Chapter 3

She’s absolutely stunning, even on this second mini-conversation, and as she holds her pen and pad in her hand, I feel myself almost split in two.

Charm her... get her off guard, lure her in, and get the job done.

But that’s where the divide is. One part of me is screaming the ‘job’ is to touch her, mark her, fuck her, and claim her as my own. All the basal, primal urges she draws up in me with the barest of smiles.

The other part is reminding me of the job I was sent here to do and my blood runs cold.

“So, what would you like?” she asks, a pink flush overtaking her cheeks that makes me wonder what’s going through her mind right this instant. I’d like to imagine it’s something dirty, something involving the two of us and sweaty sex in the bed of my truck.

But probably not. She’s a nice girl, I think, likely accustomed to taking a lover in her bed, gentle and sweet after dating for a while.

She smiles expectantly, and I realize I’ve been staring wordlessly for an awkwardly long time and not answering her question. The smile is a little brighter than what I saw yesterday when she talked with other customers. She’s smiling for me.

“A burger again?”

She remembers. Then again, I remember everything that happened between us yesterday as well. And how that bastard Russell harassed her this morning as I watched from across the street. Luckily, I hadn’t had to intervene and then was able to duck down behind the wheel of my truck in time when she rode by on her scooter.

“What’s your favorite on the menu?” I reply, painfully aware of the way her uniform is hugging her body.

She’s not voluptuous but rather lithe and lean, and the slim shirt and tight jeans show off her every slight curve and angle. Again, I’m struck by the image of her being a princess. She should be wearing a tiara and a ballgown, not worn-out and faded rags.

Even exhausted, her cheekbones are high and proud, making my palms itch to cup her face. The precious bow of her lips makes me want to trace it with my tongue.

As I watch, her lips twitch upward at the corners, like she’s actually enjoying talking to me. Even though I know I can talk my way into anything, and could probably sell porn to the Pope, it doesn’t seem like work with Isabella.

I just want to see her smile for me, to know that I gave her a moment of joy.

Dammit, how can I even consider killing such a beautiful creature? It’d be like double-tapping a unicorn.

“Well,” Isabella says, biting her lip in a way that makes my cock twitch in my jeans, “I gotta be honest, I usually get the big plates if I can around here. If you’re hungry, that means the Country Plate Special. It’s an eight-ounce chicken-fried steak, hashbrowns, eggs any way you want ‘em, two slices of toast, and two sausage patties.”

“Phew, that sounds like a lot,” I reply, chuckling. “And you can eat all that?” I let my eyes trace down her body quickly, judging her reaction.

“I usually have to doggie bag it,” Isabella says with a laugh. “Actually, it’s so big that when the Roseboro High football team’s coach wants to fatten up some linemen for the season, he sends them down here before summer workouts. Now, I’m not bragging or anything, but that little high school’s sent three kids to Division 1 schools in the past three years. So take it for what you will.”

I laugh. She knows how to turn on the diner sass while still sounding authentic. “And if I don’t want to be a linebacker?”

“The Reuben,” she assures me automatically. “With or without the gravy dip. It’s the best sandwich in town, hands down.”

“Hands down?” I ask, smiling. “You sound like someone who’s speaking from personal experience. Perk of the job?”

“Sometimes,” she admits. “But more often than not, I stick with a grilled cheese with bacon. I’m too worried I’ll get a mustard seed stuck between my teeth in the middle of a shift.”

“Ah,” I intone wisely. “The dreaded mustard seed. Nearly as deadly as that dastardly bastard spinach. Nowhere near as painful as its cousin, the popcorn shell, though.”

Isabella laughs, tucking a stray lock of her beautiful hair behind her right ear. “True. It’s a hard part of the job, but I deal with it. What about you? Any dangers lurking about in your daily life?”

Experience keeps me from freezing, even as my mind calculates whether she knows who I am and what I’m doing here. But the flirty smile lets me know she’s just making conversation without any ulterior motives, so I answer accordingly.

“My job? Oh, there are all sorts of dangers and threats,” I reply, grinning though I sound dire. “I mean, paper cuts can make even a tough guy cry.”

She laughs again, and it’s like listening to angels from above. Her laugh is musical, genuine, and pleased, and when she looks at me, I feel that same spark I felt yesterday pass between us.

But this time, it’s not just a spark, it’s damn near a flowing current, white-hot in the air between us as I look up at her from my bench seat.

“I don’t mind it if a man cries... for the right reasons,” she teases. “Paper cuts might make the list, under the right circumstances. Big paper?”

“Oh, the biggest,” I tease back, a moment later realizing how naughty that sounds.

I see the flash in Isabella’s eyes when she gets the unintentional innuendo too. She looks down at her order pad, twirling a toe against the floor nervously. “So, what’ll it be?”

Too far, man. Don’t scare her off. Not yet.

Returning to the innocuous conversation, I say, “Hmm, such a tough decision. How about this... you bring me one of each, and I’ll brown bag whichever my stomach feels like not eating?”

“Deal. You know, if you’re going to come in all the time, I’m going to have to start remembering your favorites and your name. Personalized customer service is kind of our thing around here.”

It seems like a big step for her to ask my name, like she’s not used to doing that. And I wonder if it’s because guys follow her like the Pied Piper or if it’s because she doesn’t date at all. Either way, I’m glad she set us back on course, leaving the awkwardness of a second ago behind.

“Gabe... and when I find what I like, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know,” I reply, smiling easily as she writes my order down and walks away. “Wait, what’s your name?” I ask, remembering to cover my ass even though I already know the answer.

She stops, looking over her shoulder with a smile that nearly stops my heart. “Isabella, but everyone calls me Izzy.”

While she’s gone, I watch her interact with the other customers, the cold, ruthless part of me cataloging the ways I could do the job without leaving a trace. I already know so much about her . . . her routine, her vulnerabilities, and even a way to make it look like Carraby did it. Maybe a little posthumous justice for Isabella, and punishment for a bastard like Carraby is always warranted.

But I . . . I can’t find that detachment.

I can’t judge her as evil.

No matter what I do, what mental gymnastics I’ve twisted through my head over the past couple of weeks, I can’t.

It’s never been a problem before. Clean or messy, I get it done before disappearing like smoke in the breeze. I’ve never felt guilty about it.

Not since . . .

“Okay, I talked with Henry, our cook, and he says the sauerkraut isnt good today,” Isabella says, interrupting my thoughts and actually surprising me a little. “So would you maybe like to change that into a grilled club?”

“No, I’ll just tackle the Country Special,” I reply, smiling. “As long as you don’t mind me sitting here for a couple of hours afterward, letting it settle.”

Isabella blushes a little, nodding. “Not at all.”

“It’d be a lot nicer if I could have someone to share, say, a slice of that mud pie I see behind the counter with. Maybe?”

I can see it in her eyes, a flash of excitement, and I can see she’s just about to say yes when there’s a dinging sound from the kitchen window, jangling and cutting through our talk.

“Hey, Izzy! Order up!” Henry yells from the kitchen, and Isabella’s eyes pinch down a little.

Jolted back into reality, she sighs, looking tired again, more docile. It pisses me off, because watching her eyes light up when I flirted a little with her... it was like discovering a treasure that nobody’s ever discovered before, a diamond in the rough unearthed in front of my eyes.

Now it’s hidden again, buried under minutiae and unimportant details.

By the time she comes back with my Country Special plate, the fire in her eyes is just a dim ember, barely flaring when I give her the patented heart-stopping, panty-dropping smile that I’ve had since long before I got into this line of work.

“Here you go,” she says, setting the admittedly huge platter in front of me. “Anything else, Gabe?”

I like the sound of my name on her lips, would love to bend her over this table right here and make her scream it. “How about that mud pie?” I ask instead, raising an eyebrow. “Or better yet, your number? It’s less embarrassing than coming in for lunch here tomorrow.”

I have the number already—it was part of my background check—but I would absolutely do it, come in day after day just to see her. As I look at her expectantly, every little detail comes into sharp focus.

Not just her beauty but her exhaustion. It makes me feel like a shit for thinking obscene thoughts about her, and suddenly, I imagine myself caring for her, laying her in a hot bath, rubbing the knots out of her shoulders as she soaks away the stress weighing her down, and curling up around her and holding her as she sleeps.

She’s mulling it over, and I can see her pen moving toward her order pad like she’s going to write her number down when her face falls and with a frown, she looks down.

“Ah... I shouldn’t. I’m sorry. I need to check on the other customers.” The words are mumbled, disappointment woven through them.

She scurries off, and as I watch her go, I can’t tear my eyes from her. She glances at me again before taking an order from a young couple obviously here on a cheap date, her flawless skin flushing before she turns back to her work.

I look at my Country Special, and I realize I’ve got a problem in front of me. There’s no way in hell I can eat all of this. The plate’s nearly as wide as my shoulders and covered in about a week’s worth of food. No wonder the football coaches send their players here to get hefty for the season.

I also have a professional problem. Because no matter how much I twist it, no matter how hard I try, there is no way I can justify killing Isabella.

But the most powerful man in the Pacific Northwest hired me to do just that.