Dirty Sexy Saint (Dirty Sexy 1)

He sounded surprised, but whatever else he was feeling, he hid it well.

“I really didn’t want to say anything until I knew something was more concrete. For all I knew, I’d hit a dead end. Anyway, when I called, Adeline remembered who I was”—admittedly, she recognized the Jamieson name first—“and she wants to interview me next week for a position as a baker.”

“That’s great,” he said, and smiled, genuine happiness for her glimmering in his gaze. “It’s exactly what you want, though I have to admit, I’ll hate losing such a good cocktail waitress,” he said with a wink.

Still, she could tell he was pleased she was following her dreams.

“There’s something else I need to tell you.” Twisting her hands in her lap, she suddenly realized just how difficult this second part of the talk was going to be. Almost as hard as actually following through on her words.

She swallowed hard and pushed the words past her throat. “I’m going to start looking around for a place of my own. I’ve taken advantage of your generosity longer than I should have, and though you’ve been great, it’s really past time.”

A moment of shock flashed across his features, giving her hope he’d argue against it, but then he quickly schooled his expression into one she could no longer read. “It’s not a problem having you stay upstairs,” he said, a gruff edge to his voice. “But are you at the point where you can afford a place on your own?”

She heard his doubt, which she understood. He was only thinking about her hourly pay and tips, and even though she had three weeks of savings, it wasn’t nearly enough for a first and last month’s rent to secure an apartment and still have money left over for living expenses.

“Actually, yes, I can afford my own place.” She exhaled a deep breath and told him what she’d done. “I pawned my watch and necklace, so I have more than enough for rent and other necessities, as long as I budget carefully.” Budgeting was a new concept for her, but she didn’t mind if it meant being independent.

He stared at her, the hand on the bar curling into a fist, and she could tell that another round of shock had just hit him and he was trying to process her admission.

“You’ve been very busy,” he finally said, his tone flat.

“I need to start thinking about my future,” she said, her throat suddenly thick with too much emotion. “I can’t stay here forever.”

Their gazes locked, and she wanted him to respond with yes, you can so badly her heart ached. And she would stay with him if he asked, but that had never been, and probably never would be, an option. Not with a man like Clay, who believed he was meant to be alone. That his ugly past made him unworthy of loving and being loved.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. There were so many things to love about Clay. His kindness and the way he took care of everyone around him. He was a decent and generous and selfless human being. He was a man who wouldn’t hesitate to slay dragons for the woman lucky enough to stand by his side.

Samantha wished she could be that woman.

The back door to the bar opened and closed, intruding on the emotional moment between them and putting an end to their conversation.

Clay exhaled a harsh breath and ran his hand through his hair. “That must be the beer delivery I’m expecting,” he said. He moved off the stool and, without a backward glance, headed toward the storeroom.

With an awful pain in her chest, she watched Clay walk away, already feeling him pulling back and retreating from her. And that hurt most of all.

Clay was halfway across the room when a man appeared from the back hallway, and he definitely wasn’t dressed like one of the uniformed delivery guys Clay was expecting. The stranger strode into the bar, his gait deliberately slow as he surveyed the area with great interest, his posture slouched in a way that made Samantha’s skin crawl. He reminded her more of a gangster or drug addict looking for his next fix than a patron or truck driver.

Clay caught sight of him and came to an abrupt stop, his body stiffening, the muscles in his shoulders and arms bunched tight, as if bracing for a fight. Sudden tension filled the bar and slithered through Samantha, and a surge of fear raced through her, though she couldn’t say why.

“Well, well, well,” the man with the dark, slicked-back hair drawled with unmistakable arrogance. “If it isn’t Clay Kincaid, all grown up with a bar of his very own.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Clay said in a low growl so vicious and mean Samantha couldn’t believe it had come from the man she knew.

Her panic now justified, Samantha curled her hands round the edge of the bar, the hair on her arms standing on end. She’d never seen or heard this side of Clay before, and it frightened her beyond reason. She wasn’t scared of him, she was scared for him, she thought, watching the scene play out in front of her.

The light in the hallway illuminated the other man’s ugly features, and there was absolutely nothing redeeming about his scary, intimidating expression. Greasy hair fell around his face, his nose was crooked, and a long, thick scar started at the corner of his left eye and ended just below his cheekbone. And when he gave Clay a malicious smile, she could see that he was missing teeth, and the ones he did have were dark in color, decaying disgustingly.

Terror kept Samantha frozen on her seat, her insides quaking with fear.

The scary man ran his index finger along that awful-looking scar. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“Get out now!” Clay roared, his entire body vibrating with barely suppressed rage.

The other guy had balls of steel, because he didn’t so much as flinch. “Not until we have a little chat.”

His seedy gaze deliberately slid past Clay and focused on her. He blatantly leered and licked his lips, and Samantha’s stomach roiled in disgust.

“Nice piece of ass you got over there,” the man taunted.