Page 13 of Her Filthy Grump

“Fine,” he sighs. “I love you, son.”

“I love you, too. Tell everyone I said, ‘Hey.’”

“Will do. Be safe.”

I yank the keys out of the ignition and shove them in my pocket. After the phone snaps off, I gaze out the window. Three birds swoop and soar over the park as a bright white cloud creeps across the sky. Everything’s slow here. Even the clouds move at a snail’s pace. “Never going to get used to this shit.”

I yank the door open, slam it behind me, and jog to the front door of the café. I need a shot of coffee to make it through my shift, and I’ve heard this is the closest thing to a designer coffee I’m going to find in this town.

Twenty-four hours of staring at three other dudes as they play cards, talk shit, and snore is going to take a caffeine boost.

The door of the café is bright yellow, and the shutters are painted a pristine white. In front of the picture windows are enormous flower boxes stuffed with purple, blue, and red flowers. It looks like a Skittles factory exploded in it.

Sadly, when I was supposed to be sleeping last night, I was dreaming about Layla–the woman who’s the poster child for too good to be true. She’s like cotton candy. She looks delicious, but she’s bad for your health. Somebody needs to tell my Johnson she’s poison.

As I pull open the door, a loud chime rings over my head.

“Welco–” Layla’s voice trails off, and her huge smile drops.

Fuck. Of course, she works here.I stop mid-step and force myself not to bolt. I’m not a pussy. I can handle spending ten minutes with her and not gag over her perfect–everything.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and licks her pink painted lips. My dick jumps at the movement. Yeah. Gagging over her is not the problem.

“I need a dark roast. To go.” I stride across the wooden floor as it pops under my feet. Lord, it’s like stepping into the 1960s here. Quaint with a capital “Q.”

“Coming right up.” She spins on her heel and rushes to the coffee maker.

Several seconds later, she returns to the counter and deposits the to-go cup in front of me. “Here you go. I hope you enjoy it.” Her face is full of innocence. Remember, it’s fake. She’s too good to be true.

“Thank you.” I lay the money down for the coffee and she rings it up.

“Where’re you staying?” She leans down and rests her elbows on the counter.

My eyes dart to her cleavage and then back to her eyes.Is she hitting on me?She doesn’t move to press her breasts together or bite her lower lip.No. Dumbass. She’s just doing her job. She gets paid to make idle chitchat with her customers.

Why do I turn into an idiot when I’m around her?“My cousin, Roman, owns a house on Kennett Avenue.”

“So, you’re related to Roman Clarke?” Her eyes light up, and she straightens to a standing position.

“Yes.”

“He’s the greatest guy. He’s around Gavin’s age, and when I was learning to ride a bicycle, he helped me conquer cycling without training wheels. And he was always so sweet when George Butler would come around.” She frowns.

“George Butler?” I cross my arms and lean my hip against the barstool in front of the register. Someone explain to me why I’m jumping down this rabbit hole? But for some reason I can’t stop the words from coming out.

Her jaw tightens, and she rolls her eyes. “George was a town bully. He tried to trip all the kids in school when they walked down the hall. He was a real jerk.” She shrugs. “Anyway, one day, George was chasing me down the street on his bicycle, and Roman noticed. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know what George would have done.”

My gut churns at her description of George. He sounds like all the other assholes I’ve known. “How old were you?”

“I was ten or eleven. He was probably sixteen.”

Sixteen? What the fuck?

“What kind of guy picks on little kids?” That’s my brother’s age. If I ever hear of Micah doing something like that, I’ll kick his fucking ass. Of course, he would never force himself on a woman. He was raised better.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he was misunderstood.”

“Misunderstood?” Every muscle in my body tightens in anger. “Don’t tell me you’re hellbent on fixing him. Along with everything else.”