. I always prefer the after-hours quiet when no one’s around. Then I can relax with the beans, the numbers, and a little music.

  But I won’t be able to settle in until I look at this thing head-on and see what it is.

  With a deep breath, I park and settle the book in my lap, steeling myself.

  I catch the corner of the book and flip it open, forcing my eyes down to the pages.

  I’m really not expecting to see...flight logs?

  That’s what it looks like.

  I wasn’t all that deep into Dad’s business. I just knew he flew a charter plane, and sometimes he told me to hide in the back of the house when he flew for certain people who pulled up outside our house with trunks full of wrapped cargo.

  No buzzing until they’re gone, Little Bee, he’d say.

  But I was already too old to be oblivious, to think it was just a fun little game.

  I remember seeing things in passing here and there, enough to make these harsh black lines familiar. It’s definitely Dad’s handwriting, a bunch of notations that look like dates and travel data.

  Flight paths, passengers, cargos in code words I can’t decipher, departure and arrival times.

  It’s so bizarre that he hid this under the seat of the truck.

  Especially since his plane disappeared the same day he was found dead in the same truck of an apparent drug overdose.

  I really don’t know if things were worse before or after he died.

  The heroin, the shady deals for cash, the creepy people around the house...all of that was pretty bad. But after he died, suddenly there were even scarier people sniffing around, and all the rumors about him, about Mom, about me started spreading like wildfire.

  Not that I haven’t made it worse with a few desperate mistakes of my own.

  Everett Peters, my one-time investor, seemed so charming on the surface.

  And the fact that he was oh-so-willing to invest in The Nest and Heart’s Edge for basically a song and a smile? Ugh.

  I should’ve realized something was up.

  Long before my cousin and I were tied up in the burning basement of a theater while her then-husband-to-be came rushing to the rescue with all the big boys of Heart’s Edge for backup. I’ve been sworn to secrecy about that scary business ever since.

  What else is new?

  I’ve been keeping people’s secrets my entire life.

  Right now, though, I’m entirely done with my father’s.

  I close the book with a sharp snap and chuck it into the glove compartment.

  I don’t even want to look at it again, even if it might give me answers about the way he died.

  Do I really need to know? Do I need to pour salt in wounds that took ages to scab over?

  I can still hear him in my head, his jagged voice, dripping with desperation like the sweat on his brow.

  I swear, Little Bee, I’m clean.

  You’ll see, just give me some time and I’ll take care of you and your mom and—

  God.

  “It’s not worth knowing shit,” I whisper to myself.

  It’s not worth carrying more damning secrets, more curses.

  I have beans to roast. Books to balance. Thirsts to quench to tomorrow.

  And then I think I’d love to actually curl up with my dog and get some sleep.

  So I let myself into my sanctuary, breathing in a scent that’s always felt like my true home. My place is full of too many old memories of my family, but The Nest...

  It’s mine.

  Maybe it used to be my parents’, but I’ve renovated it and made it my own with little touches of curling arboreal ironwork. Unvarnished wood tones for a welcoming homey feel, the long bar where people can gather for a sense of community.

  Plus the hanging exposed bulbs creating dim, intimate enclosures of light in carefully spaced seats that let people feel like they’re in their own worlds—while still always being well-positioned to hear the live music. I’ve started attracting more artists, after a few others heard about Peace’s frequent evening serenades.

  Stepping inside the well-placed pools of light and shadow in the café brings me instant peace. It’s like my lungs were collapsed, but now they reinflate, reborn in the mingled scents of strong roasts soothed by bold citrus and creamy sweetness.

  I made that fragrance.

  It’s me.

  There’s a certain pride to it, no question.

  Especially after too many people have accused me of sleeping with anyone who’ll throw a few bucks my way to stay afloat. I know what it actually took
to keep this place going, to make it beautiful, to make it my world to share.

  None of that matters.

  This does, this place, this coffee-infused oasis tucked away from ugly tongues and thorny lies.

  I can’t stop smiling as I start a fresh batch of beans roasting.

  It’s a slow process if I want to do it right without burning the beans, so that gives me plenty of time to settle in with my laptop.

  I park it at the bar rather than my office, just to let the atmosphere work its wonders on my mood.

  It’s already working, really.

  I’m playing a little Ed Sheeran, tapping my fingers on the edge of the laptop and whispering under my breath, bobbing my head in rhythm. I’m actually having fun reviewing revenue reports and keeping one ear alert for the timer on the roasting machine.

  When something breaks my concentration, though, it’s not the timer.

  It’s the bells jingling over the front door.

  Crap.

  I must’ve forgotten to lock back up when I let myself in.

  Most people know the café closes at nine, but sometimes in the warm months we get tourists driving through, hoping for an all-night diner. Considering it’s past ten o’clock, I’m guessing that’s what I have on my plate.

  “Sorry,” I call over my shoulder as I spin my seat, tapping my laptop to mute the music. “We’re closed and—”

  The words shrivel in my throat as I see who’s waiting for me.

  Three hulking men who look like they’re already so hopped up on their own testosterone they don’t need a single drop of coffee to send them to Jupiter.

  They’re flanking a very petite woman who, nonetheless, carries ten times more menace in her small frame than a single one of those human lions.

  Paisley Lockwood.

  She’s a little blond pixie from Satan’s grad school, every tiny ounce of her packed with delicate muscle. Her heart-shaped face is framed by a boyish, tousled cut that makes her eyes look like flecks of green ice set against a flower bed.

  Her smile, a cruel gash.

  Her lips so pretty pink.

  But it’s those bared teeth that gives away who she is, always ready to sink into the nearest jugular. They look sharp—vicious and predatory—like something belonging to a rodent who’s got the world’s best dentist on payroll.