by Snow, Nicole
As I go to bed, I tell myself I'm not doing anything on heartbreak and cheap wine.
But by morning, I’ve already left notice for my landlord that I’m terminating my lease, and I’ll be back in thirty days for my things.
The next thing I know, I’m packing.
Sun, sand, and some time alone to screw my head on straight.
All I have to do is write the perfect book, and I’ll be back in the game and able to take care of myself again. It’s not like, if things go wrong with me and Landon, I have to deal with him very much.
Okay. Okay, I tell myself as I stuff a sports bra and yoga pants into a duffel bag.
Let’s do this.
No hesitations, and no regrets.
I'm going to get over Landon and everything dark in my life, or else.
2
Little More Than a Fig Leaf (Landon)
I’m really not into animal cruelty, but right now, I’m ready to skin a cat.
That's because one just dropped down paws-first on my sore, bruised stomach. Among their other talents, cats are experts at concentrating all their weight onto one paw and then drilling it down into you like they’re trying to puncture through to an exit wound. And one of those sweet little assholes – Velvet or Mews, I’ve only had them two months and I can’t tell them apart – is currently doing a Russian army march right over the freshly purpled bruises I picked up during a rough night.
Whoever said love is pain was clearly a cat owner.
The cat on my stomach meows. Loudly.
Mews, then. A fitting name if there ever was one.
I groan, but don’t open my eyes just yet. I’ve got a headache from hell I was hoping to sleep off. Just five more minutes for the first time in what feels like years.
Cats, however, don’t really care about my beauty sleep. Or my blood pressure.
They care that I have opposable thumbs and can work a can opener, and the fact that I’m not doing so right this second.
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Fine,” I mumble into my palm. “Okay, okay. I’m up.”
Actually, I don’t move.
A soft, velvety forehead butts against the back of my hand, followed by a rusty-sounding purr. Even if I’m ready to string the little monster up, I can’t stop myself from scratching between his ears. He closes his eyes in sheer delight and thrusts against my fingers.
This is how they get you. Food for love.
Don’t think for half a second this fuzzy little jerk means it.
A thump and weight pressing on the end of the bed tells me I have about five seconds before Mews has a dance partner on my aching body. It’s that more than anything that gets me to roll out of bed, pausing to stroke between Velvet’s ears before dragging a robe on against the faint, wet morning chill blowing in off the ocean. Downstairs the sun is bright through the kitchen windows, scraping at my bleary eyes.
Coffee. I need a strong, paint-stripping cup.
And then it’s back to business as usual.
I'm still shaking off my 'fun' from the night before. A Mayor's campaign downtown brought us in, extra security for their fundraiser. The rabble rousers who showed up made good on their promise to make a scene after tensions flared. One of the assholes broke the police line, managed to land a blow to my gut and another to my jaw, before I had him by the throat and on the ground, holding him until the cops took over.
I remember why I don't like politics, even when it pays.
I leave a pot to brew and dump out a couple fresh tins of foul smelling food in the monsters’ bowls. Grain-free or something, but it’s just meaty and heavy and enough to make me retreat while they shove their faces in with hungry, messy sounds.
At least they’re easily pleased.
Wish I could say the same for the fucksticks jerking me around lately.
A few of said fucksticks whine nasally from my voicemail as I plop my phone on the counter and set it to play back on speaker while I do something about breakfast. Both voicemails are pure bullshit, and both are from agents of the same client.
Milah Holly. The next big starlet manufactured by a Hollywood sound studio and fed the lyrics they’ve decided will be the voice of a generation. She’s high-profile. Big money. A good contract.
And she’s driving me out of my mind, when the job hasn’t even started yet.
These voicemails alone are full of scheduling issues. I might start working for Milah in a few days, or in a few weeks.
I don’t know. She doesn’t know. No one knows, and I halfway think they need to hire someone to get their shit straight long before they hire a security firm.
But I can’t afford to let this slip through my fingers. It's too big an opportunity for Enguard.
Ever since I turned over my old man's company, Crown Security, to Dallas Reese – grade A asshole, son of dad's former and currently incarcerated partner, Reg Reese, and the jackass who’s been playing a one-up game with me since we were fucking twelve – I need every leg up I can get to keep my own company thriving.
Enguard’s seen rapid growth and won a solid piece of the market, but if I let my guard down too long, then Dallas and Crown Security will swoop right in and snatch Milah – plus the prestige this contract nets me – right out under my nose.
I sigh, once again adjusting the dates in my phone’s calendar, and settle to pour a cup of strong black brew. As I set the carafe down, though, a hint of motion flashes in the corner of my eye, out of place among the gently wafting trees framing the house.
I glance out the window. Someone’s skulking around the beach house again.
Fuck. I bet it’s those goddamned kids again, or someone casing the place for a possible break-in.
I’ve had enough.
Slamming the carafe back into the brewer, I stomp to the door, yanking it open. I’ve got to get the drop on them this time.
Before they’ve seen me coming, and run off before I catch their faces on my phone, or collar them before calling the cops. This isn’t the kind of security I do, chasing down idiots on my property, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use my skills to make sure they get what they deserve for trespassing and potentially breaking and entering.
I duck into the trees, staying out of sight, and take off at a ground-eating run.
I hurt all the fuck over, but I don’t care.
I’m pissed, thoroughly sick of this, and pure rage and adrenaline are pumping enough endorphins to numb the bruises and devour my pain. I don’t even stop when a branch catches my robe and rips it half-off, the belt coming loose and the robe falling down one arm.
I'm past caring if these assholes get an earful and an eyeful.
I come bursting out of the trees like a juggernaut, barreling toward the front door. Before I lay a hand on it, though, it snaps open – and a petite figure steps out.
At first I don’t recognize her. Not when this slim, leggy young woman is nothing like the awkward little thing with huge frames who used to followed me around like a lost puppy.
McKenna.
Kenna Burke.
Reb.
Standing there all poised and prim and sexy as hell, her green eyes wide and startled behind the kind of librarian glasses that make you wonder what she’d look like with all that chestnut hair pulled free from its tail and rippling around her face and shoulders.
Fuck. Again.
Even though she’s clearly surprised, poised like a faun ready to bolt, she’s still completely put together and gorgeous in a pair of slim jeans and a loose, pretty silk tank top that clings to her in ways that promise things those dreamy eyes can’t quite follow through on. Kenna’s always been a bit of a dreamer, lost in the stars, and she's wearing that look right now.
Almost like she’s seeing other worlds when she looks right through me.
And I’m standing here half-naked with my robe torn up, leaves in my hair, cock practically falling half out of my boxers. She opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it a second later.
* * *
We’re just staring at each other for what seems like forever. Her lips stay slightly parted like she still wants to say something, but the shock tore the words from that glistening pink mouth.
I’m no better, breathing hard from running, standing here with my jaw hanging like a damn fool. For a minute I’m teleported back five years ago, and all this anger comes boiling up inside me again. I haven't seen her up close like this since the day I cursed her name.
Not since little Reb became the only other human on the planet to know what I was planning.
I don’t know what to do. That's rare.
I’m sure as hell not going to unload on her just yet. Not when she’s already mumbling something like an apology, a nervous strain in her soft, low words.
I can’t even look at her.
I can’t fucking have her here.
So I turn my back on her, dragging my phone from the pocket of my loose robe and pulling the terrycloth up to belt it securely around my body again.
This is Steve's fault. No mistake. When my best friend said he had the perfect person in mind to handle the house, I had no idea he’d gone this fucking loco, sending Kenna here as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.
I’m already pulling his number up in my contacts, ignoring the faint, flustered sounds behind me.
First, I'm going to murder Steve.
And then I’m going to send McKenna Burke packing. Right back where she came from.
3
You Had Me At Hello (Kenna)
This wasn’t how I wanted our reunion to go.
I thought I’d have time to prepare for something a bit more formal in a setting where there were appropriate social rules and conventions to keep this from blowing up in my face.
Like a brunch on the patio or something. Objects between us to create proper distance and remind us to be polite, instead of stabbing at each other with words and butter knives and possibly a breakfast fork or two.
Instead, I have this. This insanity.
This behemoth of a man charging out of the trees at me like freaking Tarzan, half-naked and his eyes lit up with crackling electric blue storms.
He’s thicker than I remember. All corded muscle bulking out his frame. Writhing with more tattoos than I remember. He looks like the devil himself with his chin bearded and scruffy, and nothing like the boy I’d once idolized.
That boy sure as hell hadn’t been this much of an asshole.
He’s practically in a tantrum, giving me his back and snarling under his breath as he stabs at his phone and then waits, this bristling mess of raw male energy and thorny irritation. I’d bet what little is left in my bank account that he’s calling my brother.
If I could, I’d double that bet when the call ends without picking up. He just growls and tries it again.
I sigh, hands on my hips.
Sure, Landon caught me off guard, but this is ridiculous. He could have at least tried to be civil, instead of treating me like unwanted trash.
Does he expect those fierce glares to make me afraid of him?
Does he think I'm the same little girl who'll be disarmed with that look?
Like hell.
He hasn’t managed to frighten me away yet, and I’ve seen him at his worst.
Known him at his darkest, and his most depraved.
I march right up to him and take a firm grip on one of his shoulders. Obviously, I can't budge a titan as large as Landon, but at least he won't ignore me.
And he doesn’t. Ignore me, that is.
He whirls around so quick it makes my heart stumble, and jerks back until I’m no longer touching him. He’s in full beast mode, upper lip curled in something between a snarl and a sneer, his glare cutting into me.
I lift my chin, pride more than anything making me brave. “The word you’re looking for,” I bite off, “is ‘hello.’”
The word he gives me instead? “Fuck.”
And then he says, “Are you out of your mind? What was Steve thinking, sending you here?” Those brilliant blue eyes narrow. “Or was this your idea?”
I scowl. “It wasn’t. Steve was trying to do you a favor, if you'd let him.”
“A favor,” he scoffs. “Like sending you here is helping me gain anything besides a headache. You can’t be here, Kenna. It’s absolutely ridiculous. You and I, we don’t –”
“Don’t what?” I demand. Anger, right now, is easier than the ball of hurt knotting in my chest.
He goes still. There’s something strange in his eyes, before they ice over and he looks at me oddly, remotely, distantly. More standoffish than I ever could've expected.
“Just don't,” he says, as if that’s the final verdict.
He’s written me off with a snap of his tongue. Not even a chance to talk things out.
I’m not the little girl I was back then, but all he sees is a nuisance sent to disrupt his orderly life and expose his secrets. But if I’m not that little girl anymore…
Then I’m not afraid of him anymore, either.
Not like I was then.
Back when his Dad died.
Overnight, Landon became a different person. A person I didn’t recognize. A person who terrified me, terrorized me, and ran me off with a promise never to come back.
Well, I’m back now. And I didn't show up just to go full circle.
Yes, it’s his property. His place. His life.
He’s the one who needs me – this glorified housesitter-catsitter thing I signed up for. If I have to, I’ll go crash on Steve’s couch and leave Landon to deal with his problems on his own.
“Now look,” I say firmly. “If you’re done with your little roid rage explosion, how about we try talking about this like two rational adults?” I square my shoulders. “It’s just a job. I didn’t come here to screw up your life, Landon. And I didn’t come here to dig into old wounds. I’m helping you, you’re paying me with room and board, and since you’ll be gone soon, we don’t even have to see each other. All I need is a week or two to handle my affairs. By the time you get back, I’ll be ready to leave.”
It’s a tight timeline. Two weeks to produce a novel, instead of a month?
Ugh. But maybe the pressure will light a spark under me. If anything, it’ll just give me more incentive to get it done so I can get away from this asshole as soon as possible.
I let Landon Strauss break my heart once.
I won’t do it again.
He’s still watching me with that same measured look. Assessing every second.
I feel like I’m suddenly in hostile territory, and he’s sizing me up as the enemy. Like he's back in his military days and I’m just another obstacle to overcome with tactical assessment and a little strategic finesse. But just as quickly that look fades, leaving him looking almost bewildered, and then annoyed.
He grunts something under his breath, then looks away, staring across the sand to where choppy waves have turned to lead under the storm blowing in, the sky all steel and silver-shot lightning.
There’s something dark in his eyes.
Something haunted.
Something damaged.
The boy I knew doesn’t live in this hardened, scarred beast. Not anymore.
Landon's fists clench. He drops his phone into his bathrobe pocket.
“I’ll think,” he mutters, a drawling rasp darkening his sultry, deep voice.
Then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone on the beach. The first mist of storm spray washes in, kissing my cheeks in cool beads that feel like the tears of the little girl I refuse to ever be again. Not for him.
I don’t know what kind of mess I’ve gotten myself into, but it’s already hurting like hell.
I almost want to laugh, give my throat something bitter and jagged. Whatever it takes to dislodge the lump forming there.
God, I really can’t control anything in my life, can I? Not even one confrontation with
a wild man who still holds the map to all the wounded places in my heart.
I’ve never been in control of anything. Why should this be different?
Because I want it to be. Just this once.
Because my heart feels like it’s cracking, splintering in two, going back to a dreadful place I swore I'd left behind.
But this time, there's a difference: I’ve gotten pretty damned good at taping it back together.
4
Love to Hate You (Landon)
Somehow, I’m not surprised Steve’s still not picking up his phone.
He may be a complete prick for putting me in this position, but he’s got a sense of self-preservation.
It’s been hours. At least a dozen phone calls.
Half a dozen voicemails before I quit wasting my voice and just hit redial until I got sick of it, chucked my phone across the desk, and settled back in my chair to stare out my office window.
I’ve been watching her all day, catching hints and flashes. Glimpses of her moving through the windows. A ghost I thought I'd chased away years ago, who shouldn't even be here.
She's not quite the same, true. This Kenna is older, more collected. That awkward young thing blossomed into an adult with that first entirely enticing, entirely maddening blush of new womanhood clinging to her like some heady perfume the second I got in her face.
Too bad the little things about her body language are too much the same. Still familiar enough to jolt me, until all day I’ve been out of sorts, close to making mistakes every time someone on my crew checks in with me about setup for the Milah job.
Skylar, my lead and logistics manager, tells me the singer wants us helping her entire entourage of stuck-up groupies. Whatever, I say, as long as Milah Holly understands we're security and not their damn servants. Skylar drops off as soon as she catches the edge in my tone.
The one Reb put there without trying.
Fuck. This isn’t going to work.
She’s already got me off my game, detached from my job, and I hate it.