Killian_ A West Bend Saints Rom(3)

“My eyes are up here, Neanderthal,” I say, my voice terse. “Stop looking at my boobs.”

Brick Wall meets my gaze again. “You were looking at mine.”

My face warms as I think about the way my eyes lingered on his chest. “I was not."

“Whatever you say, woman." He squats down to pick up the juice boxes scattered around the floor and places them into a nearby basket. I think I detect a smug smile under his beard like he’s purposely trying to rile me up, and it makes me even more irritated.

I don't bother to disguise the huff that escapes my lips as I grab two juice boxes out of his hands. I definitely try to ignore the heat that rushes through me when my hand grazes his. I'm not attracted to this brute. Not a chance.

“Thanks for the help.” I roll my eyes as I rise to my feet holding the basket.

“Next time, you should watch where you’re going.” Brick Wall turns and walks away with his cup in his hand.

“Now wait just a second.” I follow him down the aisle. “I should watch where I’m going? You’re the one who ran into me.”

“You need to get your facts straight. You ran into me.”

“I did not run into you.” This guy is arrogant, misogynistic, and clearly lacks social skills. I should let it go, but I'm too annoyed. Instead, I follow him to the coffee station where he disposes of his cup and fills a new one with ice. “Maybe you’re having trouble thinking clearly because of all the booze in that cup. And stop calling me woman."

“It’s iced coffee." He empties one creamer after another into the cup until I'm almost certain there's as much cream in there as there is coffee. “What else am I supposed to call you? You didn’t introduce yourself. Where I come from, that’s just plain bad manners.”

“That was obviously not just iced coffee. I smell like a distillery."

He doesn't say anything. He holds a handful of at least five sugar packets and rips the tops off of them, his eyes focused on mine. Then he winks.

Forget it. I don't have time to stick around here making small talk with a philistine. I stomp to the front of the store and set my basket full of juice boxes on the counter. “There are twenty-four in there. I’m kind of in a rush.”

I grit my teeth as Connie rings the juice boxes up slower than I think anyone’s ever done anything ever. This is just another reason I’ve been avoiding getting any supplies here if I can help it.

Then I realize I forgot my purse. Could this day get any worse?

Behind me, Brick Wall clears his throat. “Bourbon."

“Excuse me?”

“In the coffee."

“Bourbon in the middle of the day?"

"I was visiting a friend."

I snort. "At the bar?"

"As a matter of fact."

"7.33," Connie interrupts.

I exhale heavily. I know she's not going to do this, but I ask anyway. "I forgot my wallet. Can you put it on a tab?"

Connie raises her eyebrows and I roll my eyes hard. Of course not.

Brick Wall sets a ten dollar bill on the counter. "My treat."

"No, no, no," I protest. "I'll go grab my wallet."

Brick Wall sucks coffee loudly through a straw. "It's seven bucks. You need to learn to accept help."

"Excuse me?" My voice goes up an octave as I whirl around to face him. "You don't even know me."

"I know you obviously have a problem accepting help from people."

"I do not have a problem accepting –" I pause, distracted by the fact that he's drinking this disgusting concoction that bears little resemblance to actual coffee. "You really shouldn't just pour hot coffee over ice. It's all watered down. What kind of guy drinks iced coffee, anyhow?"

He leans close, speaking to me low in his throat. “One who’s real secure in his manhood."

My breath hitches in my throat and heat surges through my body, settling in my face. Good Lord, if I were wearing a dress, I’d have to check to make sure my panties didn’t just fall right off.

"Here's your change," Connie interrupts.

“You’re not buying anything for me," I protest, even as Connie hands me the bags.

“Don’t worry. You can buy me another coffee sometime to make up for the one you spilled.”

I groan. "I did not spill – you know what? Sure. I'm late and I have to go. Thanks for the juice boxes. And the wet t-shirt."

"The wet t-shirt was my pleasure," he calls.

I stop short with my bags in my hands, but I don't turn around. It takes all of the self-control I have to ignore the crude comment.

Outside, I put the bags on the floor of the passenger side of the car, ticking off my checklist in my head. I can dash back to the bakery and grab a new shirt, then run over to the school, and then race back to the bakery for another hour until Chloe gets out of school and –