Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(8)

Much as he’d like to believe the years had dulled the sting of what he’d done to her, he could see the condensed pain bowing her eyebrows and in the thin set of her normally full lips. He’d been cold that night, arguably as cold and apathetic as his family ever was, proving the apple hadn’t had far to fall.

His coldness had earned him a slap on the face. After taking hits his entire life, he concluded the blow from Sofie had been the most deserved. Swallowing thickly, he forced a greeting through his teeth.

One he never imagined uttering again.

“Hello, Scampi.”





A nightmare. I’m having a nightmare.

But she wasn’t. If this were a nightmare, she’d be naked.

Unfortunately, the naked part had been very real. Like this moment was very real. Which meant Donny Pate was standing in her shop. For real.

He’d aged well.

Too well, she thought with a frown.

His ink-black hair no longer covered his eyes, but it was in the same longish mass that tickled her cheeks when he’d kissed her for the first time years ago. Still long and lean, his shoulders were broader, his chest more filled out. Dark denim hugged thighs with far more muscle than she remembered.

He raised one black brow and her eyes locked on to his silver-blue ones. Those hadn’t changed. They were the color of the shallows when the lake began to freeze. They were the color of cold, the color of hollow. The color of her heart the night she’d slapped him in his stupid Jeep.

“Nice place,” he said, and she realized she hadn’t spoken yet. What was there to say?

Welcome home? How did you find me? What are you doing here?

That was a great question, actually.

“What are you doing here?” Rude, but then, he’d invented rude.

The corner of his lips lifted. Not quite a smile, but she could see she’d amused him. Good thing she’d retired from being his plaything, or his enticing smirk may have her swooning.

She’d done some growing up, too.

“Didn’t expect to find you here.” His tone gave no hint as to whether he thought this was a good thing or a bad thing.

Also: she did not care.

She was a professional. An in-charge, take-charge, confident woman who refused to let her one-time-roll-in-the-hay alter her personality.

“I’m the owner.” Pulling her shoulders, she stood straighter and replaced the look of shock on her face with neutrality. “What can I do for you?”

His mouth shrugged as if impressed she’d made something of herself. Not that she wanted to impress him.

He reached into the back pocket of his battered jeans and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Her eyes grazed his attire: simple gray T-shirt molded to nicely built arms and a muscular chest. Jeans worn from age, but clean. A far cry from the Wharf’s checkered chef’s pants he’d worn day after day, and the ratty black bandanna tied around his head.

He unfolded the paper, the star tattoo on the base of his index finger a reminder some things never changed. It took her a few seconds to drag her gaze from his hands—amazing hands.

Large, roughened from labor, and marked with a tattoo she never knew the meaning behind. There was a newer tat next to it, she noticed. A black bird—or a crow, wings spread—on the fleshy part of his thumb. She could almost feel the phantom grip of his hands back then, on her hip, on her bottom…

Anyway.

Nice hands.

“I assume this is you.”

She jerked her eyes from his hand to the paper he held. He didn’t budge, forcing her to walk across the room. When she did, she became aware of how solid he was. Living, breathing, and right in front of her. He’d always been tall, but now he seemed to tower over her. A whiff of spice rolled off his neck, the scent snapping her back to the moment he’d had her back against the door in the mansion.

She closed her eyes against the memories closing in on her.

The rake of his teeth against her mouth, the pain-and-pleasure pinch of his fingers at her nipples, the way he cupped her bottom and lifted her like she weighed nothing.

“Couch or rug?”

Blinking twice to clear her head, she snatched up the paper and flipped it around to read it. No need. She recognized the contract Gertrude drew up last year, her weakness evident in the scrawled signature next to Sofie’s indiscernible, loopy penmanship.

“Yes.” She offered the contract to him. “That’s me.”

He didn’t take it, shaking his head, and saying, “Not gonna work for me.”

For a second, she was too stunned to speak. Her eyes went to her outstretched arm, then back to his face. “Well… I—it’s not up to you.” She folded her arms over her chest, hearing the paper crunch, feeling her anxiety creep up alongside her blood pressure. She couldn’t lose her composure in front of him, of all people.

The pressure of owning her business had taken its toll these past few weeks, as did pressure from her family—an ongoing affair. Then there was the pressure of going on way too many dates over the past few years and having zero to show for it. On a good day, she rolled with the punches. Today was not that day. She wasn’t rolling anywhere.

“I’m sure you can find another venue,” he stated.

Another venue? Obviously, he’d never planned an event as huge as the Open Arms charity dinner. This wasn’t dinner for eight. This was music, this was advertising, this was formal invitations… and that was only part of it.