Page 73 of Fiona and the Fixer

Meaning I could kill him because his drug shipments were getting messed up.

“Is this one of those situations where you say it’s for a friend but really for yourself?”

“I’m insulted that you think I have ever once had shipment issues.”

Okay, he hadn’t. Not in the number of years I’d taken jobs from him. If his business acumen was put to something legal, he’d be a billionaire.

“Tell yourfriend,sorry. I’m on vacation,” I said, not interested. I didn’t need him to ride my ass on another assignment and I didn’t need anything else on my overflowing plate.

Pancake was easy. Running a bookstore, fucking a hot and incredibly frustrating woman, while keeping said woman out of trouble? A pain in my ass. I didn’t need Max to make the pain even worse. Then there were the pickle people. All in a small-ass town.

What had become of my life?

“Too bad. You owe me. You’ll do this work for my business associate. Today.”

I stared up at the ceiling. Sighed. I had no idea who the associate was. We didn’t share names on the phone. Did it matter though? Because I did a good thing for Max’s son, I was fucking stuck doing this new job.

“Fine but tell your client I’m charging him double my usual rate. A rush fee.”

“Done. Just fix the fucking problem. I’m messaging you a photo now.”

“Just a photo? No details?”

“You’re the fixer. Fix this shit.” He hung up.

A minute later, a photo came through.

“FUCK!” I shouted, staring at the image of Fiona walking past a dumpster, gripping a pickle in her hand. In the background was a white van with a cartoon pickle that looked a hell of a lot like a big green dick.

His business associate was leather jacket guy? No, definitely his boss. Still.

I had to fix Fiona?

What the hell did she do with the Highcliffs? Or worse, without?

33

DAX

Thirty minutesafter Max’s call, Fiona sauntered into the shop. I was accepting a large delivery of boxes from the mailman. As I distractedly signed for them, I looked her over. She was in one piece. Black jeans, white pullover with red at the collar and cuffs. Wearing the same outfit as in the photo Max texted.

The mailman pushed his dolly out the door and waved on the way out.

“Is your phone broken?” I asked as she came over. She was like a teenager who knew they did something wrong but if they acted natural, they might not get in trouble.

I was fucking furious, and she wasdefinitelyin trouble.

Ever since the convenience store robbery, I had the constant need to kiss her and spank her. That mix ofemotions hadn’t changed in the time since. It was stronger now than ever.

“No.”

“Then why didn’t you answer it?”

“Because I spent eight-six minutes in the Highcliff kitchen sharing my secret recipe for potato salad.”

“You don’t cook.”

She threw up her hands. “Exactly! I know there’s potatoes in it and I had to pretend to look it up on my phone. I recited a recipe from that southern lady who always pronounces tin ‘foil’ like tin ‘fall’.”

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