No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

Defensive hellfire flares up inside me.

That’s not who Paxton is.

He could’ve taken the gold and ran off anytime. Even a couple of bars would’ve set him and Eli up for life, and he’d never have to worry about anything again.

Instead, he stayed.

He worried.

He fought.

He cared.

All for me.

I set my jaw so tight my teeth hurt.

Lord, give me strength.

Because I can’t keep this farce up any longer, and I need to get Paisley’s butt inside so she’ll be boxed in—and possibly suffering from a concussive head injury—when the cops show up.

Straightening, I toss my head toward the back.

“C’mon. Let’s just do the handoff. I’ll show you the gold. Paye gets her stuff, and all of you get out of my life. Deal?”

That gross, clingy gaze slides over me again. I feel like I’m being watched by a bloated snake.

He puckers his lips. “Sure thing, sweet cheeks.”

Barf.

I try to stay ahead of him as I slip around the counter, but he comes up behind me fast, crowding the space in the hall. His body brushes mine, this sick, too-hot, mealy feeling.

I skitter away, keeping a few inches of space between us as I head for the storeroom and fish out my keys.

I can practically hear his breath huffing down the back of my neck as I unlock the room, mentally calculating whether or not I can get back to the front and that hidden emergency call button in time.

There’s another one in my office, but I don’t have any reason to go there that won’t make Gavin and Paisley way too suspicious.

Right now, though, I’m worried about him figuring things out as I push the door open and flick on the light. The cord running across the ceiling and dangling down against the wall just inside the door isn’t super obvious, but someone astute—someone like Alaska, with a trained eye—might notice.

Lucky for me, Gavin’s no Alaska.

Because Gavin’s so hungry for gold that he doesn’t see anything else.

Eyes wide, his face shines like a little boy who’s just found his literal golden ticket to good fortune, the splendor before him, the possibilities.

I can practically see cartoon dollar signs lighting up his eyes—along with that cunning duplicity.

Yep, he’s plotting something.

Whether to double-cross me, double-cross Paisley, or both of us...who knows.

I just have to hope I can turn them against each other before they both turn on me.

“It’s all there,” I say, lingering in the doorway. “Careful, it’s crazy heavy. I think my father took the Lockwoods’ money and converted it into gold before hiding it. Smart man. With inflation, it’s worth a lot more today than it was when he took it and laundered it into gold bullion. So Paisley’s getting her daddy’s money back with a ton of interest. You’re welcome.”

I’m not sure Gavin even hears me. But his gun arm lowers, the weapon hanging slack in his fingers like it suddenly weighs a hundred pounds.

I have a split-second idea—kicking it out of his hands, knocking him down, and running.

Not yet.

I have to remind myself to be patient.

To play the long game.

There’s a bolt of panic running through me as he finally snaps out of his trance, shaking himself and then glancing back at me with greed glittering in his eyes.

He seems to think better of it and stops a second later, pulling a phone from the breast pocket of his shirt.

He lifts it to his ear and waits a moment, then says, “...yeah. Yeah, it’s here. It’s the gold, all right. Don’t see anything fishy. Coast is clear. She’s playing straight. Yeah, she’s alone.”

A shudder tiptoes up my spine.

I don’t need that reminder of what a precarious position I’m in.

How trapped I am.

I know all too well about thirty seconds later when the bell over the front door jingles again.

This time, I know who’s coming.

I know those sharp, clicking footsteps anywhere, dainty heels pattering across the floor.

She’s here.

And I don’t want to be stuck with Gavin in front of me, Paisley behind me, and nowhere to run.

But the weight in my back pocket feels ten times heavier as I head out to be a good hostess and meet the demon in the front of my café.

I try not to be obvious about scurrying out there, slipping behind the bar, leaning my elbows on the counter.

Paisley comes strutting up flanked by no less than six of her paid slabs of muscle. She looks like a poodle today with the giant pink bow in her hair—and her ridiculous purple leather jacket with a giant floral P emblazoned on it, childish and bright.

Believe it or not, sometimes I almost pity her.

I get it.

I got stuck in emotional quicksand when my dad died, too.

Some dark, hurt part of me will always be that little girl waiting for her father to wake up before the crack of dawn, hoping that one perfect cup of coffee will make him smile like everything can still be all right.