Page 15 of Make Me Yours

“Yep, good morning,” I mumble, my face hot enough to sear a scallop. “Just…looking for lids. You said the lids were down here, right, Elaina?”

“Um, yes,” Elaina says, rolling with me like the bestie she is. “And stirring sticks, too. You should find a box of both down there. On the shelf beside the little fridge. We need to get both of those restocked before the morning rush.”

There’s nothing but cleaning supplies down on this shelf, but I make a show of looking for lids and sticks until I sense Weaver moving away.

Before I can stand, Elaina nudges my hip with her foot and hisses, “What is going on? How are you and that gorgeous sexpot of a man on a nickname basis without me knowing about it, woman? You need to spill it, Gertie, and spill it quick. Before I expire from curiosity.”

I stand, shaking my head as my heart does its best to punch through my ribs. “I can’t,” I whisper. “I have to get out of here. I can’t see him again. Ever.”

Her grin falls so fast I swear I hear it hit the floor. “Did he hurt you? If so, I’m going to kill him. I’ll poison his bacon and cheese sandwich. Just say the word.”

I shake my head harder, backing toward the curtain. “No. Nothing like that. It’s…complicated. I can’t talk about it here.”

“Okay, meet me back here at three, okay?” she says. “I’ll close a little early and we can shut the curtains and talk in private.”

I nod. “Okay. Thank you. Love you.”

“Love you, too, honey,” she says, concern still writ large on her face. “Take care of yourself today, okay?”

I mutter something in response and fumble my way through the curtain. A few moments later, I’m pushing out the back door into the alley behind the café , not certain how to take care of myself in the wake of something like this.

I just know I need to put some distance between Weaver Tripp and myself.

I break into a jog, cruising into the narrow alley between Elaina’s café and the souvenir shop next door so fast, that by the time I see the broad chest looming in front of me, it’s too late to stop.

I ram into a cable-knit sweater, nose-first, and suddenly find myself in the arms of the last man I want to see right now.

Well, the second to the last, but who has time for semantics?

“Woah, there.” Mark laughs, his arms tightening around me. “You’re in a hurry. What are you doing back here?”

“Iamin a hurry,” I insist, ignoring his question. I try to pull away, but he holds me close, his thick fingers digging into the small of my back, making my skin crawl. Sometime in the past twelve hours, Mark’s touch went from interesting to repulsive. “I have to get back to the house. Gramps needs me.”

“Oh, come on, Gramps can get by on his own for one morning.” His lips turn down hard. “I need you, Gee. My dad’s dead. Heart attack out of nowhere on Thursday. It’s been fucking crazy.”

“I heard last night,” I say, torn between the urge to comfort him and the urge to demand he get his hands off me. Now. “I’m sorry, Mark. That’s really awful.” He and his dad weren’t really close—I’m pretty sure he hated Rodger most of the time, just like the rest of the harvesters in town—but losing a parent is still intense. “I can talk later, if you want to call, but I really?—”

He tugs me closer. “I can’t find my cell, and I don’t want to talk on the phone, anyway. I need you, Gee. None of the girls I’ve been seeing lately get me like you do. When I’m with you, I can relax and forget about everything, and I really need to forget right now.”

I dodge his lips as he bends to kiss me, pushing harder on his chest, but he’s strong, and he isn’t pulling any punches this morning. “Stop it, Mark. I’m serious. I have to go.”

“Just five minutes,” he says. “Just jerk me off, and I’ll return the favor later.” He releases me with one hand, reaching between us to work open his belt.

I take advantage of his divided focus to twist free. When he reaches for me again, I act on instinct, bringing my knee up between his legs before shoving him again—hard. He falls backward, tripping over his own feet before colliding with an empty trash can and tumbling to the concrete.

Only when he’s down, cursing a blue streak, do I notice the silhouette moving slowly down the alley.

Fuck.

It’s Weaver Tripp.

And he looks ready to do some violence of his own.

chapter 6

WEAVER

I’ve always had a temper.

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