No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

Thanks, Holt.

More than anything, it’s because I’m painfully aware of Fliss, this lively whirlwind behind the counter.

Her part-timers have nothing on her when she ignites the place like she’s trailing magic wherever she goes. The Nest zings with her personal touch added to every order and always greeting everyone with a sweet smile and good humor no matter how short or surly they might be with her.

That’s what gets me most.

Even now the vulture crew daggers her with ugly looks, but they still come here and slurp down her coffee with fake-ass smiles.

And I know Fliss well enough to know she’ll still return a genuine smile every time, and not just because The Nest needs the money.

That’s who she is.

She notices Eli before she sees me.

He breaks away and runs up to the coffee bar, vaulting himself onto a stool and calling, “Felicity! Come see, I just got this really cool shot of the café!”

She lifts her head, and her smile blazes even brighter. Fuck.

“Just a second, Eli.”

She finishes her latest transaction, waving her customer off with a sunny laugh, and turns back to Eli—only to halt midstride as she catches sight of me.

Then her smile vanishes.

That shouldn’t make my gut plummet.

It’s back a second later, after that split-second falter, returning with the slow creep of rose-pink across her cheeks. She glances away, tucking her hair behind her ear in a delicate gesture that makes my chest thump, my pulse throb, my attention seize.

Shit.

Have I been misreading her this whole time?

Is she not avoiding me because maybe—just maybe—

Damn.

I damn myself for the hope flaring in my chest.

This is madness.

I just well told Holt yesterday that I’m not doing this. No chasing her down. No way, no how, no dice.

Eli comes first, forever, and anything else is secondary—including women so damaged and pretty they could drop a man cold.

Yet, as Fliss flashes me her shy smile, leaning over the bar to look at the viewscreen on Eli’s camera, my spinning head doesn’t want to listen to the thought of her playing second fiddle.

Breathe, you fucking moose, I tell myself.

I do, taking a deep, fortifying breath before I sit next to Eli, leaning in shoulder to shoulder with him for a look at his latest.

It’s a good shot.

The windshield’s natural filter adds a glazed tint to the deepening mix of twilight purple and gold falling over the café’s exterior. The glittering lights illuminating the people look more like a dramatic painting rather than a photograph.

Felicity’s eyes linger on it with focus.

I smile. Once again, it strikes me how she just gives herself to things that way, how she takes Eli seriously and actually seems truly entranced by the photo.

Her eyes gleam with wonder as she reaches for the camera and then stops, curling her fingers.

“Eli,” she breathes. “It’s so lovely. I almost didn’t recognize the place.”

Eli beams with pride, blushing like Felicity. My heart thuds in my chest with mixed pride in my kid’s talent, and that frigging tug almost hurts when I see how they are together.

She’s so good for him.

I’d have to be blind to not know he misses having a mama. And Felicity’s supportive interest just makes him bloom in ways I’m not sure I can give, even though I’ve been trying like hell.

Could we be good for her, too?

Could she handle a package deal?

I’m about to split open wondering about all the things I shouldn’t, especially this thing I’ve been trying to deny that’s getting too big to contain.

The magnetism that keeps pulling me to her.

The destructive want I’ve been trying so hard to avoid.

Let’s be real. She’s not the only one who sometimes won’t look. Having her in my home—up close and personal—has been making me ache nonstop.

Just glimpsing her sleeping in my bed with her hair splashed over the pillows in a cinnamon cloud, her drowsy puttering over that French press in the mornings, my eyes always caught on the falling strap of those loose tank tops she likes to sleep in...

I don’t understand how I’m this fucking wrecked.

How and why I’m obsessed with a chick so closemouthed I don’t even know her middle name.

I don’t need to know it to feel some kind of way I don’t dare dwell on, though.

I know she loves her mother.

I know her father hurt her.

I know she’s had it hard, and she never stops smiling.

I know she’d let herself shatter to keep someone else from hurting.

I know when she loves something, she loves it with her all, and she gives herself over to it without a second thought.

I know when she smiles, it’s full of pain.

I want to know what it looks like when her smile’s running over with joy.

I know enough, dammit.

Just never enough to feel like I’m anywhere close to satisfied.

I must be staring. I clear my throat awkwardly, pretending I’m just people watching.