What You See: Sons of the Survivalist: 3 Page 20

  Scowling at her emails, she thought she could use some chocolate. Two of her friends in New York had married military guys; a couple of the Bocelli models had lovers in the security business. Another friend worked in defense. After the book club meeting, she’d asked them all about finding a reputable mercenary team. Their replies were discouraging, filled with warnings about the various mercenary outfits for various reasons—bad reps, incompetent, rip-offs, criminals. Some guy named deVries had quit the business. She still had a couple of her friends who hadn’t weighed in…and really, she was only checking into mercenaries as a worst-case scenario.

  Maybe the next chore on her to-do list would go better. That was doubtful, though. She picked up her cell phone, selected a contact, and tried to bolster her courage. Speaking with her family seemed to get more difficult the longer she was in Alaska. Maybe because—aside from her trips to see Nonna—this was the longest she’d ever spent away from them. She missed them, but watching Bull with his family made her see that hers wasn’t very loving. Or supportive of anything unrelated to their own interests.

  Sure, she knew that…in a way. Most of her friends had wonderful parents. But she’d never stepped back and really considered hers.

  She tapped the CALL square.

  “Francesca, it’s about time you returned my call.”

  “Mama, hi. I saw you’d called a couple of times. I’m sorry, but the cell reception at the cabin is crummy. I waited to call you from town.”

  The atmosphere in the little coffee shop seemed to darken with the spew of irritated language coming from the phone.

  “Mama—”

  “Just tell me when you’re returning. Nyla can’t handle your job. We’ve had two models quit and a photographer has refused to work with Jaxson. Birgit wants a new makeup artist, and…”

  As her mother continued, Frankie thought of how she’d read about criminals killed by having stones piled on them. Until the weight slowly suffocated them. As her mother complained that Frankie’s absence had affected the entire family and the company, she felt her lungs struggle for air.

  She needed to be here for Kit—and in New York for her family.

  She couldn’t be both places.

  Her stomach tightened until nausea swamped her. She didn’t even know if Kit was still in the compound. What if Obadiah had taken her back to Texas?

  “I’m sorry, Mama, but I’m not going to fly right back. I haven’t had a vacation since I left college. Not one. For the last two years, I’ve asked to hire an assistant—someone I could train to fill my shoes when I can’t be there.”

  “That’s unreasonable, Francesca. We can’t afford to have an assistant for you. Your job isn’t that essential and if—”

  If my position isn’t essential, then why are you so angry that I’m gone? “Mama, listen—”

  “No, you will return. You’ve had your vacation and…”

  As the words poured over her, Frankie could feel her muscles getting tenser. Turning sideways, she bumped her wounded arm on the back of the booth. Ow. Caz had just taken the stitches out an hour ago.

  All too easily, she could feel how the bullet had sliced through her arm. If the shot had been more accurate, she wouldn’t be here at all. And she was done. Just done with all the complaints.

  “You know, Mama, if I was dead, you’d manage without me. So, since my job isn’t that essential, just suck it up and manage.”

  There was a shocked silence on the phone. Frankie was the good child, not a prima donna model, but the one everyone could count on. She didn’t have moods, didn’t have temper tantrums.

  Didn’t have needs.

  To hell with that.

  “Sorry, Mama, but I need to go. I’ll be back when my vacation is over. If you don’t think Nyla can handle the job, then hire someone else.” Before Mama could respond, Frankie said firmly, “I love you, bye.”

  With a long sigh, she banged her head against the back of the booth. “Porca miseria.”

  “I know a bit of Italian. ‘Damn me’, right?” The owner of the coffee shop set Frankie’s cappuccino, as well as a cinnamon roll, down.

  “That’s right.” Frankie eyed the plate. “I only ordered coffee.”

  “On the house. It sounded like you could use something sweet.”

  “Could I ever.” With a half-bitter laugh, Frankie nibbled on the roll. “Mmm, this is decadent. I’m Frankie, by the way.”

  “One of the roadhouse’s new servers, I know. I’m Sarah. My husband Uriah and I own this place.” With stylish short brown hair, the petite woman was around forty. Frankie’d seen her with her young daughter and a baby. Two children, a business, and living in Alaska would explain why she was so lean, despite making scrumptious desserts.

  “It’s good to meet you. I mean with names and all.”

  Sarah laughed. “After, what, three weeks, you’re almost a regular. How do you like our small town?”

  “Rescue is great.” Frankie grinned. “Being so far from home, I love the sound of a fellow New Yorker’s accent.”

  “You’re from New York? I heard that rumor and didn’t believe it.” Grinning, Sarah sat down across from Frankie in the booth. “How’d you escape without an accent?”

  “It took some work. It returns if I get upset, although usually the Italian one overpowers it.”

  “Italian, hmm?” Sarah lifted her eyebrows. “I had a guy in here last week Googling Italian swear words on his phone. Something like ‘tessydee cah-so’?”

  Frankie felt her face flush. “Testa di cazzo. It’s…um…equivalent to calling someone an asshole.”

  “I had a feeling he heard it from you. Was he a bad date?” Sarah grinned. “Sorry, but I love gossip.”

  “Since I do, too, it’d be hypocritical to complain.” Frankie shook her head. “He wasn’t a date—at least, not mine. I caught the man banging a woman in the roadhouse bathroom, and he called me the c-word for interrupting before he finished.”

  “Interrupting a banging? How rude of you.” Sarah burst out laughing.

  “Guys don’t change no matter the size of the city.” Neither did women, actually. Frankie considered the coffee shop owner…who liked gossip. “I must say, I’ve never met any men who are quite like those Patriot Zealots. What’s with them?”

  “Them.” The word held a super-helping of disgust. “They believe every word of their so-called prophet, Parrish, and they treat women like shit. Don’t use them as an example of normal Alaskan guys.”

  “Ah, another example of a messed-up navigation system.”

  Sarah gave her a puzzled look. “Navigation system. What?”

  “It’s like…ideas originate in a man’s little head”—Frankie motioned toward her crotch—“and go through the pelvic roundabout before reaching the big head”—she tapped her forehead—“so they can think before acting. Unfortunately, some men’s thoughts never make it out of the round-about.”

  “That’s a scary analysis and too true.” Sarah had a beautiful laugh. “The PZs lose a lot of brainpower in that sex roundabout.”

  “Huh.” Hmm. If sexual stuff made them brainless, would that be a way to get more information? She needed to know Kit was still there. She’d said they might send Obadiah, her, and Aric back to Texas.

  It would be awful to break into the compound and find out Kit wasn’t even in the state.

  “I could have called the police, rather than shouting at the restroom lothario,” Frankie said. “But I don’t know JJ well or how she’d react.”

  Sarah smiled. “Officer JJ would have hauled his bare ass out through the bar, pitched him into the parking lot, and given him a reaming out…without raising her voice.”

  “Huh. I raised my voice. I guess Alaskans are less rude—or does she like the lothario types like the PZs?”

  “JJ?” Sarah burst out laughing. “She’s a female in what the idiots consider a man’s profession and has suffered for it from day one of her career. She’s only been in Alaska since last
fall—she’s from Nevada—but I know she’d love to kick some PZ butts.”

  That sounded good. Still…she’d best be sure. Frankie shook her head. “It’s odd, but I swear I heard one of the police officers was a Patriot Zealot.”

  “Oh, you’re thinking of the patrol officer whose place she took. Officer Baumer was a PZ…right up until the bars closed behind him.”

  Neither JJ nor Gabe were Patriot Zealots. Relief swept through Frankie; she liked them both. And the last officer was in jail. “I’m sure Officer Baumer is getting lonely. We should send some of his fanatic friends to keep him company.”

  Sarah snickered. “For JJ, the woman has a talent at diffusing situations. She’s incredibly controlled. She doesn’t even swear much…unlike certain Italians I’ve heard of.” Sarah winked, and Frankie knew she’d found another possible friend.

  Frankie wrinkled her nose. “At least I swear in another language to keep from offending all the English-speaking people.”

  “You’re going to have to give me a translation guide,” Sarah said. “Just for…educational…purposes.”

  Frankie laughed.

  Expression sobering, Sarah traced a finger in a wet spot on the table. “I spoke with Harvey, the other day. About you and Bull doing that role-play intervention.”

  Uh-oh. Frankie waited, hoping the conversation wasn’t about to turn ugly.

  “Harvey has been our friend since my husband and I arrived in Rescue.” Sarah half-smiled. “He said his behavior had been totally out of line, and most places would either have condoned his assholery or fired him. You and Bull educated him and gave him a chance to make things right. He really does appreciate it.”

  Frankie relaxed. “He’s working hard to make amends. Even better, he’s turned into the sexual harassment police. No one steps over the line in the kitchen, and the young women told me they’re a lot happier at work.”

  Sarah grinned. “He was horrified to think they saw him as a dirty old man. He said he’s going for a knight protector title instead.”

  “We’re all grateful he feels that way.” Poor Bull was still unhappy he hadn’t caught the problem before.

  A customer entered the shop, and Sarah rose. “It was nice to finally get a chance to talk with you. We’re glad you’re here.”

  What a sweet thing to say. “Thank you.”

  Nibbling on the pastry, Frankie watched Sarah serve the steady stream of customers. Some came in for coffee, some for bakery goods. A person could have a pastry and coffee, or take a pie or loaf of bread home for the family. Unlike New York where every tiny shop had a specialty, the Rescue stores often merged a couple of businesses into one. There was an art gallery with crafting and hobby supplies. The sports store that catered to fishermen also rented ski equipment and bikes. The hardware store sold lumber.

  Everyone was friendly. She couldn’t recall a time in New York, ever, when a store owner came out for an introduction and gossip session.

  If it weren’t for worrying about Kit, she’d be more content in Rescue than she’d ever been in her life. The town itself was great. Like with that woman who’d twisted her ankle. After seeing her in the health clinic, Caz had told his brothers she needed help. Bull, naturally, volunteered to do a food run. All his family had taken turns visiting the woman, then the town found out, and the woman had more help than she knew what to do with.

  Frankie smiled. She’d gone with Bull on the food run…because just being with him was wonderful.

  She’d sure failed at keeping their relationship casual. Guilt swept over her. The minute she had Kit and Aric in her car, she was out of here, probably without saying any goodbyes, and then she’d be back in New York. But…he knew their time would end.

  She was past the point of no return; any attempt to shield her heart from being broken was useless.

  So, she would simply savor every moment she could spend with him.

  Because he was worth the pain.

  In the roadhouse, Bull waited for Frankie to arrive. Yesterday, the contractors had finished remodeling the echoingly large room that had held only his desk and filing cabinets. Now there was a conference area with a round table that could seat a dozen people. The back was divided into two offices with sound absorbing partition walls. One was his. The other was equipped with a desk, computer, phone, and the usual office accoutrements. Ready for a manager, whoever they might be.

  He knew who he wanted.

  Frankie would make an excellent manager, and he hoped the position gave her an incentive to stay. Maybe the position would show her how she could fit in at the roadhouse. With the town. With him.

  He wanted to let her know how much he trusted her…and needed her—yeah, that, too.

  Work had taken over his life, and he hadn’t realized it until he couldn’t find enough minutes in his days to spend with her. He was overloaded, no doubt about it. Sarge’s Investment Group—all the businesses and buildings Mako had willed them—required restoration, leasing, selling, managing.

  And he had his own businesses. Thankfully, his Bull’s Moose brewery in Anchorage and his restaurants in Anchorage and Homer had managers. But he needed help with the roadhouse here. Ordering napkins and silverware, scheduling staff, the day-to-day organizing? Nothing he enjoyed.

  Bartending, though, was enjoyable—and owning a business meant he should get to do the fun stuff.

  Working all hours needed to stop. He needed time to hang out with his brothers, to teach Regan to cook, and to be with Frankie for more than sparring and sex.

  Although…the sparring and sex were unrivaled. He grinned. Good times.

  The crunching sound of tires on gravel came through the open window, and Frankie parked her car beside his pickup.

  Opening the office’s rear door, he motioned for Frankie to come in. As she walked in, he started to bend down to kiss her. No. They’d agreed to keep business and relationships separate.

  Guess that meant no sex on the office desk, dammit, which was a shame because she smelled like she’d just gotten out of the shower. Her soap that made him think of dark forests and full moons—and making love outside.

  Concentrate.

  “Thanks for coming in today.” He gestured her toward the conference area. “I wanted this discussion in a more formal location.”

  Her brows drew together. “Is there a problem? Is this the Alaska version of a pink slip?”

  “No, not even close.” At her worried expression, he barely kept from hugging her.

  After she sat at the table, he took a seat. “The only problem I have with you is that you’re far too qualified to be a server. Since the week you started, you’ve taken on more and more responsibility—coming up with innovative ideas, working on the décor, teaching the new waitstaff. You’re performing as a manager, and I’d like you to have the title and salary.”

  She stared at him. “You what?”

  “This can’t come as a surprise. Not with what I’ve been having you do.”

  She’d gone pale. “I thought you were just short-handed. Wanted me to help out.”

  “I am short-handed. I lack a manager. I want you to do it.”

  She shook her head. “I…I can’t. I have a job back in New York. I can’t stay here.”

  Dammit. “Can’t—or won’t? Why are you here, anyway?”

  “It’s a vacation.” Her jaw was tight. “The modeling agency hired me the day after I left college, and the only vacation I’ve taken since was to attend a friend’s wedding in Texas.” She stared down at her hands, clasped on the table.

  “Most people don’t pick up a job during their vacation.” He kept his voice level. Non-confrontational.

  She pushed her hair back, her gaze still averted. “I wanted to meet people. I like people. Working is the easiest way.”

  “I see.” If he’d learned nothing else in his life, it was that telling someone they were full of shit shut down a conversation real fast. But…for fuck’s sake.

  This was no vacatio
n to Frankie. Aside from that hike when she’d been shot outside the PZ compound, she’d never even gone sightseeing. “Do you have any idea how long you’ll be in Rescue?”

  “Um…” She bit her lip. “I’m not ready to go back to New York. Not yet. But I’ll have to, eventually.”

  Not yet was good. Never would be better. He barely managed to resist reaching for her hand. “You said ‘have to’, not want to. Maybe you should pursue what makes you happy rather than what you think you’re obligated to do?”

  Her head tilted. “Is this a case of “do as I say and not as I do”?

  “You lost me.” Bull straightened. “I love my work.”

  “Yes, you’re happy at work. But you want more than just work. I’ve seen your expression when Regan jumps into Caz’s lap, when your brothers are cuddling with their girlfriends. You want a family of your own. Why aren’t you going after that rather than working all the time?”

  She was right. He did want what Caz and Gabe had. And…if he answered that honestly, he might scare her right back to the East Coast.

  Instead, he smiled. “I’ll do just that when the time is right. We were discussing your happiness and… Let’s just say you don’t seem eager to return to New York.”

  Her mouth tightened, and unhappiness flitted over her face again.

  Leaning back, he looked deeper, studying her body language. She wasn’t fearful about what awaited her in New York. She hadn’t fled the city like Audrey had from Chicago.

  But Frankie wasn’t here to have fun, either. If anything, she appeared…determined. Like when he and his SEAL team had reconnoitered a city, taking jobs, assuming personas, waiting until the mission was a go. Not knowing when that would be.

  She was here for a reason, but pushing her for answers would force her to lie to him. It was time to take a leap of faith.

  “Frankie.” He waited until she finally met his gaze. “I’d still like to offer you the job of manager, even knowing you’ll leave when the time comes. You’re doing most of the work already. I’d like to dump the rest on you.”

  She exhaled slowly. “You’re crazy, Bull. You don’t know me.”