Killian: A West Bend Saints Romance Read Free Page B

flour-covered countertop.
    “My boss?” Her face upturned and her jaw set, she looks at me with blue-grey eyes flashing. She's angry instead of grateful, but I can hardly imagine why, given the fact that I saved her ass from those two jerkoffs.
    "Yeah, the woman out there. She shouldn't tolerate that kind of stuff in her store."
    "So you think the boss is some kind of pushover," she says, her voice tight.
    "I'm just saying that you shouldn't have to work in that kind of environment. Now, slapping me isn't a real great way of showing your gratitude."
    "My gratitude ?" Her voice rises an octave. "You walked into my store, kissed me, declared me your property, and then shoved a customer's face against the wall outside and told them never to return."
    "Yeah, and slapping me is a great way of thanking me." Is she actually angry that I helped her out? That's some shit.
    Her cheeks are flushed and a piece of hair falls down over her forehead. She wipes it away and sighs loudly. Hell, I didn't think she could get any hotter than she looked yesterday, but she's proved me wrong. I think she's sexier when she's angry.
    " I'm the boss, you ass!" She yells it, her hands on her hips.
    “ You’re the boss. Well, hell. How about that.”
    She purses her lips. “Yeah, how about that. And, despite what you assumed, I had it handled. Because this is my store. And I don’t need some caveman barging in here with some misguided notion that he’s rescuing me because I can’t deal with a couple of assholes."
    “I didn’t say –“
    She holds up her hand. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much. And I can run my own damn business.”
    Shit, she’s standing there a few inches away from me, her face upturned toward mine, lush lips parted slightly, and she's absolutely stinking mad. And I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to kiss a woman more in my life.
    Is it wrong that I just want to piss her off more to see her the way she is now?
    “You’re welcome,” I say.
    Her eyes get big again. “I didn’t say thank you.”
    “You said 'thank you very much', actually.”
    “That was sarcasm. Sorry if it was too subtle for you.”
    “I accept your apology as well,” I say graciously.
    “That was not an apology.”
    “Well, it wasn’t a great apology. But you’ll get better at it.”
    By all rights, I should be apologizing to her and I damn well know it. She’s right, and I’m man enough to admit it.
    But not right now. Right now, I just want to see her with her hands on her hips and a flush on her face, leaning forward as she yells at me, her t-shirt dipping low enough that I can see the top of her cleavage as her breasts rise and fall with each breath she takes.
    I’m a pig. I never pretended otherwise.
    I’m not a complete chauvinist, though. Clearly, I underestimated Coffee Girl. She’s perfectly capable of standing up for herself. And I shouldn’t be staking my claim on her like she’s my property. But damn it, when I saw those two assholes giving her grief, I couldn’t help it. That shit just isn't right.
    She makes a frustrated sound, her hands clenched into fists at her side, then pulls her apron over her head and slams it down on the counter. “I don’t have time for an argument. I have to go pick up my kid from school.”
    “I should know your name, since we’ve just had our first fight."
    She narrows her eyes as she looks at me. “It’s not our first fight,” she says, “because there aren’t going to be any more. Because you’re going to walk out of my bakery and go back to your cabin and do whatever it is that you do there.”
    “Chop up the bodies of unsuspecting women I spill coffee on,” I say. I think I see a flash of something in her eyes then, the corners of her mouth turning up. She wants to laugh, but she doesn’t.
    She turns toward the door, holding it open for me, my cue to exit the premises, I suppose. “Lily,” she says, her one concession to me.
    “Lily,” I repeat.
    “And?”