No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

“You see, this is a nosy little town, and nosy people talk,” she whispers, her mouth splitting in an eerie grin. “And what those dirty little gossips told me is that you’ve been snooping around, you busy little bee. Suddenly you’re oh-so-curious about what your daddy used to do for us. Now, why ever would that be, Fe-li-ci-teeeee?”

I can’t think quick enough to come up with a lie.

Not one she’ll believe.

Not when she’s hissing my own butchered name like a cobra.

But I’m thinking quick enough to look for a defensive weapon.

My gaze shudders left. Right.

There, on a small decorative table against the wall just next to me—one of the very first mugs I’d had made, a sample piece before I started selling them. It’s not all that heavy, but if I could grab it, swing it, smash it over her head...

It might disorient her long enough for me to get away—or at least long enough to give me a fighting chance against those bulldog guards outside.

I have to get to Alaska.

That’s all I can think about.

I’ll only be safe with him.

I risk the knife and lunge—and nearly scream when I feel its tip grazing my throat and jaw like a lover’s tongue—but I’ve only got one shot.

I snatch the mug by the handle, swing it around—

And yelp, nearly dropping it as Paisley hits me like a cannonball and bodyslams me face-first into the wall.

The breath whooshes out of me in a flat rush.

Bruising force smashes into my chest, my face.

For someone so small, she knows how to throw her weight around.

Next thing I know, I’ve got a pointy elbow digging into the small of my back, and a skinny arm around my neck with the point of that blade digging at the soft spot under my ear, just behind my jaw.

All she’d have to do is jerk her arm back to open up a second smile and make me grin bloody bright red.

The last thing I’d ever do.

I’m helpless, the handle of the mug clutched in my fingers. I can’t even do anything with it unless I really think flailing back and banging it at her hip would save my bacon.

Unlikely.

So much for being brave.

Not even my dog’s coming to the rescue, the sound of his startled bark tells me he’s skittering away to hide in the bedroom. Who could blame him?

My vision swims with panic.

I try to make my pulse stop trying to burst through my skin, struggling to survive, to think.

Think, Felicity.

Try to find some way out of this—even as Paisley presses into my back and hisses in my ear, her voice lisping and sickly intimate.

“You really are a major dum-dum. Not very smart, Fe-li-ci-tee,” she giggles, digging the knife-tip into my skin, pushing it so taut, a pressure point on the verge of doom. With a whimper, I rise up on my toes, straining away. “What’d you think you were gonna do, missy? Smash a window? That’s destruction of property. My property. Until I get what I want, everything you think is yours belongs to mwah. So be nice to my ugly old house, okay?”

This is where I should shut it.

Say nothing.

Stare at her with teary doe eyes, desperate and scared and pleading for mercy.

But if I’ve ever had one talent, it’s not doing what I should.

My lip curls in an acid hiss as I push myself closer to her.

“What did I think? I think I was about to crack your evil fucking head open, you psycho pixie bitch,” I snarl.

Yeah.

Not the smartest bluff where self-preservation is concerned.

But my head throbs from being smacked against the wall, and maybe she scrambled something loose in my grey matter. Because as scared as I am?

I’m also rabid-dog fighting mad and trying to figure out if I can hook a foot around her ankle and pitch her tiny ass on the floor.

But she pushes harder against me until it’s starting to feel gross.

The way she molds her body into mine, her lips moving against my ear like she’s enjoying just how uncomfortable she’s making me with her weight against my skin.

“I’m going to let you get away with that because it was funny,” she croons. “You’re so cute when you try to play tough, Fe-li-ci-tee. Screw your coffee. All that dirty talk gets me wired. But I wanna know what you’re up to. You must be up to something, hmmm? So many people sniffing around you. So many dogs on your trail. I think you’ve finally figured something out and I want to stop playing patty cake and hear it!”

I grit my teeth, turning my head just enough to catch a glimpse of her over my shoulder, and angling a little so I’m pressed to the edge of the blade, not the point.

“What? What do you want?” I spit.

“You know your daddy stole millions from my daddy,” she whispers, her face suddenly going creepily empty again. “And I want his money—my money—back.”