Page 5

FOUR

Noah

Furious, I drive straight out of the carpark of The Snapper, leaving the place unlocked. Fuck if I’m spending another moment in there with her. I don’t know if it’s because I don’t trust her or I don’t trust myself not to take things further than I already did.

With another man’s girl.

After what Charlotte did to me.

I screech around corners so fast there’ll be another discussion about speed humps at the next council meeting. I come to an abrupt stop at the top of the cliff at the lookout off the highway out of town.

By now, my skin is dry and I’ve long since shifted back into my two-legged form. Makes me a worse driver, but at least now I don’t have to look at the tips of my glowing tentacles in the dark.

Killing the engine, I stalk from the car, slamming the door behind me.

It takes about two minutes in the blustery, salty, ocean breeze to clear my head enough for me to think again.

Fuck!

What did I just do?

There are about a hundred good reasons why I shouldn’t have even kissed Olivia Zeston, let alone tentacle fucked her to a bloody glorious orgasm.

That’s the kicker. The look on her face when she came around the tip of my tentacle was like she’s never come harder in her goddamn life.

I run a hand through my hair. What with the sea breeze and the sweat from the kitchen and my messing with it, the longer middle section is probably sticking up at crazy angles.

I lean over the guardrail and draw in a deep salty breath and let it out as slow as I can.

I need to calm the fuck down and start thinking with my brain.

Not my dick. Not my tentacles which have been glowing for her from the moment I saw her.

That scares the fuck out of me, but I reassure myself it’s just an obsolete biological function.

I can’t have a fated mate because I don’t believe in fate. She’s just a female that I’m highly compatible with. Which makes no difference to me because I don’t intend to saddle myself with offspring and I certainly won’t be settling down.

Not now.

Not ever.

After Charlotte left me at the altar, I promised myself I’d never let myself risk that kind of heartache again.

I’m a bitter shell of the guy I used to be. I couldn’t survive that twice.

So I never let myself get attached.

Sure, I fuck women. I fuck plenty of women. I hardly ever fuck the same girl twice, though, and I cut short anything that feels remotely like there could be feelings attached.

I’ve made an art form of the clinical hookup. Of sneaking out before sunlight, the polite message the next day trailing into silence in the weeks that follow.

Best for everyone if feelings don’t get too intense.

So why the fuck did I let myself get so carried away with Olivia that I was this close to pushing her back on the counter of my five-star restaurant and fucking her despite all the red flags?

It’s just not like me.

Refusing to consider the obvious, I stomp back to my car to find my phone, which I stashed there earlier in the night. When I’m shifted, I don’t tend to keep it on me. It only gets in the way.

I pull up a message to Billy and type.

Noah: feeling a bit rough. I’m going to b late in tomorrow. Can you manage prep?

It’s late, but since when do sous chefs sleep?

Moments later, three dots appear, shortly followed by his message.

Billy: No worries, boss. Take it easy.

I don’t feel bad about the lie. It’s none of anyone’s business what I do.

I do feel bad about leaving everyone in the lurch, though.

Once I’ve cooled off, I’ll go back tonight and set up some of the complex sauces and things I don’t trust the apprentices with. Get them a head start before I lock up.

Not like I’ll be sleeping much tonight anyway. I can feel that already.

Truth be told, I don’t sleep well out of the water. Never have.

I hate the feeling of dry skin.

Since monsters came out, I took every opportunity, every moment I got, to be in my kraken form. The people of Kraken Cove quickly learned to get used to it, like it or not. Why should I hide what I am? I’ll never understand why my parents and my brothers insist on doing so.

I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately. Things still haven’t settled into a predictable rhythm at the restaurant since opening. Some nights I think we’re going to get slammed and it’s quiet. Others, I give someone the night off and the place blows up.

That’s all this is. Just an over-reaction to all the pressure of starting my own business.

So what if my body reacted to her? It means nothing. I’ve no doubt offended her, so she won’t be back. Done deal.

Which is a shame because I was really hoping for that positive review. Still, business is booming. We’ll be right. Fuck her and fuck her review.

Fuck her useless fucking boyfriend too.

I would have said she deserves better, but apparently we’re none of us any better than anyone else, myself included. I just wish I could care a little less about it.

The very worst part is that Charlotte was right—at least partly. She always said one day I’d understand.

I guess today’s that day.

That only makes it worse, though. The way I hate myself today. Almost as much as I hate her and that asshole she left me for.

I wake at about three in the morning, cock aching and the phantom taste of Olivia on my lips. God she’s sweet. Like the heady alcohol and sweet coconut of the dessert I made her, mingled with something so fucking right, even now it hurts just thinking about it.

Tasting with your mouth is nothing to tasting flesh like that. The sweet subtle flavor of a woman’s skin. The salty tang of a juicy cunt.

And I’ve never tasted a cunt as sweet as Olivia’s.

I punch my pillow and sit, dragging a hand over my face, wishing I could put it out of my head.

I can’t, though. Every time I close my eyes, I’m right back in that moment, tentacles dragging through salty sweetness, lips closed around a pert nipple while he little moans fill my ears.

With a curse, I throw back the covers and drag on a shirt and some sneakers. It’ll be cold on the bike, but I don’t bother with my jacket. I need to feel the bite of the air on my skin.

What the fuck made me go in that cupboard anyway? Why do I always have to play with fire?

I’ve never envied my brother Luke his happily ever after more. Getting back with the childhood crush he pined over for years seemed like all his dreams came true. The kind of thing that happens to guys like Luke, but not to me.

And for good reason.

Luke’s always been the easy-going mender. Mending arguments and smoothing over things in our family.

And what was he always smoothing over? Nine times out of ten, it was the trouble I caused. Because as much as Luke’s always been the good boy, I was the troublemaker.

Always was. Always will be.

I sling a leg over the bike and kick the engine into gear regardless of the late hour and the neighbors. Let them go have a word with my parents tomorrow. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Living in a small town sucks the fun out of life. There’s always someone to complain about every move you make. Every time you scratch yourself.

Not a single one of them really gets it.

Not a single one would stop to think about how my parents bent over backward to fit in here. They don’t give a toss. They’re all too busy squabbling over petty traffic infringements or the fact that the council might let that chain open their store in the center of town.

Well who cares?

They can go to hell just as soon as I’ve used them all as my stepping stones to a way out of this dead-end town and on to a better life.