Page 3 of The Marriage Deal (Sunset Falls #1)

MENACE TO SOCIETY

brIGGS

Ican’t get what the crazy little lunatic said the other morning out of my head. Truth be told, I can’t get her out of my head. Her scent. The promise of sweet on my tongue at the taste of warm honey on her breath. I can’t recall a moment in my life where anyone held me so captive.

I don’t like it.

Hooking my finger through the loop of the bright pink coffee cup painted with little yellow flowers, I take a long sip of the brew. It’s good, even if the big guy behind the counter glared at me the whole time he made it. At least he didn’t spit in it. I watched.

While all dishes in The Tasty Rise are mismatched, I can’t help but note the other men in the establishment have been given cups in pretty much any color other than the hot pink mug I currently clutch.

I smirk, taking another sip. If he thinks I’ll be cowed by a little pink, he’s got another thing coming.

A glance around the café suggests more than the barista has another thing coming, in fact, because I won’t be run out of town by a few glares or snidely muttered remarks. I’ve been through far worse than this little town has to offer, and my skin is thicker than to let a sharp quip cut.

Since I arrived, it’s been no secret the townsfolk of Sunset Falls want me gone. At least, that’s what I figured they all wanted, until the nameless woman I can’t get out of my head led me to believe they needed something else.

I’d been too hot and bothered by the infuriating little woman to fully absorb her words when she’d said them. But I’d had plenty of time since to consider.

I’ve since come to the conclusion that Sunset Falls relies heavily on the success of Alder Wines.

They rely not only on the winery to bring tourism to this quiet little town, but to stimulate the rather lagging economy with the jobs Alder Wines provides.

My late fath—damn, I hate calling Daniel Alder my father in any capacity.

The only father I’d ever known had been Trent Mallory. But Daniel sired me, even if he’d never been a part of my life.

And for some ungodly reason, he’d left his land and business to me.

The bells on the door jingle as it opens. My eyes slide that way absently. My thoughts fizzle out, pink flower-dotted mug halfway to my lips.

Her. The cliff-jumping, flower-thieving little lunatic.

My mouth goes dry as I settle in my chair in the corner where I’ve got a complete view of the café. The entire café fades to the background of her as my eyes fix unwillingly on her. My gaze is a prisoner to the magnetic pull she has over it. I’d call her a black hole if she wasn’t so damn bright.

She gives a little bounce on the balls of her white sneaker-covered feet as she waves a bouquet of undoubtedly stolen flowers in her hand at the widely grinning man behind the counter. Her outfit should be a crime, and yet I can’t deny she looks good. Too good.

I shift in my seat and clear my throat lowly as my mug finally connects with my lips. The sip turns into a chug as I attempt to wash away the dry throat that hit me the moment she walked in.

This attraction I feel is insane, especially considering the way her mere presence ignites a hot flame of frustration inside me.

The woman is wearing denim overalls cut into shorts. They’re baggy enough to conceal the ball busting curves I know she hides underneath. Or that’s what I think until I catch sight of the smooth skin of her waist where the denim cut is low, and the crop of her top is high.

Fuck. Me.

I avert my gaze, but it’s not long before it’s pulled by that gravitational magnetic force to her again.

I quit fighting the pull and settle in to sip my coffee as I watch the show that is her.

She moves now with a weightlessness that somehow conceals the heaviness that loomed, threatening to crush her that first day I’d seen her leaning over the cliff. Her life had flashed before my eyes in that moment. No, not her life. My life.

I’m losing my mind.

But I’d seen her with me. My hands in her hair, her body in my arms. Felt the beat of her heart against mine all before I’d seen her face. Before I ever fell into the pools of buttery brown, drunk off the spice of rum.

I didn’t know what it meant, excused it as a natural fear that anyone might experience when seeing someone on the cusp of throwing in the towel of life. But I’m beginning to think it’s more.

Maybe I’ve been repressing my true nature all my life and something about her has pulled out the crazy in me. Because I think I might be obsessed with this woman.

Isn’t that what it means when a man can’t get a woman out of his head? Thinks of her every second of the day and night? Loses sleep over the thought of hunting her down and begging for a date, a taste of her lips.

Christ, I need therapy.

I don’t even like the woman. She’s utterly maddening and entirely not my type.

And yet…

She drops the little bunch of flowers into a mason jar filled with water on top of the glass display showcasing freshly baked goods. I watch, ensnared, as she dances behind the counter into the waiting arms of the man who served me.

A spear of something hot and bitterly uncomfortable wedges its way through my chest, stealing my breath even as I struggle to choke it down. The feeling is disturbingly foreign. I watch, unable to look away, as he pulls back to drop a quick kiss to her forehead.

That’s when I realize what the uncomfortable feeling is: jealousy.

I don’t think I’ve been jealous over a woman a day in my life.

An aged chuckle rich with years and threaded with a wisdom I have no interest in facing demands my attention.

I shift reluctantly to look at the woman I’d given a polite nod to when I’d first claimed my table.

Milky blue eyes are no longer fixed to the crossword puzzle she’d been working on, but instead bounce between me and the nameless little lunatic who now makes herself a cup of coffee as though she owns the place.

Maybe she does own the place?

“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” Her voice is low enough not to draw attention, but still, a shiver of unease crawls over my flesh.

“Don’t know about pretty,” I lie.

The lines around her eyes deepen with a knowing smirk. “Mmmhmm.”

She pens another word into the puzzle. I’m close enough to read it. DELUDER.

I sigh. Fitting. I’m deluding myself if I think the woman behind the counter is anything but the most enchanting woman I’ve ever seen.

The old woman knows it.

Even the crossword puzzle knows it.

Fate hates me.

I mutter, “She’s a thief.”

The old woman’s brows wing up. “She stole from you?”

Only my heart straight out of my chest when she jumped off that cliff to—what I’d thought for all of five seconds had been to her death. Before I realized I’d been rudely punked.

I clear my throat. “Flowers. She steals flowers.” I point to the window where a pot of flowers sits outside. “From businesses.”

Wry amusement brightens the watery blue of her eyes. She leans back in her chair. “Is that so?”

“It is.” I nod matter of fact, gesturing back to the woman in question as she lifts the to-go cup to pink lips that smile at him. She takes a sip, shoots the man a wink and dances around the counter and across the café to the door without ever glancing in my direction. “And apparently coffee, too.”

The old woman laughs, rich and hearty. “Lilah,” she says.

“Her name is Lilah Bellamy, and she works for Sunrise Blooms. Most businesses on main street pay Sunrise Blooms to care for the flowers, and Lilah cuts small bouquets for the businesses who enroll in the care subscription. She rotates who she gives the bunch to, but today just so happens to be The Tasty Rise’s turn.

” She clears her throat as I listen to the information she gives me, wanting more.

Craving more. She doesn’t disappoint. “This café is her family café, and that man—” She points a long, frail finger to the tan man with the long black hair behind the register.

“Is her adopted brother, Dakota Bellamy. He works construction, taking him mostly to Penticton and sometimes Kelowna, but he helps in the café when he’s needed. ”

Huh. So, the woman isn’t a thief, after all. But she’s still the definition of trouble. I should steer clear of her. So, why is it that all I want to do is chase her down the boardwalk? To make her see me? To spar with her with words?

I grunt around the dregs of my coffee. “The woman’s a menace to society.”

The old woman laughs, catching the gaze of more than a few patrons.

Glares turn slightly curious as she reaches across the small distance between our tables to pat me on the shoulder.

But it’s under her breath that she tells me, “Lilah might be a little wild, but she’s got a big heart full of big love.

One day she’ll find herself a man who deserves that big love, and he’ll be the luckiest man to ever breathe. ”

With a parting pat, she leans back to her side and resumes penning in her crossword. As for me, I’ve been stung by the bite of curiosity that demands I get to the bottom of a particular little woman who lives on the edge of lunacy. A woman named Lilah.