Bad Boy Valentine (3 page)

J
agger Barnes was so fuckin
’ late, he’d be shocked if the owner hadn’t already called his boss to bitch about it. He wished like hell he could just call it a day, go get his Harley and take it up to Bear Mountain, get the hell out of the city. But after fighting through bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Queensboro Bridge, talking his way out of a moving violation, and finding a parking spot right in front of the bakery, he wasn’t about to turn back now.

He double-checked the work order and matched it up with the name on the bakery door: Sweet Bliss. Yep, that was the place. Real slice of heaven, no doubt.

Shaking off his funk, Jagger yanked open the door and hauled his toolbox inside. An old-fashioned tinkling bell announced his arrival, but the woman standing behind the counter kept her back to him.

He took the opportunity to enjoy the view, dragging his eyes up her muscular legs to her lush little ass. She had on a tight, knee-length dress, brick red with tiny white flowers all over it, and her honey-blond hair curled over her shoulders, pinned up on one side. She reminded him of a poster one of the guys on B-block had in his cell—some 1940s movie star that the dude jerked off to every damn night.

That sort of thing had never worked for Jagger, though. He needed the real thing. Warm, wet, and willing.

He stared at her ass, his cock stirring. God, he’d love to sink his teeth right into her…

Not the time, fuckface. Shut it down.

Jagger forced his eyes up to the back of her head and cleared his throat. “Ma’am? I’m here from Callaghan about the renovations. You the owner?”

She nodded once, that silky hair sliding over shoulders. Even without seeing her face, Jagger could tell she was tense, probably pissed. Her entire body seemed spring-loaded and ready to pounce, and not in a good way.

He didn’t know much about the gig—only that it was short notice, shit budget, and the woman who was presently cold-shouldering him had just run off the last guy because apparently, despite the sweet ass, she was a real demanding piece of work.

Beautiful start to another beautiful fuckin’ day.

Jagger set his toolbox on the floor just inside the doorway and ran his hand through his mop of hair, letting out a deep sigh. He’d bailed on jobs for less in the past, but these days he didn’t have the luxury.

Suck it up, asshole. Last shot, remember?

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Got stopped on the bridge, huge clusterfuck over there.” He forced out a nervous laugh. “New York, right? What can you do.”

Silence.

Damn, she wasn’t giving him an inch.

“Look, ma’am. I really am sorry. I know I should’ve—”

“Said it eight years ago.”

“Said… excuse me?” He took another step toward the counter, but his heart rate kicked up a notch. Something sharp and painful was worming its way inside him, like a drill bit to the skull, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Her words had made no fuckin’ sense.

But still…

That voice…

She finally turned to face him, and all at once, the air left his lungs. She pinned him with her gaze, full of rage and shock and a bunch of other shit Jagger could only guess at.

Holy fuck.

Jagger pressed a hand against his chest—didn’t even think about it; it just happened. His heart was a damn jackhammer, threatening to pound its way right out of him. He felt like he’d been kicked in the ribs.

When he finally found his voice again, it was totally shot, barely a whisper. “Kit-Kat?”

He wasn’t even sure he’d spoken the name out loud, but then she sucked in a breath, flinching like he’d taken a swing at her.

“You—you work at this bakery?” Jagger stammered. He felt like a damn idiot. Of all the fuckin’ bakeries in the tri-state area, of all the possible contracting gigs, he had to show up at her place. He didn’t even know she was still in the city—he’d tried his damnedest to lose track of her over the years.

“No,” she snapped. “I
own
this bakery.” She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him hard, a look of simultaneous fire and ice so familiar it cut right through him. How many times had she stared him down like that? How many nights had he come home a little too drunk, a little too late, only to find her waiting behind the front door, ambushing him with that exact look?

Memories rushed him from all sides. God, she was still stunning, still radiant and full of fire. The only difference between eight years ago and now was that he couldn’t smile, promise, kiss, or fuck his way out of trouble with Kate Molina anymore.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I, uh…” Jagger cleared his throat, which was suddenly dry as hell. “I work for Callaghan. Got assigned the job this morning.”

“Oh yeah? Funny.” She could barely keep her anger in check. “What are the chances?”

“Wondering that myself.”

While he stood in the middle of the café with his dick in his hand, Kate grabbed a wet rag from beneath the big, boxy coffee machines and attacked the countertop with a vengeance.

“So you’re out then,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “Since when?”

“Few months now.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“I figured.”

Fuck
. The last thing he needed to do was to get mixed up with Kate Molina again. She had a life now—a good one, if the bakery was any indication. She’d moved on, just like he’d hoped she would.

Wanted? That was another thing entirely. He’d
wanted
to spend his life with her. She was the fuckin’
one
, hands down
.
Didn’t matter how much longer he had on this earth; Jagger knew that in ten years or a hundred, he’d never meet another woman like Kate.

And he’d let her slip right through his fingers.

Jagger glanced over his shoulder, looking out at the work van, parked at the curb. What he wanted now was to bolt right out of there, get in that van, and drive as fast and as far away from this place as he could.

Unfortunately, that was not an option.

“Listen, Kit-Kat. I know this is—”

“Don’t call me that. You don’t know shit.”

Jagger sighed. Obviously, she was just as thrilled about their reunion as he was. Still, he pressed on. No choice.

“If you could just point me to the work, I’ll get out of your hair and get to it.” Hard as it was, he had to make this work. He’d screwed up one gig already, and in his thirty-two years of living, he’d already used up all his second chances. Nothing drove home that point harder than the look in Kate’s eyes when she’d finally faced him.

But her repulsion didn’t change the fact that he needed this job. Desperately.

She tossed the rag into a bin behind her and got to work rearranging stacks of tiny mugs next to the coffee machines, turning them around and around until all the handles were facing the same way.

“I’m surprised you’re not working for your uncle again,” she said.

“Can’t. Against the rules. Uncle Max knows Callaghan, though. Decent guy, for the most part. I’ve met worse.”

“Right.” She came out from behind the counter, walking past him to flip on the neon OPEN sign in the front window. He caught a whiff of her scent, and it damn near knocked him to his knees. It was the same cinnamon-sugar-spiciness that had seeped into his sheets, his clothes, their apartment. The scent that had seen him off every morning, the one that had welcomed him home every night. Well, all but that last night.

He knew the moment he’d done it that it had been a mistake to leave the apartment that night, to leave Kate alone in their warm bed, to get caught up in that juvenile shit with Rage. But he’d made his choices, and he’d earned every last one of those consequences—including his time upstate.

And including—hard as it was to accept—losing Kate.

“Well, it’s been great catching up,” she said, smoothing out the front of her apron as she headed back to the counter, “but I’ve got a bakery to run, and—”

“Kate.” His hand shot out instinctively and grabbed her wrist. The feel of her skin, so warm and silky beneath his calloused fingers, sent a jolt of heat up his arm. He closed his eyes, and for a split second, he was back in that fifth-floor walkup shoebox in Bushwick, pinning her against the wall, inhaling the scent of her skin as he thrust inside her, driving her right to the fucking edge…

Stay with me, Jagger. Please don’t leave…

When he opened his eyes, Kate was glaring at him again, but despite the anger in her eyes, she hadn’t pulled away from his grasp.

God, there was so much he wanted to say to her. So much to explain, to make up for.

But he’d left her high and dry that night, and after eight years, he knew this wasn’t the time for speeches and apologies. He’d blown his chance, lost the best thing in his life, and there was no sense in wishing things were different.

Right now, all he cared about—all he could
afford
to care about—was the work.

So he let her go.

Again.

Something like disappointment flashed in her eyes, but before Jagger could be sure, it was gone, replaced with that old familiar fire.

“I’m here to work,” he said. “Obviously, this isn’t ideal. But whatever you need done, I’ll do it. I’m good for it, Kit-Kat.”

Kate bristled again. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Fine. Kate—”

“Miss Molina will do just fine.”

Jagger raised an eyebrow.

So that’s how it’s gonna be?

He stared at her good and hard, wondering if she could read his thoughts.
The last time I saw you, I had my tongue buried in your pussy, and now I can’t even call you by your first name?

But of course, Kate didn’t say another word.

“Look,
Miss Molina
. I ain’t here to argue.” Jagger sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. “Fact is, I need this gig. I screw it up, boss calls my parole officer, and I’m fucked eight ways from Sunday. It’s that simple.”

“You?
You’re
fucked?” Kate stared at him, incredulous and open-mouthed. The
fuck
coming out from between her luscious lips, the inviting “o” of her mouth, the passion in her eyes… Jagger couldn’t hold back.

“Well, maybe not
literally
fucked,” he said. “Unless…” He flashed a half-smile, letting his eyes trail down her body. It was a dick move, but he couldn’t help himself. He felt like a kid in Sunday service with his Aunt Rose, all wound up and crazy, desperate for some kind of release.

After an eternity, Kate finally smiled back. It was small, but it was real, and for one entire minute, it was like the goddamn sun coming up after a yearlong winter.

The tension between them evaporated, and just like that, they were twenty-somethings again, making up after another battleground fight, wondering whose turn it was to make the first move.

“Ah, Kit-Kat,” he whispered, taking a step closer. “Been a long-ass time.”

Kate lowered her eyes and nodded, his name escaping her lips in a soft moan that made him instantly hard.

He didn’t stop to think about what it meant, what it didn’t, whether it was a terrible idea. He just leaned close and brushed his lips against her cheek, soft as a breath.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, putting his damn heart out on a platter. “Even more than the last time I saw you.”

“Thank you,” she said.

And then she cocked her arm back and punched him squarely in the jaw.

“
W
hat the
fuck
?” Jagger grabbed his jaw and stumbled backward, the drama queen. It was obvious to Kate that she hadn’t
really
hurt him. She, on the other hand, was in total freaking agony.

“Why is your face so hard?” she demanded, shaking out her now-throbbing hand.

“Why the hell did you hit me?”

“Why… why did you show me those dimples? I don’t want to see them again. I don’t want to see
you
again. Ever.” Kate was one second away from stomping her foot like a child. She knew she was being crazy, but she couldn’t help it. The words just tumbled out of her in a pathetic rush. Still, it was better than crying. She did
not
want him to see her cry. Not like this.

She’d shed enough tears for Jagger Barnes already, and that well was long dry.

At least, it should’ve been.

She took a deep breath and channeled Georgie’s voice of reason, wishing her friend was still there. Georgie had come into her life years after Jagger had left it, but Kate had confessed the whole sob story one night over a few bottles of wine and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, and she knew Georgie would’ve had her back today.

Don’t let him get to you like this. You’re stronger than this—come on!

Turning her back on Jagger, Kate ducked behind the counter, searching around for something—anything—to occupy herself. She just needed a minute to get herself together, then she’d turn around, strong and sure, and send him marching back out that door for good. She’d rather go outside and round up a bunch of men off the street to do her renovations than spend another second with the man who’d shredded her heart.

“Kate,” Jagger said softly. Closely. Too close. She felt the air shift behind her, and then his hands were on her shoulders, warm and gentle. Part of her wanted to shrug him off, to shove him away, to hit him again—throbbing hand and all.

But another part of her—the weaker part—liked the feel of his touch on her shoulders. The warmth.

“Tell me to leave,” he said, his voice low, his breath stirring the back of her hair. “Tell me you really don’t want me here, and I’m gone, Kate. But you have to look me in the eye and say it to my face.”

Involuntarily, Kate leaned back against his chest, a solid wall of muscle that had only gotten stronger, more defined. She closed her eyes and traveled backward in time, year by year, day by day, until she was back in their Bushwick apartment, falling into his embrace after a long day at work at the bookstore café gig she’d landed after college.

Jagger may have broken her heart, but Kate’s body was the ultimate betrayer. She should’ve been repulsed and enraged, doing whatever she could to put some serious distance between her and that… that
criminal
.

Instead, everything in her was reaching out for him, craving his warmth, desperate to hold on to the touch she’d once known so intimately.

He’d called her bluff; she
didn’t
want him to leave—not really.

The truth was, she’d spent eight years planning for this moment, imagining all the ways she’d tell him off, send him packing, let him know how little he’d come to matter to her. But now that he was here, standing in her café, his strong hands on her shoulders, she couldn’t do it. Every brick of denial she’d stacked up around her crumbled the moment he’d said her nickname.

Kit-Kat…

Of all the contractors in the city, all the companies and partnerships and one-man gigs, all the possible people who knew how to swing a hammer, the guy who walked through her door just
had
to be Jagger.

She was practically obligated to punch him at least once.

But now she had to face the facts.

Kate opened her eyes, looking out into the new, unfinished space that sprawled in a gaping, ugly mess behind the counter. It needed serious electrical work, and several sheets of drywall were still stacked up along one side, waiting to be hung, plastered, and sanded. After that, the walls had to be primed and painted, lighting fixtures needed installing, the floors needed a good polish, and someone would have to set up the new tables and chairs that were being delivered early next week.

Kate sighed. She had neither the skills nor the time to do the work herself, and five other contractors had already come and gone, unable to work under her demands. There was no one else. Kate was out of options.

And part of her—a deep, buried, pathetic little part of her that should never be allowed to see the light of day—was glad she was out of options.

She wanted him to stay.

Jagger finally released her, and slowly, she turned around to face him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She lifted her hand to his jaw, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch his face. It was too intimate, too close. “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

“Nah. I had that one coming.”

“Does it hurt?”

He shook his head. “You?”

Kate flexed her fingers, trying not to wince.

“Got any ice?” he asked. “You need to ice that, or it’ll swell up like a bitch.”

She held her injured hand between them, droopy and bent like a bird that had fallen out of the nest. “Do you think I broke it?”

“Doubt it.” Jagger smiled, those damn dimples flashing again. “You didn’t hit me hard enough to break it.”

She pointed him toward the ice chest under the sink, and he scooped some ice into a clean rag, wrapping it into a pack and setting it on the counter.

“Give me your hand.”

Reluctantly, she allowed Jagger to check her over. His skin was rough and calloused, but his touch was gentle as he cradled her aching hand. His head was bent over her hand, his hair tickling her nose as he stretched and moved her fingers, one by one.

Kate tried not to shiver.

“That hurt?” he asked, his eyes snapping to hers, full of concern.

Kate shook her head. It wasn’t her hand that hurt so badly. It was everything inside of her, all the parts that had been so lost in his absence. She didn’t know what to do with herself.

“Good. It’s definitely not broken. Not even sprained, far as I could tell.” He stood up straight and let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re lucky you didn’t break the skin. Jesus, Kate.”

“I—”

“Right. I meant Miss Molina.” The warmth faded from his eyes, and with clinical efficiency, he wrapped the ice pack around her knuckles and tucked the ends of the rag into her palm. “Twenty minutes on, twenty off. Keep icing it like that for a few hours. And no more violent outbursts. Got it?”

She nodded dumbly and closed her eyes, still trying to comprehend everything that had happened in the last ten minutes. Jagger Barnes, back from the grave—that’s how it felt, anyway. By the time she opened her eyes again, Jagger was on the other side of the counter, lifting up his tool box and heading for the door.

“I’ll tell Callaghan he’s gotta send someone else.”

“But… won’t you get in trouble?”

Jagger shrugged. “I don’t want to make things any harder on you than I already have.” He held her gaze for a moment, then looked away, scanning the entire café. “Looks like you’ve done really well for yourself, Kate. I’m proud of you. I mean it.”

“I… thank you. Thanks.”

What was even happening? Fifteen minutes ago, she was sitting in the booth with Georgie, simmering in frustration about her late-for-work contractor, stressing about the renovation. In the short time since, her past had come back for her, sending her into an utter tailspin.

Kate could still feel his touch on her shoulders, on her hand, and with a sudden flash of urgency, she knew she couldn’t let him leave. Because if she let him go, if she let him walk out that door, it really
would
be the last time. He’d make sure of that. And no matter how angry and hurt she was, no matter how confused and discombobulated his return had left her, no matter how much she’d tried to convince herself otherwise, Kate wasn’t ready for that possibility just yet.

“Take care of yourself, Kit-Kat,” he said, pushing open the door and turning away from her.

“Jagger, wait!”

He waited a beat, shook his head, then finally turned to meet her eyes.

“Listen,” she said. “As long as you’re working for me, I don’t want to see those dimples. I don’t want to see that smile. I don’t want to see any part of your stupid face.”

Jagger’s eyebrows rose.

Kate knew she was being completely ridiculous again, but she couldn’t help it. She needed to put those walls up again, and fast. Because all it would take was one moment of weakness, and she’d let him back in. Working here, sharing space… she could maybe possibly probably deal with that. But getting close? Emotionally close?
Physically
close? No way.

“Is that clear?” she asked.

Jagger nodded, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. He stepped back into the café, one hand still on the door. “This mean you’re letting me keep the job?”

“The job is yours.” Kate tightened her grip on the ice pack and took a deep breath, shoring up her resolve. “But I’ve got a few conditions. And you’re not going to like them one bit.”