Killian Read online

  Then she moans again.

  “I've been thinking about this the whole time I’ve been here,” I say, pulling her head back so she looks at me. “Tell me you've been thinking about my lips on yours."

  Her lips move slightly, her mouth starting to form words, but she doesn’t speak.

  “Tell me,” I growl.

  Then the fucking phone rings.

  The sound reverberates through the room, sucking out all of the air with it. And just like that, Lily’s expression changes. Something flits across her face – regret, maybe – and she shakes her head. “I … can’t,” she whispers.

  “Forget the phone,” I growl. She’s wound tighter than any girl I’ve ever met. I want to rip her clothes off. I want to undo her.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. She puts her palm against my chest, half-heartedly pushing me back like she’s not quite sure what she wants to do. “No. I … can’t. You should leave now.”

  “That’s not what you want,” I say, my voice softer now. "You don't want me to leave."

  Her eyes flash. “Don’t tell me what I want. You should go."

  I let out a heavy exhale and step back from her, taking in the way she stands there with her fingers resting on her lips, pieces of her hair falling messily around her face. “Suit yourself. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

  Her jaw set, she shakes her head. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “I was talking about the job. I’ll wait for your apology for firing me.”

  “You’re going to be waiting a long time,” she says as I walk toward the door.

  “Whatever you say, woman,” I tell her, purposely using the word I know she hates. “I’m up the mountain, over off Burnt Pine Road. Opal has my address. For when you change your mind.”

  “Not going to happen,” she calls after me.

  14

  Lily

  My heart is still racing in the car on the way to the elementary school. I ran out of the bakery – and away from Killian Saint – like a bat out of hell.

  My cheeks still warm at the thought of Killian’s fingers brushing against my skin. My heart thumps wildly in my chest at the thought of what might have happened between us in the kitchen if the phone hadn’t rung and jerked me out of whatever spell he had me under.

  What the hell was I thinking, kissing him like that?

  Killian Saint is a controlling, demanding brute who just set completely ridiculous, obnoxious, and insulting rules for my customers. He’s the meathead who showed up at the bakery and shoved a customer’s face against the wall outside in some kind of weird attempt at rescuing me.

  That guy is not the kind of guy I need to be kissing.

  Or thinking about kissing.

  Or thinking about screwing.

  I can feel his lips pressed against mine, even now. My lips throb, the sensation of his touch still on my skin.

  I think I might have lost my mind back there. I’ve been celibate for longer than I can remember, and this is how I choose to get back in the game? By making out in the back of my store with a guy whose idea of conversation is “You. Me. Now”?

  No way. Forget it. I’m not back in the game. What happened with Killian was a mistake, a lapse in judgment. It was just a kiss, nothing more. I need to put it out of my head and focus on what’s important in my life: raising Chloe and running the bakery. That’s all I need to be happy.

  And that’s exactly what I do all weekend. I spend the weekend doing what I always do: hanging out with Chloe at the park and working on our garden in the backyard and doing Friday night pizza and a movie. On Saturday, Chloe comes to the bakery with me for the morning while I work the counter at the store and I'm back home by noon. On Saturday night after Chloe is asleep, I catch up on paperwork, then watch television while drinking a glass of wine and sketching cake designs.

  My regular old routine has never felt so unfulfilling before.

  I sit curled up in my bed, only partly paying attention to what’s on television and only partly distracted by the sketch in my lap. My mind keeps wandering to what Killian Saint is doing. The way that college girl in the store was going gaga over him the other day, I’m sure Killian has no trouble finding something - or someone to do on a Saturday night. I roll my eyes at the thought, even though I’m sitting here by myself. I’m not the least little bit put off by the thought of Killian with anyone else.

  Not at all.

  I blow through the front door of the bakery Monday morning, running late after dropping Chloe off at school, as usual. There’s a line in the store that starts at the door, and I have to practically push my way past people to get to the counter where Opal hustles to serve customers.

  I slip on an apron and jump straight into making coffee drinks. Opal calls out orders, and we slip right into our well-oiled routine, even if it’s busy.

  It’s really busy, actually. Abnormally busy.

  “Where’s the hot guy who was here on Friday?” asks a college-aged girl with red hair tucked up into a baseball cap, leaning over to talk to me when I slide her latte across the counter.

  I have to actively remind myself not to roll my eyes.

  “I’m not sure who you’re talking about,” I say tersely, my jaw clenched. That’s what having Killian here was doing – turning my bakery into a place for college girls to come and ogle him.

  “You know, the guy with the beard. Is he working today?”

  “I’m afraid not."

  “Oh. Well,” she says, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Would you give him my number?”

  I take the paper in stunned silence as she whirls around and flounces out the door. “Would you believe that?” I ask Opal.

  Opal smiles. “Honey, people have been asking about him all morning.”

  “They have not,” I say in disbelief as I make a triple espresso.

  “On account of the newspaper article."

  Newspaper article.

  “What newspaper article?” I ask, my heart sinking. Oh, God. I can only imagine.

  “You didn’t see the ” Opal asks.

  A customer reaches for one of the West Bend Gazette newspapers lying on a table near the counter, as if it’s totally normal that she’s listening to our conversation. “This article."

  My eyes scan the headline and then the article itself, my head spinning as I attempt to take it in.

  “It’s good press,” Opal notes. “It’s not an exposé or anything.”

  “It really is,” the nosy customer interjects. “It’s the most interesting thing to happen at a store in West Bend in at least the past few months. Probably since Martha Talbot started carrying all of those erotic books at the bookstore. You’d get even more business if you had that man shirtless behind the counter, you know. Wouldn't hurt to start carrying some of those dirty books here, either."

  I look up from the newspaper at the customer, who’s looking at me as if giving me advice on how to exploit my employee’s appearance is completely appropriate.

  “What?” she asks, her voice innocent. “I’m sixty years old. I need something nice to look at, too.”

  “Why stop there?” I ask. “Why don’t I hire all male staff and parade them around shirtless while you stuff dollar bills down their pants in between sips of coffee?”

  “Oh, I’d come here every day if you did that,” the woman behind her pipes up.

  “That was sarcasm."

  “Well, there’s no need to be rude,” she sniffs. “Does this mean the gentleman with the beard isn’t coming in today?”

  “No,” I say tersely. “He is not.”

  Opal doesn’t waste any time. As soon as I turn the sign in the front window to “closed” in the afternoon, she starts in on me.

  “You know,” she says, "it was a lot easier on me last week when Mr. Saint was here in the mornings.”

  I exhale heavily. “Not you too, Opal.”

  I’ve heard it all morning from customers now. Mostly female custome