Page 4 of Truck Up
I quickly avert my eyes, pretending to focus on the list of online orders. Thankfully, everyone’s attention is riveted on Christian. I relax slightly, though my body has a will of its own when Christian Mutter is around. His mere presence ignites every nerve ending, awakening a fierce, primal need within me. When he touches me, I go off like a rocket.
Doing my best to maintain my composure, I return my attention to the orders. We have seven from last night that need to be shipped out first thing tomorrow morning. It will take me most of the afternoon to prepare them.
Staying busy is crucial when Christian and I share public spaces. Our relationship is a tightly guarded secret. My brothers would undoubtedly kill him if they found out. Well, they would try, but I doubt any of them could actually harm him. Christian is far stronger and more cunning than any of them.
But I yearn for the day when we can be open about our relationship. I long to hug him, to kiss him freely, without the fear of prying eyes. If only this senseless feud between the Mutters and the Kochs would end.
Perhaps one day my dreams will come true.
The bell above the door chimes softly as Mom declares, “You’re not welcome here. Please leave.”
“Mom!” I gasp, mortified and simultaneously grateful for her blunt words. Grateful because her harsh tone makes it easier to mask my emotions for this man. Mortified because, regardless of the deep-seated feud between our families, we don’t treat customers with such disdain.
My great-great-grandfather—or perhaps it was three generations back, I can’t recall—lost our family farm to the Mutters in a game of poker. A foolish gamble, and he lost. Since then, my family has been consumed by a desire for vengeance against the Mutters.
As if it’s the Mutters’ fault that my ancestor had been so reckless. If he had been foolish enough to risk everything on a single hand of poker—no matter how skilled a player he was supposed to be—he had reaped what he had sown.
That was my perspective, at least.
But the rest of my family? They’re determined to make the Mutters suffer for a transgression that occurred generations before they were even born.
Which is why my clandestine affair with Christian is so dangerous. If my family discovers the truth, they will disown me.
A shadow falls over me as a sheet of paper lands on top of my order sheets. My face flushes. If Mom looks too closely, she’ll see the betraying blush.
I glance up at Christian, my breath catching in my throat. His frown and sharp jawline make him appear angry, but I know better. If he removes his sunglasses, everyone will witness the heat and desire smoldering in his deep brown eyes.
Because I feel that intense gaze to my core. I clench my thighs and focus on the paper he tossed in front of me. It simply readstulips are her favorite. Nothing else.
“What’s this?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t betray me. I fake a cough just in case.
“Flowers,” he says gruffly. “For Grams’s birthday.”
Grams is his grandmother, and the woman responsible for raising him and his six brothers. His dad didn’t handle the death of his first wife well, and wasn’t present as a father. He had several girlfriends after that and fathered his seven kids with four different women. None of them equipped to be a good mother.
So Grams stepped in and did what no one else would do for them.
I look back up at him. “You want an arrangement of tulips for Grams?”
“Several. For her party.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the counter, his body dangerously close to mine. I yearn to reach out and touch him, to run my fingers through his short beard and claim his lips. If we were alone, I wouldn’t hesitate.
I clear my throat again and press my hand to my stomach. That familiar queasiness washes over me again.
“That’s next Wednesday, right?”
He nods, but remains silent.
“We arenotmaking arrangements forthatwoman,” Mom declares, her voice laced with such venom that everyone winces—except Christian. He simply stares at me. I feel it.
“Mom!” I drop my face and rub my hand over my forehead. Her behavior is both embarrassing and predictable. When I look up at her, she’s glaring at Christian with murderous intent. “Please attend to Vicki Lynn’s request, and I’ll handle Christian.”
“You’re not selling him flowers. He’ll cheat you out of the money.” She insists.
“Don’t be ridiculous. He will not.”
Before I can argue further, Christian tosses a credit card onto the counter. “Whatever it costs. Charge me,” he says in a low, gravelly voice that sends shivers down my spine.