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Single Dad Boss: A Small Town Romance by Kara Hart (135)

Dahlia

“Ouch!” I muttered, jumping back from the surprise pain. I looked down at my finger. I small prick of blood trickled out. “Dammit, I always do this,” I said. The house was quiet and empty. Jen had left for school already. Of course, she left without waking her mother up.

I set the roses I was trimming down on the table and walked to the bathroom to get a Band-Aid. It was just a small puncture, nothing a little peroxide couldn’t handle. I walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. I noticed my face turn pale as I opened the mirror-like door. “Shit,” I mumbled, feeling dizzy. I grabbed onto the toilet for balance, but soon gave way to the feeling and sat down.

“Come on, Dahlia. You’re okay. You can get through this. Just breathe.” I whispered aloud. Since coming to this town, I had no one in my life. No one, except for my daughter. We left Seattle for a better existence, but Monroe, Michigan was a bit of an adjustment. Leaving family behind wasn’t exactly the breath of fresh air I hoped it would be. But leaving the ones who wanted me dead was a necessity.

Did Jen really leave without telling me again? She was getting to be that age where she would just run off to explore without telling me. Still, it wasn’t safe for her to just walk to school. Sure, this was a small town, but every small town had its set of delinquents. And for whatever reason, she wasn’t well-liked by her classmates. Some new girl from the outskirts of Seattle? They took one look at her and scoffed. City girl.

I picked myself back up, grabbed a band-aid, and walked back into the kitchen.

“Stupid roses,” I said. I had gotten them for everyone at the café. I had been working there for a few months and I thought it might be nice to give everyone flowers for their hard work. Okay, maybe it was a weird idea, but I was trying to set my life straight.

Back in Seattle I rubbed everyone the wrong way. I had a boyfriend who stole literally everything from everyone, and I was too inside my own head to be a good person. Put it like this: I loved to watch people suffer. I wouldn’t physically hurt people. That was up to Cade, my ex. No, I would con people and leave them out on the curb. It wasn’t just in Seattle either. I’d lived in Phoenix, St. Louis, New York City, and Oakland. Monroe was just the smallest town to get me back to normal. Or so I had hoped.

“Morning George!” I shouted on my way to work. My morning run was a new habit to get my blood pumping in the morning. I heard it helped people deal with depression, though it didn’t do much for me. In fact, it messed with my asthma more than anything. Okay, it was a bad habit. In my right hand was the bouquet of roses, wrapped in a plastic bag. The café was just a mile or so up and I could see it in the distance.

Cars passed me as I ran. I waved to the ones I knew. To the ones I didn’t know, I simply smiled and hoped they didn’t judge me. As the new person in town, single without a solid career, I was sure my situation looked a little strange to outsiders, but I was trying my best. A car, black and raised, sped by me going at least 70 miles per hour down a residential street. The car swerved from side to side, taking no heed for pedestrians.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Slow the fuck down, asshole!” The man honked and swerved by, until his engine made a loud noise. He was forced to pull off to the side of the road. I could feel my throat tensing up as my anger seemed to exacerbate my lungs. I’m fine, I keep telling myself. Just breathe and you’ll be fine.

I shook my head and laughed to myself, headed toward the car. “It’s my lucky day,” I said, ready to give this guy my worst. The man got out of the car and opened the hood. Steam rose from the engine and the man shook his head and shielded his eyes from the smoke.

When I was nearer, I called out “Hey!” He turned and looked at me. “This is a small town and you’re speeding like a reckless maniac,” I said.

“And?” He turned back to look at his engine, going through it with his bare hands and a tool. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself.

“And there are nice people who go on walks! Children and the elderly. And here you are, driving like a total douchebag, without a care in the world.” The man paid no attention to my ramblings. I grew even angrier. “You know, I ought to take your license plate and report you. I know the Sheriff, you know.” It was a lie, but I didn’t like the idea.

“You got kids?” He asked me. His voice was deep and masculine, and it rumbled as if the sound waves ricocheted off the bottom of a whisky barrel. I found myself stepping back.

“No, I don’t,” I lied. “But other people in this town do. So watch it, okay?” He grabbed his shirt from the bottom of the fabric and lifted it up.

“You know anything about engines?” He asked me, standing there shirtless, wrapping the cotton around his right hand. He twisted a knob and poured some fluid in the opening

“No, sorry.” I mumbled. Was he seriously missing the point here? I looked him up and down. His pecs were covered in tattoos. In fact, his whole body was scattered with them. Tattoos, small bruises, and a few scars. I didn’t even want to know where he got those.

“Then get off my case. This isn’t my day.” he said to me, leaning into his engine some more. “Fuck. I’m going to have to call a mechanic now.”

“You’re going to have to do more than that because I’m calling the police!” I yelled, making my voice heard.

He crawled out from under the hood and dropped his tool on the road. He walked forward, as close to me as he could get, until his chest practically touched mine. His words hit my face like a ton of bricks. “What do you want from me? You going to bust my balls all day? Am I going to have to force you to leave?” He asked me, clenching his fists.

He was built like a statue and I didn’t want to know what forcing me to leave felt like. “No,” I muttered. “It’s just that this is a nice community of people. We protect each other here.”

“Cute,” he said. His dark eyes pierced right through me. Now that he was closer to me, I could see the tattoo on his right side. “Z” with a knife coming down right through it. It looked like one of those mafia prison tattoos I saw in one of those History Channel shows a while back.

“Yeah, so watch where you’re driving,” I whispered, feeling my throat tighten up with fear, but also a strange kind of attraction that kept me standing there.

“How about a compromise? Why don’t you take a different route in the mornings so you never have to see me again? Because I know you’re a little Sherriff friend. And turns out, he’s a good friend of mine too. We should all get dinner sometime. I think that would be fun.” He smiled, though his eyes remained dark and determined as ever.

“I was just saying…” I gulped. I was flustered and embarrassed. I really didn’t want him to see that I had been staring at that “Z” for at least a minute straight. What did it mean? It was clearly some kind of affiliation to something. Let it go, Dahlia, my instinct told me.

He started to smile as his gaze fell downward. “You're pretty small, huh?” He asked me.

I took a slight step back. Maybe I shouldn't have stopped. Maybe I should have just went straight to work. “Why the hell do you care?” I found myself getting defensive. I glanced down at my chest and realized my cleavage was falling out a bit too much. I adjusted myself and remained still.

“It would be fun to take you for a ride,” he said, smirking. “Next time though.”

Excuse me?” I replied, shocked he had the audacity to say such a thing. “Do you talk to your mother like that?” I asked him. It was an old lady thing to say and I realized how much I sounded like a mom.

“My mom’s been dead for years. I don't talk to her at all these days,” he replied. He turned around and began fiddling with his engine again. “Quit looking at my chest,” he said, shaking his burly head at me.

As he moved away from me, his scent enveloped the whole area. It smelled like cologne, foreign cobblestone, and old cracked leather. I couldn't help but feel intrigued, yet the way he spoke to me was repulsive. I pegged him for one of those patriarchal men’s rights type of guys.

“I wasn't looking at your chest, you pig,” I spat out. “I actually don't have time for this. I have work. Just stay off our roads if you're going to max out your stupid engine.” I huffed, making my way toward the café once again.

“Sure thing, honey. Catch you on the flip side,” he said with such arrogance I could have turned around and socked him. Before I started running, I turned my head slightly to get one last look at the guy. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw specks of reddish-brown around his bruised and injured left hand. One of his gold rings was practically painted with it.

“Is that blood?” I asked him.

“It's nothing,” he said, quickly covering it up. Though it was kind of out of the ordinary, it didn't necessarily mean anything. He could have gotten into a fight, or fell down somewhere. Who was I to judge? I shrugged it off and ran to work.

Of course, I was late. I ran through the front doors, as the bell above me loudly rang, and clocked in.

“You're late,” Carmelo Gelsone, my boss, said to me. He stood next to the bar, arms folded, and he did not look too happy. “And why do you reek of cologne?” He said suddenly, with a sour look on his face.

“Sorry, Carl,” I muttered, putting my apron on. “It won't happen again.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? It's Carmelo. Carl is my son. This is the third time you've been late this month. Does this job mean anything to you?” He wiped his hands on a dry towel and shook his bald head. Carl had put his whole life into this café. He came to America from the islands of Sicily thirty years ago and never looked back.

“This job means everything to me, Carmelo. You know I have a daughter,” I said, turning very serious. It was a serious accusation. I may had been stupid in the past, but my daughter was my life and this job meant my daughter could go to a good school.

“I know,” he sighed. “But no more! The customers need you here!” I looked around the empty room. The only movement around us was buzzing flies at the windows.

I looked at him as if he were delusional. “What?” He asked me, throwing his hands in the air wildly. Suddenly, the bell above the front rang and the glass door swung open violently. My stomach sank as I lifted my eyes to see the man in black. “There we go! A customer! Good morning, sir,” Carmelo said.

“Morning,” the man muttered, his deep voice sent waves of warmth between my legs. I took one look at him and wondered what he would look like between my legs, or towering over me even. I quickly dismissed the idea. What is happening to me? Clearly, I needed to get laid.

He sat down at a table and sighed, now smelling of gasoline and engine grease. I walked over and set a lone menu down for him to look at. “You couldn't stay away, huh?” I asked.

“Got hungry,” he said. A small smirk pushed his cheeks up. “Anyway. I don't need a menu. I know what I want. Two eggs, sourdough toast, extra bacon cooked extra bone-dry crispy, and a steak on the side. Oh, and coffee. Black. That's it.”

“Hungry man,” I said, writing his order down. “Okay I'll have it out in 15.” He nodded.

As I walked away he said, “Work accident.”

I turned around, confused by his words. “Excuse me?”

He raised his eyes and looked at me. He looked tired and worn out, as if he had a really tough week. “My hands. You asked me what the blood was from. It was a work accident.”

“What kind of work do you do? You a boxer or something?” I taped his order above the kitchen opening and walked back to the table.

“Ha, no. I don't box. I've fought enough people in my life to be one though.” He looked down at my legs. The spandex from my yoga pants molded around my flesh. I blushed, feeling a prickling sensation rush through my body. He was strong. He had this raw, unadulterated power to him. It was rare. Still, his presence was more of a nuisance than anything else.

“Eyes up here, bud,” I said, getting annoyed by his wandering gaze.

“I work up in Detroit. In the factories. Lots of things can go wrong. Unfortunately, a screw got loose in the mechanics and a whole row of shipping containers fell on top of one of the workers,” He said. He was nonchalant, as if this happened every day.

“Oh my God. Is he okay?” I asked, suddenly feeling concern for a stranger. Why the hell did I care? Two minutes ago, this guy was such a prick. Now I was opening up to him? Well, it was a lonely town and I could use some conversation.

“No. He died. I tried everything I could to get that damn container off him. Mangled my hand trying to save his life,” he said, taking off his jacket. His shirt was smeared with oil and grease from his car.

“I'm sorry.” I didn't know what else to say. Lucky for me, his order came up. I awkwardly went behind the bar to grab it and set it on the table for him.

“Well, enjoy your food. Sounds like you deserve it. And I'm sorry for earlier. Even though you were kind of being a dick, I shouldn't have caused such a scene,” I said. “Hope your day is a little better for ya.”

“It's okay, I get it.” He ate his food like a wild animal, as if he hadn't eaten in weeks and his life depended on it.

When he was finished he left a hundred-dollar bill and walked right out. “Keep the change. I'll see you around.” He muttered without even looking at me. Something told me I'd be seeing him again soon.

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