Page 30

A throat cleared. “I like the new paint job.”

I shot up at the sudden voice, jolting so badly that I knocked my elbow against the dashboard.

“What?” I asked, trying to slow my racing heart and ground myself in reality.

It was broad daylight outside, and there wasn’t a speck of moonlight in sight. I’d fallen asleep.

I was in my dad’s old pickup truck.

We were pulling up to my café.

We’d been on a supply run, and he’d agreed to help me out since the only vehicle I owned was a leg powered, two-wheeled, sad, rusted old thing. It made it tricky to handle a dozen microwave-sized boxes of buns, to say the least.

“Sasha? Are you okay?”

Papa’s gruff tone drew my gaze his way.

His thick, dark brows furrowed over even darker eyes. A lot of people were scared of my dad because of his brusque manner of speaking and intimidating size. Paired with the Russian accent, it had sent many small-minded people fleeing for safety. Of course, my dad played into it because he preferred his space, so I couldn’t exactly blame them—well, I couldn’t blame most of them.

“I’m fine.”

“Do not lie to me, little lion. I recognize that face. I saw it enough when you were a child. You had one of those dreams again? About the cold?”

It’d been hell growing up with such attentive parents. I hadn’t been able to sneeze in school without my parents somehow hearing about it.

And my mom—I shook my head—though she was a full foot shorter than me and almost two below my dad, she was one intimidating woman. With a single shrewd look from her, she could discern anything about me, including when I’d lost my virginity. That had been awkward as a teenager.

I cleared my throat, swallowing down the remnants of terror that wanted to spill from my lips in a scream after the awful dream. “What were you saying about a paint job?”

“Do not change the subject with me, Sasha Li Ruslanova Popova.”

“Yikes.” I winced. “What’d I do to get the full name?”

“Talk.”

I sighed. “Yes, it was another dream about the cold.”

He shifted, making my brow arch in curiosity. Nothing embarrassed my dad.

We’d hit the only stoplight in the small, mountain town, and it always took forever to change to green even though we had such a miniscule population. A person could lose their virginity waiting on that stoplight.

I’d know.

He cleared his throat. “Have you been doing the things?” He waved his hand back and forth.

“Are you swatting a fly, Papa?” I asked, fighting a grin.

He fixed me with a warning glare. “You know what I’m referring to.”

“Do I?”

Even though he’d helped every single resident at some point or another between his tree business and volunteer firefighting, majority of the population still viewed him with fear, so I figured it was up to me to heckle him on the entire town’s behalf since no one else would be picking up the mantle anytime soon.

He growled low in his throat. “Sasha Li!”

“Fine, fine, alright, Papa. Yes, I’m doing the things my therapist suggested. They help for the most part.”

“Good. At least something came from sending you to that kook doctor.”

“Papa!” I scolded, trying to sound stern when I wanted to dissolve into laughter. My dad had never been on board with getting me a therapist as a child, but Mom insisted, and that was that.

“What?” he demanded, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel and leaning down to get a better view of the traffic light, as if that would hurry it up.

“Now who’s playing innocent? Don’t badmouth Ms. Harrison. She’s your kindly old neighbor.”

He snorted. “And nosy to boot.”

“Yes, Papa, but if she wasn’t so nosy, I would still be having nightmares every night instead of just once in a while.”

He scratched his scruffy beard before clearing his throat. “You know, Sasha, I’ve kept quiet because I wanted to give you your privacy, but did she ever figure out why you had these nightmares? It frustrated me to watch you going through something I couldn’t solve with my fists.”

I shrugged, turning to glance out the window. “She said it probably stemmed from what happened to me as a baby, though I’m not sure how. I don’t even remember it. I was only a newborn.”

He grunted, but he understood what I’d been saying. He’d been there, after all. Papa knew better than I did.

He swore in Russian. “Stupid traffic light.” He wiped a hand down his face. “Well, before, I was telling you I liked the new paint job.”

I turned in the direction he’d nodded, taking in the café.

He was right about the paint job.

It had deep maroon tones with cream-colored accents around the windows and a large glass door. That design scheme carried up to the second level where my apartment was housed. Paired with the typical log cabin fascia all the town square buildings had as a tribute to the mountainous region, my little café was looking sharp. The only waitress, Kara, an aspiring art student, had put her talents to use on hand painting the sign posted proudly above the picture windows boasting Stillwind Café.

Kara and I, along with the critical eye of my burly chef, Eli, had fixed the facade of the quaint building to be the best-looking thing on the small block.

But that was Stillwind for you. The tiny, isolated village snuggled deep in the Rockies didn’t breed much competition, though I still held out hope that at least Old Man Harry would be motivated to spruce up his hardware business next door. Considering his trade, one would think he’d have the most attractive storefront in town.

The store owner in question chose that moment to exit, lugging a bag of trash behind him. He caught my eye and scowled. I plastered on a wide smile and responded with a jaunty wave. We had a rather peculiar relationship, Old Man Harry and I.

His bushy, white brows furrowed as he harrumphed, flared his nostrils, and spun on his heel to retreat into his dark store.

My grin widened even more.

“Stop antagonizing the man,” my father scolded. “It’s a bad habit of yours. One day, you’ll piss off the wrong person, and I’ll be right there to say I told you so.”

“How mature. But don’t forget, I learned from the best. Remember, and I quote, ‘kook doctor.’” I arched a brow at him. “Pot, meet kettle.”

He shoved my shoulder, mumbling in Russian about stubborn, impish daughters and the travesty of having his own words thrown back at him. He even tossed in a comment or two about how I got it from my tenacious mother.

Outside the windshield, the traffic light blinked to green.

“Finally!” we cried together, startling each other.

“I don’t understand why Sheriff Ope won’t dish out the money to get this fixed,” Dad grumbled as he eased his old truck into the intersection. He turned the corner and pulled into the alley that lined the back of the Main Street stores.

I smiled at what I was about to say, knowing it would irk my father. “Well, I heard Mrs. Klaine tell Ms. George that she overheard his wife—the sheriff’s, that is—claim that he wanted tourists to slow down and enjoy the beauty when they pass through our esteemed Stillwind.”

Dad scoffed. “Bah, busybody gossips. We are two hours from the nearest highway. What person would stray that far off the safety of the interstate to visit this decrepit little village?”

I bit my cheek to keep in the chuckles. “Maybe you should tell Sheriff Ope that, Papa.”

“Perhaps I will,” he muttered.

My dad had never gone out of his way to stir the wasps’ nest before, and I wondered if I’d just released a bull on the unsuspecting sheriff of Stillwind. I shrugged it off. Sheriff Ope was a grown man. He could take care of himself, even against someone as outwardly intimidating as my dad.

With a squeal and a pop, the faded red—not pink—truck rolled to a stop, sputtered, and died with an exhausted huff, none of which upset my father in the least. He beamed at me, flashing his large, white teeth through his crazy beard. “We’re here.”

I glanced from the back door several feet away to where we sat. “You couldn’t get any closer?”

“What? Bessie wanted to stop here, so we stop here. Come on. I’ll help you unload if you ask nicely, Sasha.” His door slammed shut, rocking the car on its squeaky suspension.

I shook my head and followed his lead, meeting him at the tailgate where he’d already begun piling a stack of boxes taller than me, and that was saying something since I was two inches shy of six feet. “And if I don’t ask nicely, then what? Do you plan to show up to the fire department late for your shift? It’s not like you can leave until I finish unloading if you make me do it all by myself.”

“I might. Ernest is in charge right now, and he owes me a favor after our poker night.”

I rolled my eyes and gamely accepted the stack of boxes that, as I’d feared, he’d been piling up for me. Inching forward by rote memory and feeling my way along, I made it to where I assumed the entrance was. For one, I couldn’t check to see, and two, even if the door, by some miracle, was there, I wouldn’t be able to open it.

“Let me get that,” a deep, smooth baritone called.

My shoulders tensed. “No, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

My rebuttal didn’t deter the man.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I insist.”

Dark hands reached out to take the boxes, and I flinched away. “Actually, on second thought, if you could just get the door, I’ll be fine, thanks.”

For a beat, he hesitated as if he would persist, but then I heard the familiar squeak of the café’s backdoor hinges. I’d overshot my heading by about four feet to the left. Correcting my mistake, I headed in that direction, focusing on nothing but the boxes in front of my face—which wasn’t a difficult task since they encompassed my entire view.

I slipped through the doorway, ignoring the presence beside me. More oriented, I beelined for an expanse of stainless steel counter, praying that my cook, Eli, hadn’t set out plated meals there. From the sounds of the banging and sizzling, he was by the main griddle and food window, so I should be safe.

I thought I’d escaped my unwanted helper, but my relief was short-lived. The good Samaritan had followed me in, and it’d be a heck of a time to be mistaken about the counter being empty. My embarrassment would be unbearable if I made a blunder like that in front of him. Heck, with my luck, he’d stay around to help—again.

The leaning tower of boxes had drawn my cook’s eye. “Well, hello there. I see Sasha’s feet, but I don’t see Sasha. Are you in there, Sasha? Do you read me? It’s me, Eee-li!”

No doubt he would be referring to the hideous orange Converse I refused to relinquish as my last thread to childhood. Apart from the antique coin on a golden chain around my neck—something I’d had since I was a baby—those were my most cherished possessions.

With a huff of relief, I ignored his antics and plopped the pile of supplies down on the counter, swiping my wrist against my forehead for nonexistent sweat. I straightened the boxes into an orderly pile, scooted them back a couple of inches, and then pulled them forward once more. The whole time, my ears were attuned to hear a set of retreating footsteps that never came.

Instead, I listened to another set, my dad’s, approach as he settled his load of food down on any available flat surface.

To buy some time, I ran through a mental checklist of items we’d bought against the list of things we’d needed.

Buns, sugar, tea, coffee — check. Maple syrup, flour, sausage, hamburger — check, check.

I paused, tilting my head to the side as I took in the silence. My dad had never retreated for another load, much like the good Samaritan that had overstayed his welcome. Likewise, though grease still sizzled and popped on the large grill, I couldn’t hear Eli’s spatula chopping and scraping food as it cooked.

Not wanting to but having no other choice, I slowly turned to face the room.

I’d seen the kitchen a million times. Hanging pots, stainless steel appliances, an industrial stove, and three rows of gleaming counters filled the space in an organized chaos that functioned well for the cook that ruled the roost. One day, I’d tried to organize it, but then had spent an entire week getting scolded and enduring snippy comments from Eli about being unable to locate anything—even though I was the boss.

Unfortunately, and like an oncoming train wreck, the familiarity of the space seemed to point neon flashing signs at the only thing—err, person—that didn’t belong. It also happened to be the one thing I’d been trying so actively to avoid.

He stood a few feet away, his figure lean and trim in the suit he wore for his job. His dark skin looked sharp against the starched white fabric of his collar. He had thick brows, thicker lips, and cinnamon brown eyes that could read my very soul. His curled black hair was buzzed close to his head with a stylish hairline that arched at his temples and swept down to a delicate point at the ends of his sideburns. Everything else was clean-shaven and emphasized his wide jaw and dimpled chin.

Under my extended perusal, he cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets.

Before he could say anything, I beat him to the punch. “Thanks for the help. I appreciate it. Next time you stop by, coffee is on the house.”

His thick brows lowered as he winced. “Right. Uh—”

“Really. I’ll inform my server as well in case I’m not here.” I had every intention to not be here when he decided to collect.

He shook his head, torn between indecision before I saw the corners of his cheeks hollow out—something that happened whenever he clenched his jaw. His cinnamon gaze locked on mine. “Hey, listen—”

“Unless you were on your way in,” I continued. My eyes frantically sought the gigantic clock on the wall. “It’s about the time you usually come in for lunch.” Then, it was my turn to wince. I almost smacked myself stupid for showing my hand. “At least, that’s what Kara tells me. Kara’s my waitress,” I finished lamely.

“It’s like watching an awful accident and being unable to look away,” Eli whispered in a voice barely considered an indoor volume.

I glanced over to see him leaning back against the counter next to my dad. If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under. He winked at my fierce glare.

I huffed in annoyance.

“Ahem.” The good Samaritan cleared his throat, reminding me of his presence.

As if I could forget it.

Feeling my cheeks heat, I turned to unpack the boxes. “Anyway, thanks again.”

Clearly being dismissed, my good Samaritan finally took the hint. He sighed. “Eli. Mr. Popov.”

He moved toward the alley before hesitating.

What now? I wanted to scream.

“You were right.” He coughed. “I mean, uh, Kara, was it? Kara was right.” By his tone alone, I knew that if I turned at that minute, his eyes would be shining with amusement. He’d caught my slip. “I was just heading in for lunch. Do you mind if I go through to the front?”

“Not a problem. You know the way.” I winced again at the implied familiarity.

He must have found it amusing though, because it brought another chuckle poorly disguised as a cough. “Right. Thanks, Sasha.”

Hearing him say my name had my walls crumbling and my shoulders drooping.

I didn’t acknowledge him. That would be too dangerous. Instead, I kept staring blankly at the tower of cardboard. My hands twisted the boxes this way and that.

After ten drawn out seconds, he finally, finally left. Each footstep rang like a gong through my shattered nerves. With each stride, I worried he would stop, turn around, and try to talk to me again.

I did not want that to happen—not here, not now, and especially not in front of the peanut gallery that my dad and Eli would be only too happy to fill. Papa complained about the town gossips, but, concerning my life, he was worse than all those nosy people put together.

Luckily, none of those things came to fruition.

The swinging door swished shut, announcing his departure, and my shoulders relaxed at an altitude somewhat lower than the tips of my ears. A deep exhale helped chase out the rest of my nerves, though the ache in my heart remained.

“Curse my luck,” I whispered heavenward, staring up at a greasy heat lamp.

“Don’t be dramatic, Sashka ,” Papa scolded, using the Russian form of my name.

“Yeah,” Eli chimed in, mimicking my dad’s folded arm stance. “Don’t be dramatic, Sashka .”

I pointed a finger at my impertinent chef. “You, sir, don’t have the privilege of calling me that.”

He looked affronted, straightening up to full height so I could see that. Side-by-side, the two men had the same towering stature. “Why not? You told me it’s like a nickname for Sasha that family and friends use.”

“Of which you are neither.”

He staggered a step to the left, clutching his heart as he gasped for a breath. “Ouch, quick for the kill on that one.”

I rolled my eyes at his antics. Would I be stereotyping if I said that I never imagined I’d meet someone so large and masculine who could be so dramatic?

“I think you’ll live,” I deadpanned.

“Sasha Li,” Papa boomed, cutting off our banter and making Eli and me jump like scolded children.

I met Papa’s gaze, feeling trepidation rise.

Eli shifted nervously, his smile disappearing.

“Yes?” I asked sweetly.

Papa fixed me with a look he’d perfected sometime during my childhood. “When are you going to forgive Brien?”