Page 11 of Firefly Effect

The man is gorgeous. Strikingly so. And I can’t even see his pine-green eyes from this distance. But just because Dr. Reed has stock in the looks department means nothing for my mental health. In fact, the anxiety I felt over the possibility of seeing a new therapist—of divulging my complete history filled with trauma, heartbreak, and abandonment all over again—brought me to a level of anxiety that I haven’t felt since I was a teenager. I can’t go back there.

Shaking off those intrusive thoughts, I hand my reusable grocery bag to the manager for her to store it for me while I wrap up things at the bar’s booth. Then I get back to work, handing out samples, pouring drinks, and taking money. Time flies as the three of us work like a well-oiled machine, just like we do back at Firefly.

As I work, the town’s gossip inundates me as they loiter around our tent. Usually, I try to ignore it all, but when I hear J.D.’s name, my ears perk up. The man was popular in our small town, with a full client list and a great reputation. So when he disappeared, naturally, the rumors began. Still, no one has any concrete idea of what happened to him.

“I heard he and Gena are getting a divorce,” one woman mutters to another as they sip their beers.

The other woman gasps in response. “Really? Jenny thought maybe he was dying of cancer.”

I can’t listen to this anymore. “Armando, you’ve got the register,” I say. “I’m going to pour.”

He takes over for me while I move to the side of the tent to pour the drink orders and hand them to customers.

At some point, I hear a deep voice rumble, “Don’t worry. I come in peace.”

Chills shoot through every inch of my body. I pivot, my eyes slow to connect with his. The number of times I’ve thought about standing face-to-face with Lincoln Reed since seeing him at the bar last week has been far too many to admit, even to myself. Until him, I’ve never wondered what a beard would feel like nestled between my legs, tickling my thighs while I’m lapped by a devilishly warm tongue, leaving my skin tender with whisker burns long after a mind-blowing release.

Holy shit, I need a cold shower.

In all fairness, with a man like Lincoln, how could an orgasm be anything but mind-blowing?

Despite my nerves, I manage a smile, figuring I’ve been hard enough on the man. “What’ll it be”—the temptation to continue calling him “Doctor” is too strong, but I correct myself before I can make that mistake again—“Lincoln?”

His eyes narrow playfully, like he can read my exact thoughts, then he nods to the tap behind me. “What do you recommend?”

“I don’t drink beer.”

He gives me a second glance before focusing back on the selection of drinks. “In that case, the seasonal lager sounds right up my alley.”

As I turn to pour his drink, I’m painfully aware of his view of me, in the pair of black shorts that recently started riding an inch higher than when I purchased them three summers ago and the short black tank top that cuts into the smallest portion of my waist, accentuating every curve of my body. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about the clothes I wear, let alone anyone’s opinion of them, but I’ve never had a Lincoln Reed watching me before.

My paranoid self can practically feel his eyes burning a hole as he scans my figure. But that’s probably just ridiculous wishful thinking. I take a deep breath to settle my nerves and turn back to face him, handing him his drink. “Seven dollars,” I say, avoiding eye contact this time for the sake of my sanity.

He whips a bill from his wallet, hands it to me, and takes the drink. When I start to grab change from the till, he waves his hand. “Keep it.”

I stare down at the twenty, baffled, then blink up at him. “It’s too much.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll want another one later.”

Laughing, I shake my head and shove the till closed. “Then you’ll be out of luck, because my shift is almost over and they,” I say, pointing to my two co-workers, “don’t know you.”

Lincoln grins. “I didn’t say I’d want another today.”

An older, petite, white-haired woman approaches, her hand attached to that of a small child stumble-walking behind her. “Oh, thank heavens,” the woman says.

To my surprise, she steals the beer out of Lincoln’s hand before he’s even taken a sip and starts to gulp it down. But that’s not even the most surprising part. Lincoln doesn’t even flinch when the drink leaves his hand. Instead, he instantly reaches for the little blonde girl, who’s wearing a red-and-white-checked jean dress with white tennis shoes, and lifts her into his arms.

“Hey, Lucy,” he greets the girl fondly. “Do you want to meet a friend of Daddy’s?”

Something flutters in my chest, and I’m not sure if it’s because he just referred to me as his friend or because he called himself Daddy. At the same time, there’s a sense of panic that Lincoln has a daughter, which means he probably has a wife, and that wife is most likely nearby.

My eyes dart to the thick fingers securing Lucy’s waist. No ring. Then I shake my head at my own thoughts. He could have just forgotten to put it on this morning.

Lucy smashes her cheek into Lincoln’s chest shyly like she wants to burrow into him. “Okay,” she says in a quiet voice.

My smile is instant when I focus on the sweet girl. She’s beautiful, with big blue eyes that seem to be taking in everything going on around her and perfect ringlet curls that bounce with every slight movement she makes.

“This is Evie,” Lincoln tells her, refocusing her attention. “She used to live in our house.”

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