Page 22 of Fiona and the Fixer

I stood, staring, because my brain was occupied with how on earth he could be here, behind the counter no less, instead of doing anything else. Anything.

“What are the tropes in this book?” A woman who looked like she came from a morning yoga class approached him and asked. Him. Whatever his name was.

His gaze left mine–although it seemed unwillingly–to answer the woman. “What’s a trope?”

She replied, speaking very slowly as if to someone just learning the language. “Themes in the book. Like alpha male.” Her shrewd gaze raked over him in his trim whitebutton down and jeans but snagged on his forearms below where his sleeves were rolled up. “BDSM and forced proximity.”

She couldn’t have made her sexual interests anyblatantlyclearer.

He took the book she held out. Stared at the cover. Flipped it over. Flipped it back.

“Tropes. Okay. A guy who works out but owns a flower shop and someone’s trying to kill him,” he said, handing it back.

That deep voice sounded as if it’d been churned through a cement mixer, it was that gravelly.

The woman reluctantly looked at the cover. “You’ve read it?” Her tone was very doubtful, because this guy? Reading romance? Impossible.

He shook his head. “No. But the man on the front lost his shirt–either it’s laundry day or there was a high wind–and it’s clear he’s fit. There are flowers all over the cover, so he’s got to work as a florist. Plus, there are bullets oddly tucked into the flowers so obviously he can shoot a gun.” He shrugged. “Not a bad cover. If you want a better answer, the owner will be back from vacation in two weeks.”

Hannah was gone for two weeks? Onvacation? Now?It figured. Crap.

The woman blinked, then set it on the counter. “I like yours. I’ll take it.”

“Cash only until I figure out how to open this machine. Or you can come back later.”

“Oh, I’ll definitely come back later, but you just pushthis button right here, the one that says Sale,” she said, smiling. She reached across the counter and pointed. If she batted her fake eyelashes any harder, she’d levitate. “I run the yoga studio one block down and use the same system.”

I couldn’t blame this woman for trying withhim.He was even more handsome and cranky than I remembered from the convenience store. Maybe he never got his coffee.

He pressed where directed and grunted. “I’m good for now,” he said into his cell and set it down.

Fiddling with the screen, he looked like he was a new recruit at McDonalds.

“You scan the back bar code with that thingie, then hit total, and–”

He followed all the woman’s steps, took her credit card, and finished the sale.

“Be sure to stop in at yoga. Class tonight’s at five. On the house.”

On the house? More likeon her.

I glanced around. Other women were in the store, every single one of them watchingHIM.

He didn’t seem to even notice. He sure as hell noticed me.

Coming around the counter after the yoga instructor left, he pointed his finger at me. “What the hell were you thinking yesterday?”

I blinked, confused at what I could have done. “What?”

He tossed his hands in obvious frustration. “What?The robbery.”

I shrugged. “He had a gun. People with guns break the law. I don’t like bad guys.”

“You don’t like bad guys?”He paused at that, then said, “No one likes bad guys. That’s why they’re called that. Otherwise, they’d begood guys.”

I rolled my eyes, and his face had the same expression a mother of an annoying teenager would have. Aggrieved, annoyed, and pushed to the brink.

“Not everybody who carries a gun breaks the law, or is a bad guy,” he replied through gritted teeth. “There’s conceal carry–which you are very aware of.”

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