He killed my research bees.
Intentionally.
And—shocker—set me up to take the fall for it.
So now he’ll see a bee sitting on his family’s building for the rest of his natural life.
I take my time enjoying the snowcapped mountain views on my way back to Snaggletooth Creek, stopping to get that SCOBY on the way. If it weren’t so damned cold and slippery here—and also where Chandler Sullivan lives, even if he hasn’t shown his face at the café yet—this would be a beautiful place to call home.
I could even see myself learning to ski. Or skate. Or snowshoe.
Which is definitely me in a warm, toasty, heated car talking, and not actual me. My fingers aren’t tingling in the car. My toes aren’t frozen. Not the way they were yesterday just being in the café.
When I pull into the Snaggletooth Creek Bean & Nugget parking lot after a quick stop home to get a batch of kombucha going, Sabrina’s SUV is here, which gives me a hiccup in the heart area.
She hasn’t quit.
Not actually a surprise, but it’s still the first thought in my head.
Am I afraid she’ll quit?
Or am I hoping she’ll quit?
I don’t know.
I just know she’s in my head and I wish she could’ve been someone who didn’t love this café so much. Because I could still be someone who likes her if she didn’t want the exact opposite of what I’m here to do.
I’m contemplating how if I were in her shoes, the last thing I’d do would be to keep working for me as I pull open the kitchen door—where the first thing I see is Jitter.
He’s sleeping in his massive house near the desk, front legs crossed and jowls twitching in his sleep.
The next thing I see is Sabrina herself.
She’s at the sink, her back to me as I make my way through the kitchen, curvy hips shaking in her tight, dark jeans, the apron strings tied around her waist swaying, her curly red hair bouncing in time with her head bopping along to the pop music coming out of the café’s speakers. She steps onto a stepstool and reaches to put a massive silver bowl up on the wire rack above with hands enclosed in bright yellow rubber kitchen gloves.
And she reaches.
And reaches.
Still shaking her hips.
Still bopping her head.
Her black T-shirt lifts to reveal creamy white skin above her waistband, and yes, my dick instantly notices.
What I wouldn’t give to have never seen this woman naked.
Because it’s all I can think of every time I look at her round, perfect ass.
Why couldn’t she have been one of the worker bees here? Or better yet, the artist next door or a dental assistant up the street?
Someone I could ask out to dinner without worrying that she was only going with me because I own the café she always thought would stay in her family.
She’s as far up on her tiptoes as she can go, and she still can’t reach the upper rack to put the bowl away.
I head across the kitchen to help, and I’m nearly there when she jumps.
From the stepstool.
My entire world freezes while she’s airborne.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap before I can stop myself.
She shrieks, stumbles on the landing, and the stepstool slides out from beneath her.
She shrieks again as her feet slide too.
The dog leaps to his feet, making an aroo? like he’s confused but also ready to wake up and take on the world.
I practically fly the rest of the distance to her as her body sways and her arms flail.
She’s teetering and falling.
She’s falling because she was jumping on a stepstool.
I know how this ends, and I see it all happening in slow motion.
This ends with her banging her head on the sink, passing out, and crashing to the ground unconscious. Hurt.
Broken.
Bleeding.
Dying.
The dog charges through his doggy door with a yelp-bark.
I bump my sore hip against the prep table, almost trip over the dog, and lunge for her, grabbing her by the arm as she catches herself on the stainless steel sink with her free hand, spins so her back is to the sink, and recovers.
Without the actual need of my help.
Naturally.
Because she’s some kind of beloved freak who can somehow defy even gravity, and it’s goddamn adorable.
The next time Zen tells me I’m in a mood, I can tell you why.
It’s because Sabrina Sullivan has seeped into my every waking thought and she’s a terrible idea.
“Wow. Well.” She straightens, then seems to realize how close I am as she slowly lifts her head to peer all the way up at me. “That wasn’t how I saw my early afternoon going, exactly, but would you look at that landing? Apparently my mom thinking I was short enough to be a gymnast when I was little still has some benefits with dexterity and balance. But maybe don’t startle people when they’re standing on stepstools next time, boss-man? Yeah? Great. Good talk. Sit, Jitter. Mama’s fine.”