Mr. Di Pasqua had refused to move into an assisted living home when his wife passed away; he wanted to live out the rest of his days in the neighborhood they'd made a life in. Vivian loved the romance of that choice. Maybe someday she'd find her own true love and, if she was lucky, he'd be as devoted as her favorite customer.
The old man handed over his money when she brought him the coffee and simple white plate that held his breakfast. Like every morning, he leaned in and took a deep whiff of the pastry, sighing in contentment. "Just like my nonni's."
Yes, there was safety in routine, Vivian told herself as she began to serve the steady stream of customers. She gave each of these people some of that stability she'd always loved so much growing up. The familiar tart burst of blueberries in a fresh muffin, the buttery sweetness of shortbread, the scent of coffee and fresh bread wafting outside onto the street every time the door opened or closed. Those were things her customers could count on.
Just like you're beginning to count on seeing those letters every morning, a quiet part of her whispered.
She ignored it. Later, once Natalie was here, she'd finally be able to go back into her tiny broom closet of an office and read the damn thing. Only then would she know if she'd need to make another trip downtown to the police station or not. Until that mo
ment though, there was no point getting distracted by it. There was too much work to do and too many people counting on her to let her creepy admirer ruin her day.
Chapter 2
"Come on, man," John said, his voice loud from the phone's speaker. "What do you mean you can't come?"
"I'm sorry," Zeke apologized as he got out of his Charger and locked it, hefting his duffel more comfortably over his shoulder. "But I've got shit to take care of and then I'm back at work."
"Look, Harding, I'm serious about this one. She's incredible. I want you to meet her."
Zeke grinned and headed toward the building the Suits used as their base of operations. He was working a swing shift tonight, heading in now so he could leave early in the morning and catch a few hours of sleep before driving out to meet his dad and mom. He would willingly kill a man if he could get out of that cheery family reunion and go hang out with his former brother-in-arms John Walsh, but Preston had already approved the shift swap. There was no way out.
John must have sensed the coming argument. “We’ve been together for months now and you still haven’t had a single day off to meet her. She’s starting to think you don’t exist.”
Zeke laughed. "Look, I promise I'll meet the girl. We'll go out to dinner, make a night of it."
John sighed deeply, but there wasn't any true irritation in it. "Fine," he grumbled.
"Talk to you later, brother."
The jingle of keys hitting the pavement drew his attention. He shouldn't have looked. Every visceral, possessive, horny-as-fuck, alpha instinct rose with a vengeance. The sweet curve of her ass made his groin tighten. He fought down the groan that rose unbidden. Fecking hell, it had been far too long since he'd thrust into a woman's welcoming heat, feeling her pussy tighten around him. Standing here ogling a perfect—or at least, perfect assed—stranger was proof of that.
As if she could feel his eyes on her, the woman straightened, keys dangling from her fingers, and glanced over her shoulder.
There was no goddamn way.
It was her. The woman who owned Divine Twins Bakery. She'd been torturing him for months. They always seemed to cross paths and it was wearing him down. She arrived at work when he was leaving. The first time he'd seen her a few months ago even that wide expanse of pavement between sidewalks hadn't been enough distance.
Like the scents wafting from her bakery, she was something special. Adorably short, with curves in all the right places, pale skin, and long dark hair, she was a walking temptation. It had been okay when she'd keep her head down, only trying to catch glimpses of him out of the corner of her eye. At least then he'd been able to pretend too. Then, two months ago, after a really shitty night, he'd been stupid enough to actually look at her. To appreciate the delicate, gauzy scarf she'd wrapped around her neck that day, and the way she'd pulled her hair up. He'd looked and she'd been ballsy enough to wave.
From that moment, it was all over.
Now he couldn't not acknowledge her presence. He couldn't ignore her and pretend he wasn't interested to see exactly what her body would look like spread out on the sheets of his bed. What she'd sound like as he fucked her until she saw stars and screamed his name to the rafters.
Tonight they'd swapped roles. She was heading home for the night and he was heading to work. The street lamps had just come on, so it wasn't like he could see her face any better than normal. For some reason, he wished he could see it, that she'd finally get a good look at him. He wanted her to remember him.
She was paler than the last time he’d seen her, but skin color could easily look different in the dusky light of nightfall. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, tight, and she clutched an envelope in one hand. That was kind of weird, especially since her purse was on her shoulder and she could have easily tucked the letter into it. Instead, she held it by the corner, as if she were loath to touch it. Maybe it was a bill or final notice of some kind?
Why did he care? He didn't even know her name.
She gave a tentative finger wiggle and he returned it with his customary nod. It was odd to watch her cast her eyes downward and hurry off. Usually they both walked slowly, trying to sneak peeks when they could before the moment was over.
Whatever. He mentally shook himself, trying to shed the distracting thoughts that ricocheted around his skull. A quick thumb scan, a punched in security code, and the door into the Suits' base opened.
Like always, he was the earliest there. The other guys were never late, but Zeke preferred to avoid the usual locker room chatter. He changed quickly, storing his civvies and duffel bag in his locker, and tried hard to forget the quick glimpse he'd caught of his back. His normal routine was planned to help him avoid mirrors, but tonight he hadn't quite stepped far enough to the side to miss one.
Stupid bakery woman's fault. Such a frigging distraction.
His Sigs were comfortable weights at his side. He checked his harnesses one final time, making sure no straps were twisted, and smoothed his shirt and vest. After he swung on his jacket, he checked for telltale signs of his concealed carry. Content he met his own high standards of professionalism, he clocked in and headed down the underground hallway that connected the staff quarters to The Club proper.