Chapter Two
"Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.”
Cash Evans watched as the cute little barista, Bailey, stamped her feet and rubbed her hands against the arms of her jumper. He couldn’t blame her. It was bloody freezing outside. She chanted her shock as she stamped, staring worriedly into the window of the coffee shop.
And if he noticed the way her ripe hips and full thighs bounced beneath those tight, black trousers she wore—well. That didn’t make him too much of an arsehole, did it?
It probably did. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.
"You shouldn't have done that," John was saying, rubbing his own hands together.
She took a break from her stress-chant to give the poor guy a weak smile. "Don't be silly," she breezed. It wasn’t convincing. "I had to leave anyway. We need to get you a coat."
"Bailey, I told you before. You can't just keep buying me things—"
Suddenly, the door to the coffee shop swung open. Tara stood there, an apologetic wince on her pretty face. Her arms were piled high with a thick coat and messenger bag, which she held out to Bailey.
"You forgot your stuff," she said loudly. And then, lowering her voice: "I'm so sorry, Bailey. I should—"
"You should go back to work," Bailey interrupted. "Before he loses it and sacks you too."
Cash stared, feeling like he'd stepped into some kind of alternate reality.
He'd been coming to buy shitty coffee from this woman on a semi-regular basis for weeks now—and truthfully, he'd had to exert a hell of a lot of control to keep it at that. No increase in visits. Certainly no asking for her number. Just harmless flirting.
Because there was no way that a woman as adorable, as sweet, and as effortlessly sexy as Bailey could be anything other than a persona. Right? Like a character she slipped into, along with her uniform. She was just chasing tips. Taking service with a smile to the next level. It couldn't be real. She couldn't really be like this.
Except here she was: no apron, no job, still Bailey.
What. The. Fuck?
Cash watched as she slid her huge, puffy coat onto John's shoulders, arguing fiercely against his protests. The man was still shaking; clearly, he needed it. But it was a freezing December night, and Bailey's cute little jumper wouldn't keep her warm for long. Cash shrugged off his leather jacket, pushing it towards her.
"You take this," he said. "Doesn't look like much, but it's warm enough."
She turned, looking up at him with eyes that glittered in the dark. Those eyes were better than a shot of espresso; especially when she stared at him like he was some kind of hero. A man could get used to that.
"What's your name?" She asked, the question startling him. "You never told me."
Embarrassed, he grimaced. There was a reason he hadn't mentioned his name. "It's Cash.”
"Really?" He waited for a smirk or some over-the-top coo that would shatter his impression of how genuine she was. But all that came was her sunny grin. "That's very… American,” she said with a good-natured laugh.
Shaking his head, he put the jacket over her shoulders as she'd just done to John. “Yeah,” he muttered. ”That’s one way of putting it.” But he felt his lips curl into a smile.
"I can't take your coat," she protested. "You'll be cold."
"I'll be fine.” He let his gaze rake over her face, tracing its smooth contours. Then her lips parted, and he forced himself to turn away. Because fuck, the sight of her soft mouth slightly open, just like it would be if she were gasping beneath him—
Cash had known he had a thing for the girl at the coffee shop. But it was beginning to turn into a problem.
John stood watching them, a smile playing about his bloodless lips. He was still shaking, clutching his backpack to his chest now. The longer Cash looked, the more he realised that John was just a young man, despite the worn-out tiredness that clung to him like a parasite. In a split-second, Cash made his decision.
"Come on," he said. "Let me take you somewhere." Because aside from anything, if he didn’t start moving now, he might do or say something to Bailey that he’d eventually regret.
Before he could second-guess himself, Cash started off across the square. He didn’t have to look back to know that the pair were trailing after him. Cash didn’t have a lot of positive qualities; he knew that. But one thing was for sure: when he spoke, people listened.
∞∞∞
Just a few ice-cold minutes later, Cash led the way into a nearby hotel. He headed to the front desk and had a brief exchange with the perky young woman who manned it. Just as she handed over a keycard—and Cash handed over his credit card—he felt a gentle touch at his shoulder.
He turned to find Bailey looking up at him, his leather jacket dwarfing her narrow shoulders and her delicate brow furrowed.
"What are you doing?" She asked, her voice low.
"Booking a room."
She raised her eyebrows. “Like in Pretty Woman?”
“I’ve never seen Pretty Woman.”
“Oh. Um… Never mind.”
Cash didn’t understand half of the references she made, but he definitely enjoyed the embarrassed smiles she flashed after making them. Still, he remembered, they weren’t at the coffee shop now. There was no time to indulge his weird fascination with this girl.
"For John," he said shortly. "Just for a week or so. Until we can sort him out."
Her cheeks plumped as she smiled wide. And there was that look again, the one that said, My hero.
Not true. But he was starting to think he'd like it to be.
There you go again, lusting after treasure like a beast under a bridge.
"Here you are, Sir," said the receptionist, holding out his card with a white-toothed smile. "That's all sorted for you."
"Thanks, Mandy," he answered, reading the name on her badge. Force of habit.
He turned to catch John's eye, indicating to the younger man that he should follow. Then he headed to the lift, and they all made their way to room 302.
"Here we go," Cash said, unlocking the door and stepping into a spacious room with a tea set, double bed, TV, and ensuite. John walked in and Bailey followed, closing the door behind them.
"For... For me?" John asked, his hoarse voice barely a whisper.
"Yeah. Just for now." Cash handed the keycard over, then grabbed his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a business card and put it on the side table, by the phone. "You can call me tomorrow, or I'll call you sometime after lunch. I think we could do something to help you get back on your feet."
John stared, his eyes wide and brimming with tears. Behind him, Bailey turned tactfully away. "Why are you helping me?" The younger man asked.
Cash spoke quietly. "Because this could happen to anyone. This could happen—" his throat felt tight suddenly, but he pushed through the rising panic, mastered it, forced it back into the farthest recess of his mind. Clearing his throat, he finished: "This could happen to me. And if it did, I'd want help. Everyone deserves help." Then he smiled, as though that could break through the heavy air that had fallen on the room. "Anyway," he said. "It's Christmas."
John reached out a hand, hope and joy and relief shining through his tired features. Cash echoed his movement, and the two men shook hands firmly before one of them—or perhaps both of them at once—pulled the other into a hug.
"Thank you," John said softly. "Thank you. One day I'll repay your kindness." The quiet words rang with the solemnity of a vow.
Cash shook his head. They pulled apart, and John made his way over to the window, gazing out at the lights of the square. While his back was turned, Cash pulled a handful of twenties from his wallet and put them at the end of the bed, along with a business card.
"We'll leave you to it, mate," he said, heading towards the door. "Get something to eat, yeah?"
John turned, surprise on his face. Then he saw the money on the bed. "Oh, Cash, no—"
"Stop it. Need you fighting fit." He winked. Then he said, "Let's go, Bailey," before he could stop himself. As if he had any control over her. As if they were a package deal. As if she'd follow.
But she did, for some reason, and that brought the ghost of a smile to his face.
"Have a good night, John," she called. "I'll ring you too."
"Bailey. Thank you. Thank you for always being so good to me."
"You don't need to thank me. You're my friend."
Cash watched as she smiled at John, her honesty shining through like a star. She was so blindingly, beautifully bright, and yet he couldn't look away. He should look away, shouldn't he?
They walked out into the corridor, shutting John's door behind them.
Cash leaned against the blandly papered wall, studying the design on the thick hotel carpet. The shades and shapes of its brash pattern were so violently unsuited that they practically offended his eyes. They definitely offended his artistic sensibilities.
"Hey," Bailey said softly. "Cash." The sound of his name on her lips sent a thrill through his gut. It was like the first time he'd gotten on a motorbike, or the high after his first tattoo. But it came from nothing more extreme than this woman. Maybe it was because she was so very off-limits—so very out of his league. Maybe it was because she’d been safe when she was stuck behind a counter, but now she was real and he wanted her badly. Whatever the reason, in that moment, he made the decision to chase the feeling she gave him.
“Yeah?” He asked.
She stepped forward, and he stood up straight as though she had him on a leash. Which she did, really—only it was secured around his suddenly-aching balls, and she didn’t even know it yet.
“Why did you do that?” She asked, her voice solemn.
“Do what?”
“Help John.”
He raised a brow. “Why did you help John?”
“Because I like him,” she said immediately. No hesitation. “And I think he’s a good guy. And I wish… I wish things were better. For everyone.”
Cash tried to keep himself under control—but he’d never been very good at that. So he wasn’t surprised when his hands moved, apparently of their own volition, to gently tug away the hairnet that still covered her head. “Maybe I trust your judgement,” he said, his voice low.
She held perfectly still as he pulled off the hairnet, like a doe freezing just before it fled. And she said, “You don’t even know me.”
I wish I did. It was the truth. Just like it was true that he’d spent more than a few nights thinking of her—of her smile and her tip-tilted eyes and the way her hands moved as she poured drinks—wishing that he were a different kind of man. The kind that she deserved.
But he wasn’t. He was Cash.
So he stepped away from her abruptly, doing his best to ignore the way her eyes dimmed. Then he pulled another card out of his wallet and tossed it to her like she was some kind of nuisance.
Before he could see the look on her face—the look that would shatter any illusions he might have about ever being her hero—he turned away. As he stalked down the corridor, he called over his shoulder: “I’ve got a job for you, if you want it. Be there at ten.”
She didn't say a word in reply. He imagined her standing there amongst the bland walls and the awful carpet and the countless identical doors, staring at his business card.
But for all he knew, she could’ve dropped it in disgust. He had no idea. His rules were clear: Cash never looked back.
And before now, he’d never wished that he could.