She stopped, her gaze flicking from Dylan to Margred and back
again. She set a big cardboard box on the stainless steel counter; crossed
her arms. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting,” Margred said. “I am leaving.”
The bell over the door jangled in her wake.
“Shit,” Regina said wearily. She ran her fingers through her straight,
cropped hair. “I was going to ask her to give me another twenty minutes.”
62
“Why?” Dylan asked.
“Ma’s doing mayor stuff— waste committee meeting,” Regina
explained. “I’m covering the dinner shift by myself. Which isn’t a
problem normally, but there wasn’t room for the truck on the morning
ferry, and now I’ve got to unload the delivery myself.”
She was already moving as she spoke, sliding the carton, wedging
open the back door. There was no rest in her, no peace, only this slightly
nervous, crackling energy. And yet for the first time all day, Dylan felt
his shoulders relax.
He walked into the kitchen as she returned from the alley carrying
another big box. Through the open door he could see an old white van, its
rear doors open to reveal stacked crates and cartons.
“You are alone?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?” She sidestepped to avoid him.
He followed. “Where is Nick?”
“At Danny Trujillo’s, playing Ultimate Alliance. Get out of my
way.”
He took the box from her instead, dumping it on the counter.
She bit her lip. “Listen—”
The front bell jingled. Regina glanced toward the door and back at
him, her dilemma plain on her face.
He showed her the edge of his teeth. “Deal with it.”
The customers? Or him helping her? He wasn’t sure.
Maybe she wasn’t either, but she didn’t have much choice. She shot
him a look and stalked through the swinging door. He heard her voice.
“How’s it going, Henry? What can I get you tonight?”
Dylan unloaded two more cartons while she boxed Henry’s dinner—one lasagna to go— and took an order for four lobsters, steamed, with a
side of slaw.
63
She bumped a hip against the door, grabbing up the lobsters on her
way to the cook top. “Thanks.” She dismissed him. “I’ll get the rest in a
minute.”
Dylan ignored her. Each case of tomatoes must weigh sixty pounds.
How had she gotten them into the van in the first place? “Where does this
go?”
“Walk-in refrigerator. On your left. But—”
“What’s wrong with iceberg?” he asked, to distract her.
She dropped the lobsters into boiling water. Dylan restrained a
wince. “Other than being colorless, tasteless, and relatively lacking in
nutritional value, not a thing.”
“Then why buy it?”
“I don’t. So either my mother did, or the supplier switched the
order.”
She snapped the lids on various containers: lemon, butter, cole slaw.
By the time she rang up the lobsters, Dylan was setting the last case on
the floor.
Regina blew out her breath. “Thanks. I guess I owe you.”
“I’m sure we can work out some form of payment,” he said silkily.
She snorted. “I’ll cook you dinner.”
“That’s not what I had in mind.” He moved in, trapping her against
the stainless steel counter, watching awareness bloom in her big brown
eyes.
“Too bad, because that’s all I’m offering.”
He stepped between her thighs, sliding his hands into her hair,
beneath her bandana. The pulse in her throat leaped against the heel of his
hand. “Then I won’t wait for you to offer,” he said and took her scowling
mouth.
64
She tasted sharp and earthy, like sun-warmed tomatoes and olives
and garlic. She smelled like apricots. She flooded his senses, filled his
head, good, yes, this, now. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her mouth
was warm and eager. He felt the tension in her tight little body as she
pressed against him, slight breasts, narrow waist, slim thighs, all fine, all
feminine, all his, and the hunger in him
again. She set a big cardboard box on the stainless steel counter; crossed
her arms. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting,” Margred said. “I am leaving.”
The bell over the door jangled in her wake.
“Shit,” Regina said wearily. She ran her fingers through her straight,
cropped hair. “I was going to ask her to give me another twenty minutes.”
62
“Why?” Dylan asked.
“Ma’s doing mayor stuff— waste committee meeting,” Regina
explained. “I’m covering the dinner shift by myself. Which isn’t a
problem normally, but there wasn’t room for the truck on the morning
ferry, and now I’ve got to unload the delivery myself.”
She was already moving as she spoke, sliding the carton, wedging
open the back door. There was no rest in her, no peace, only this slightly
nervous, crackling energy. And yet for the first time all day, Dylan felt
his shoulders relax.
He walked into the kitchen as she returned from the alley carrying
another big box. Through the open door he could see an old white van, its
rear doors open to reveal stacked crates and cartons.
“You are alone?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?” She sidestepped to avoid him.
He followed. “Where is Nick?”
“At Danny Trujillo’s, playing Ultimate Alliance. Get out of my
way.”
He took the box from her instead, dumping it on the counter.
She bit her lip. “Listen—”
The front bell jingled. Regina glanced toward the door and back at
him, her dilemma plain on her face.
He showed her the edge of his teeth. “Deal with it.”
The customers? Or him helping her? He wasn’t sure.
Maybe she wasn’t either, but she didn’t have much choice. She shot
him a look and stalked through the swinging door. He heard her voice.
“How’s it going, Henry? What can I get you tonight?”
Dylan unloaded two more cartons while she boxed Henry’s dinner—one lasagna to go— and took an order for four lobsters, steamed, with a
side of slaw.
63
She bumped a hip against the door, grabbing up the lobsters on her
way to the cook top. “Thanks.” She dismissed him. “I’ll get the rest in a
minute.”
Dylan ignored her. Each case of tomatoes must weigh sixty pounds.
How had she gotten them into the van in the first place? “Where does this
go?”
“Walk-in refrigerator. On your left. But—”
“What’s wrong with iceberg?” he asked, to distract her.
She dropped the lobsters into boiling water. Dylan restrained a
wince. “Other than being colorless, tasteless, and relatively lacking in
nutritional value, not a thing.”
“Then why buy it?”
“I don’t. So either my mother did, or the supplier switched the
order.”
She snapped the lids on various containers: lemon, butter, cole slaw.
By the time she rang up the lobsters, Dylan was setting the last case on
the floor.
Regina blew out her breath. “Thanks. I guess I owe you.”
“I’m sure we can work out some form of payment,” he said silkily.
She snorted. “I’ll cook you dinner.”
“That’s not what I had in mind.” He moved in, trapping her against
the stainless steel counter, watching awareness bloom in her big brown
eyes.
“Too bad, because that’s all I’m offering.”
He stepped between her thighs, sliding his hands into her hair,
beneath her bandana. The pulse in her throat leaped against the heel of his
hand. “Then I won’t wait for you to offer,” he said and took her scowling
mouth.
64
She tasted sharp and earthy, like sun-warmed tomatoes and olives
and garlic. She smelled like apricots. She flooded his senses, filled his
head, good, yes, this, now. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her mouth
was warm and eager. He felt the tension in her tight little body as she
pressed against him, slight breasts, narrow waist, slim thighs, all fine, all
feminine, all his, and the hunger in him
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