“Where’s here?”
Yesterday I discovered I can smile without pain again. I’m happy to show him my trick.
“Back to you thinking of five ways to cross this island to get to me.”
“Six,” he says. “Thought of a new one. But might not work with all these cookies and my busted leg.”
“Save it for another day, I guess.” I change the subject, needing answers of my own. “Are you leaving?”
It’s a loaded question, I think. Roman shakes his head, but not because his answer is no. “I went back east, faced the music, so to speak. Got dressed down for involving civilians on an op. Took a lot of heat over that.”
“I’m sorry,” I move around the corner of the island, lessening the distance. “I hope you didn’t get fired because of me.”
“No,” he pauses like he can’t believe his answer, “they promoted me. I have my own team.”
“So they lectured you, and then gave you a raise?”
“A lot like sitting in a cold pool, then jumping in the hot tub. Shocking, but at least it wasn’t the other way around.”
“You’re leaving then?” It hurts to say it out loud when my heart hoped otherwise.
“No.”
“You turned it down?”
“No.” Roman takes a step closer. “They want me here. Pedro and the others escaped in the aftermath of the explosion. Dark Fox hasn’t left the area. With Rick gone, I’m the only one with experience dealing with the Dark Fox organization. They want me here.”
“Here?”
“Here,” he says. His hand catches mine, brushing over the skin, waiting for my reaction. When I take his hand, his breath stills.
“Before,” Roman says, “what were you saying about not changing us?”
I apply pressure to my grip, pulling him closer. “I was saying that when you look down the barrel of a gun or watch a clock tick off the seconds until you die, you start to reconsider your life decisions.”
Roman draws in a slow breath. “Like what?”
I can’t look at him. Not yet. Not when this could still go sideways.
“I’m not good at this way of living, Roman. I’m not made for it. It doesn’t come naturally to me like it does for you.”
“I know.” His grip falters, heavy with disappointment.
I take the final step and stare up at him through my lashes. “But maybe you could teach me.”
Roman’s eyes widen with surprise. “What?”
“I mean,” I grin to lighten the mood, “if Victoria can shoot a bad guy, maybe I’m tougher than I think. Besides, I heard a rumor about you.”
“What kind of rumor?”
He’s watching my lips like primetime television. I catch the bottom one between my teeth and revel in the way he draws me closer.
“Vic said you told daddy something before you passed out, something about the way you feel for me. I guess I was wondering if it was true.”
Roman swallows hard, fear and wonder mixed up in his expression. “And what if it is? What would you say about that?”
I can’t draw him out any further in this torture. “I love you too, Roman.”
“You’re saying,” his gaze drops to my lips before it returns to my eyes, “you’re saying you still want to be with me? You don’t want to move on and forget we ever met?”
“Forget you, Roman?” I lose myself to his kiss before I whisper, “Not possible,” against his lips.
The End.
A Sneak Peek:
The Unbelievable Queen of Hearts
Cartwright Ranch-Book 2
Chapter 1
Victoria
He’s here again. Mr. twenty minutes to close, always orders a number five, hold the pickles, sits at the center table and stares. He's totally gorgeous, so I don’t mind the attention. I call him Mr. Number Five for short. He’s said maybe sixteen words to me in seven visits, but his eyes are speaking volumes. Too bad I’m not fluent in that language, whatever it is. He makes me wish I was.
Number five is a chicken sandwich, waffles for the bun, slathered in a special sauce that I refuse to disclose a single ingredient from—strictly eat at your own risk. It’s not my most popular item in the trailer, but his consistency is messing with my statistics at this point.
Tattoos peek out from the edges of his sleeves, only a couple totally visible on his forearms. He keeps his sandy blonde hair short, clipped close to his scalp, likely so he doesn’t end up with helmet hair. I figured out three visits ago that he’s the one with the black motorcycle parked at the perimeter of the food truck court.
I saw a coyote up close and personal once, popped up in the field while I was waiting for Kennedy to finish a consult with a bride. We locked eyes, and for a moment, I know it considered eating me.
That’s what I see in him.
Hunger.
That’s not my fault. The number five he’s devouring has more than enough food. I’m not stingy. I get the feeling food has nothing to do with his stare.
I’d wager he’s as dangerous as that coyote too. Not the kind of dangerous that would hurt me. More like the kind that might wake up the parts of my personality I abandoned years ago. I’ve lived my share of life, and I can smell reckless nights and fearless abandon rolling off him in waves. I know better than to chase any of that.
But he’s never spoken to me, other than to order. Catching his eye, the left side of his mouth hooks into a crooked grin. Mr. Number Five winks, and my blood rushes in response. I turn away from the window, quick to busy myself with closing down the trailer for the day. A text goes off on my phone. In the security of the back of my food trailer, I retrieve my cell from my apron.
“Don’t be late. I promised Roman a nice, normal, family dinner.”
Kennedy and her boyfriend. The sun rises and sets on those two. Like the whole earth has been blessed for their love. A little gag worthy in my cynical opinion. It’s been about four months that they’ve been together. He’s older than I am, but I think dad is finally coming around. Doesn’t like it but tolerates their relationship because Roman’s as clean cut as they come, not to mention he dotes on my sister like she’s the queen of freaking Sheba.
I’m glad Kenny’s got some freedom, really I am. So happy. Deep down. Somewhere. But meanwhile, I’m hiding this side hustle from everyone.
I opened Fried Wildflower three months ago with every penny I’d saved from the weddings I’ve been working at the ranch. Couldn’t afford a whole food truck, but taking after my dad, I won the truck and food trailer in a backroom poker match. Some apples don’t fall far from the tree. The rest of my money went into outfitting the trailer. After my big win, I swore I was done with cards, but the itch remains. Like mom always said, “God gives you talents, so you better use them.”
Might not be exactly what she was talking about. I mentioned the possibility of a food truck to Dad once, but he hit the ceiling. Man doesn’t like change. Said I’d never make a dollar. Told me I’d look like a carpet bag gypsy on the side of the road, swindling folks with food that’s likely to get us sued for poisoning them. But a few hundred fried chicken and waffles later, and I’m actually making rent on a place in the court. One day, I might make enough to see a little more freedom than my one-room studio apartment in town. But, then again, my life has always been a long list of ‘one days’.
I shoot Kennedy a snarky text about coming home early because I know how cranky her old man gets when we keep him up late. I switch off the fryers. A quick cursory glance later, I notice Mr. Number Five hasn’t moved even though his basket is empty. Typically, that’s all I find at the end of the night, an empty basket with a few wildflowers tucked into the remnants. But this time, he’s sticking it out.
I wash what I can and pack the rest up, knowing I’ll have plenty to do at home, but after a solid day like today, I don’t mind. I run through the checklist for closing, cleaning, wiping down, stacking trays, taking inventory of the food I have left, and packing what I’ll
need to take with me by the door. I lean toward the front window until I sneak a peek at my visitor.
Still there.
I snap back out of view before he spots me. This is it. He’s finally worked up the guts to talk to me, and here I am at the end of a shift, covered in grease and syrup and smelling like smoke.
That’s a love connection.
“Hey lady!” a voice yells from the window. “You open?”
The voice is far too young to belong to my mysterious stranger, but not young enough to be endearing. Last thing I want at the end of a shift is a bunch of teen punks making trouble.
I wipe my wet hands on my apron and step back to the window. “Sorry, closed up for the night.”
Three young men stare back at me, one with a gold tooth marring up his warped smile. I doubt they're even as old as Hudson. I’ve seen them hassling other food truck members for leftovers, spare change, anything they can get their mitts on, because heaven forbid they actually work.
“You sure you don’t got nothin’?” The gold-toothed one asks. “It’d be in your best interest to give over a few tidbits for rent.”
“This a shake down?” I ask, no longer amused by their act. I'm taller than half of them. “I pay my rent fine, and not a penny is for brats like you.”
“Well, this is our territory, and your trucks are impeding on our work, so it seems like you ought to give up a little payback, waffle lady.” From his pocket, the ringleader produces a knife. With a flick of his finger, the blade pops out. “It's not gonna be an issue, is it lady?”
I draw in a deep breath, considering my options. I glance over the troublemakers to where Mr. Number Five is still sitting. Though curious, I see no effort on his part to intervene. Just as well, it’s my fight. Being raised like Dad's oldest son has it's benefits. I know how to defend myself.
“Get out of here before I call the cops.” I slam the window shut and paste the closed sign with a thump against the glass. If I’m going to make Kennedy’s barbeque on time, I don’t have a spare minute for wannabe thugs.
Their voices fade after a few minutes. Likely I’ll have to deal with them again, but at least for today it’s done. I gather up the trash and unlatch the back door to the trailer. I toss the first bag out and then the second before I step down.
Pain lights up my head. Two bodies smash against me, throwing me back against the fiberglass wall. I jerk my arm free, but the punk collects it again, sneering at my struggle. The one with the gold tooth weighs the knife in his hand. Twisting from one side to the other with a flick of his wrist.
“See, we could have walked away with just a bite to eat, but now that you’ve disrespected us, we’re gonna need something more from you.”
Anger wells in my throat. I relax my arms. Let the twerps think I’ve given up. The leader steps closer, smiling like he’s won. “You know what I’m thinking I’d like, waffle lady?”
I don’t wait to hear his answer. Exploding with all my strength, I strike out with a kick to the front, catching him directly in the stomach and doubling him over. In the confusion, I jerk my right arm free and punch the opposite goon in the nose. He screams and falls back, blood gushing over his hands. I whip around, striking the third with a backhanded slap, but he catches my arm and twists it behind me.
"Hey!" Mr. Number Five stands up and moves to intercept, but I shoot him a glare that halts his steps.
With a shove, the brute holding me throws me forward. I lean into the momentum, rolling twice before I stop. I peel myself from the ground and dust off my clothes. Gravel drips from my arms. The bigger one swings, but I stay low. I slam my palms into his chest and shove him back. He crashes into his buddy, still coughing and retching on the ground.
To my left, Mr. Number Five watches the whole ordeal, no longer sitting, but standing and ready. “You need some help?”
“I’m fine!” Little punks probably just needed to be shown a thing or two.
“Are you sure? They keep coming.”
“Butt out!” I yell at the stranger. They’re nothing I can’t handle. I’m not like Kennedy, I don’t need some muscle-head coming to rescue me.
A scream behind me brings my attention around. The ringleader rushes me, rage burning in his eyes. I spin, catching his arm, twisting it behind him, but his thick comrade recovers, pulling me back, arm wrapped around my throat.
My feet go out from underneath me as he drags me. I cough, wheeze and slam my palms against his arm. No matter how hard I twist, I can’t free myself. Black edges in on my vision. A lightheaded bliss enters my mind.
An impact shakes my body seconds before I crash to the gravel. Air fills my burning lungs. I gag, cough and try to find my feet again. I stand in time to see Mr. Number Five throw the leader to the ground.
“Get out!” Mr. Number Five yells. “Little boys playing at thugs. Run before I do worse.”
They’re moving before he finishes the sentence, scrambling away like field mice on mowing day. I rub my palm over my throat, still feeling the pressure there. My head spins at the memory. I lean forward, hands gripping my legs while I struggle to catch my breath.
“You okay?” Mr. Number Five asks.
“Yeah,” my head bobs without looking up, “I had them on the ropes there.”
“Sorry to get in your way,” he says, not moving any closer. “Turning blue was an interesting strategy.”
I appreciate a little dry humor to chase the reality away.
“Freaks people out.” I shrug like this is some weekly occurrence, despite my shaky nerves. “Sometimes they drop you and run away.”
“Wasn’t working this time.”
I straighten and twist my head side to side to stretch my neck. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. I figured his favorite color was blue. I thought he’d strangle me until he got to the right shade.”
That same crooked grin presses into his cheeks, but the uneasy concern remains in his eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”
There’s not much to say. This is part of the gig. The neighborhood isn't great. It keeps the rent low, but the risk stays high. I’m usually the last one to close, the final one to leave, the one who wants that extra dollar, so I make a good target. It's not the first time I've had to defend myself, and I doubt it'll be the last.
“I’m glad you stuck around a little later this time, that’s all.”
His mouth twists as he thinks on my words. “I was hoping to get your name, maybe your number, if you’re feeling generous.”
“Why should I give you either?” I motion to where my attackers ran off. “You were content to watch me drown from what I can tell.”
“Hardly. I offered to help. You told me to stay out of it. Besides, I was enjoying the fight. You’re a bobcat. Can’t a guy appreciate beautiful technique?” He spins, pointing to the other ten food trucks in the circle. “Not to mention, I didn’t see any of them coming to your rescue either.”
“They’re closed.”
“Not the falafel guy. I saw him peek out his curtains.”
“Fine.” I raise my eyebrows. “I won’t give him my number either.”
I turn to gather my trash from where I left the bags, but his voice catches me.
“Just your name then?”
My feet hesitate.
Stupid feet.
“Victoria,” I say without turning back to face him. “My name is Victoria Cartwright.”
Plastic rustles in my grip as I grab my forgotten trash and start for the dumpsters.
“Good to meet you, Vickie. My name’s Maverick.”
I glare over my shoulder, standard protocol for anyone who profanes my name.
“It’s Vic, or Victoria, never Vickie.”
Maverick winks. “See you tomorrow, Vickie.”
✽✽✽
Maverick
“Hey Romeo, you strike out again?” Greg yells from across the yard.
I tuck my helmet under my arm and head for the house. “Why should I tell you anything?”
“Inquiring minds want to know, man.”
I know better, likely him and the rest of the guys have money riding on it. If they can bet on something, they will.
“No number yet.”
Greg lets out a whoop and behind him Tim swears out loud. “I thought you had it this time. Please say you at least talked to your dream girl.”
“Yeah, we talked,” I say. “Even got her name.”
Greg sets down the axe and stops splitting wood for a minute. “Well, at least that’s progress. I mean, at this rate you might have her number by Christmas.”
They mean well, but they haven’t met this Victoria Cartwright before. The way she carries herself, regal like a queen, but down home like apple pie sitting in a window. She’s the complete package, and you don’t rush a sweet find like that.
“Come on,” Tim picks up his axe and takes a swing at the stump. “What’s her name? Maybe we know her.”
I consider keeping it to myself, like treasure I 'm not willing to share, but Tim’s right, they might have information for me.
“Victoria Cartwright,” I tell them.
Greg starts laughing like I’ve said some joke. Tim shakes his head and walks back to the steps. “A Cartwright girl? You sure set your sights high, boy. And you picked the queen of hearts, of all the rotten luck.”
I turn to leave, but Greg’s voice calls me back. “They’re legend around here, Mav. Ace Cartwright knows everyone and everything in this county. The man is made of money, and his kids are everything to him. You’re not getting anywhere near that girl with Ace involved.”
“She doesn’t have a mind of her own?”
Greg and Tim exchange a look before Greg says, “Out of all of them, Victoria’s got her own ideas about life, sure, but I still don’t think she’d go against Ace.”
“You picked the right one though.” Tim whistles low. “She’s gorgeous.”
The Unforgettable Queen of Diamonds Page 23