Scream My Name (7 page)

There weren’t many customers left, the last remaining few were either drinking coffee or paying their bill. He watched as Leila smiled at her customers, her charm reaching out to them though she appeared to not even note the effect she had on them, men and women, as she smilingly accepted the money, her charm effortless.

She moved from one table to the next, casually talking, her low husky laugh reaching over to him to envelop him, pulling at him.

He followed her with his eyes, her slim, shapely backside gently swaying back and forth in the close-fitting knee-length skirt that was not in the least bit provocative, or at least it shouldn’t have been. Yet the split in the back gave him an enticing glimpse of the back of soft, smooth looking…lickable knees.

His shaft stirred in his pants when she dropped her pen and bent over to retrieve it, and the skirt hitched up to reveal more of her honey-colored thighs. Damn. Unable to look away, he watched her stand up and gently tug at the hem of her skirt.

She turned slightly, her glance finding his centered directly on her rounded bottom. She quickly turned away and with a brisk step, headed back toward the kitchen.

B
randan continued to watch Leila interact with her customers, taking an occasional drink of the sweet tea, wondering when she’d make her way back over to him.

He also idly wondered if she always wore such slitted skirts and high heels when working. Not that he was complaining.

He felt a male grin of pure appreciation cross his face while watching her rump as she bent over, and her long legs take her from table to table as she mingled with her customers.

He’d always been attracted to a certain type of woman—usually the small dainty type were his cup of tea. Not too small that she made him feel like a pedophile, but small enough that she fit perfectly beneath him.

But this woman, with her curvaceous yet athletic looking body, had him longing to feel what it would be like to have her underneath him, giving back as much as she took as their bodies twined together, wrapped around each other as he stroked into her.

Brandan subtly adjusted himself in his pants, and widened his legs, automatically giving himself more room as his dick began to swell, just thinking about what it would be like to be inside her.

When his food arrived, the flavorful aroma instantly assaulted his nostrils and made his mouth water.

Instead of a traditional bowl, the steaming hot chili was held within a toasted brown-bread bowl, with a piece of cornbread on a small plate beside it. Brandan eagerly picked up the fat round spoon and stirred the aromatic concoction of black and red beans, tomatoes, onions, peppers, and fat hunks of sausage.

His culinary talents weren’t anything to brag about, despite the fact that his mother had cooked for a living most of her life, so he wasn’t able to name what other ingredients were in the chili. All he knew was that it all looked delicious.

He took a careful mouthful, unsure what to expect, despite the wonderful smells. He had been certain she’d make sure it was blazing hot and spicy even by Texas standards after her parting quip.

He was surprised, pleasantly so, when it had just the right amount of heat and spice, but not too much to singe the fine hairs in his nose.

“Can I get you anything else?”

Brandan looked up, surprised that she’d approached him and he hadn’t noticed.

As he swallowed, his eyes glanced over her tall, voluptuous body, and his instinct was to give a resounding “Hell, yes,” there was something else he wanted.

He swallowed the response though, along with the mouthful of chili.

She raised a brow when he shook his head no, instead of responding the way his body dictated. He decided his initial response probably wouldn’t have been the brightest move on his part.

“Can you have a seat and sit with me for a while?” he asked instead. “There aren’t too many customers left and I’m sure your waitstaff can handle them. Why don’t you sit down and talk to me?”

She looked around the café, indecision stamped on her expressive face.

“Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting, the opportunity to talk about your business, to persuade me…my partners and I, to look elsewhere for the project?” he pushed. “Unless you and Mateo have already come to an agreement about the situation?”

At that, she whipped her head around, and several of her upswept dreads tossed across her face.

She tucked her hair behind her ear and her red tongue darted out to swipe across the upper swell of her full lips.

“No, we didn’t exactly get around to that,” she said, and Brandan felt unreasonable jealousy—yes, he knew it was unreasonable, he had no claim on her—sweep over him, wondering what in the hell they
had
“gone over.”

“I guess I can sit and talk…for a minute. I’ve got to get ready to close, and I only have one waitress and a busboy left.”

“Is that your ‘busboy,’” he asked, nodding his head toward the tall guy in the corner who hadn’t taken his eyes off them the entire time they’d been talking.

She turned toward the counter to see who he was talking about, and he leaned back in his seat, taking a drink of his tea.

A corner of her wide mouth hitched in a smile and she turned back to him.

“No.”

When she said nothing more, not clarifying who the hell he was, Brandan grit his teeth, but let it go.

Again, he had no claims on her. If she wanted a harem of men to screw, who was he to say anything, he thought in dismissal, ignoring the taunting laugh of his subconscious mocking him.

Leila sat down across from Brandan and was immediately aware of their close proximity. Although he sat across from her and the table comfortably sat four, his overall…
largeness
seemed to dwarf his surroundings, leading to her feeling extremely irritated and out of sorts.

After she’d taken his order, she’d busied herself with her regulars, doing her damnedest to try and forget his presence.

As if.

He was hell-bent on making it an impossible thing to do.

She’d felt his eyes burning holes straight through the soft fabric of her blouse. Several times she had flushed in embarrassment when her body had reacted, chagrined that he could make her nipples throb simply from him being in the same vicinity.

She crossed her arms over her chest and ignored the sexy grin he threw her way at her telling response.

“This is amazing. Please give my compliments to the chef,” he said, indicating the chili which, from the looks of it, he was close to demolishing.

“Thank you. It was Aunt Sadie’s trademark recipe, one she made sure I knew how to prepare. It’s always been the most popular thing on the menu, no matter what time or season.”

“It’s amazing.”

“Thank you,” she smiled. “Mine is nowhere near as good as Sadie’s. But the customers don’t complain. They seem to enjoy it.”

“I’m sure she’d be proud. I bet it’s just as good as your aunt’s. Don’t knock yourself.”

His words eerily echoed her great-aunt’s praise, and she felt herself soften toward him.

“I wasn’t sure I’d catch you still open. I thought you closed shop at nine,” he commented, glancing around at the last remaining customers.

“Oh, we do, but the customers don’t always know that,” she laughed, some of the tension easing from her. “Especially the regulars. They usually hang around until a little after closing. We don’t kick them out,”

“Makes for longer nights, I would imagine,” he said, and Leila shrugged her shoulders.

“Yeah, but they’ve been our bread and butter for years. Some of them have been coming here since it opened, forty years ago,” she replied fondly, glancing over at Mr. Clemmons, the elderly man who sat drinking the last of his coffee. With a satisfied smile, he raised a hand for the waitress to give him his bill.

“You see that older gentlemen over there?” she asked, pointing to Mr. Clemmons. “And that dollar bill framed on the wall near the register?” She then pointed to the small framed dollar bill.

He dutifully looked at both before turning back to her. “Yes.”

“Both were Aunt Sadie’s first.” She laughed when he raised his eyebrows. “Get your mind out of the gutter,” she threw the quip at him and refrained from returning his deep laugh.

“Sorry. Can’t help it. Go on,” he encouraged.

“
Anyway
…Mr. Clemmons and his wife were Sadie’s first customers. They bought two cups of coffee and split an apple fritter with that dollar,” she smiled in nostalgia.

“That’s sweet,” he murmured, and Leila looked at his face, a mingled expression of compassion and understanding that made her breath catch.

She cleared her throat. “When his wife died a year ago, around the same time that my aunt did, I didn’t think I’d see him around here. Last month he started coming back again. Sits in the same spot and orders a cup of coffee and an apple fritter. Sadie would be happy to know he’s back.”

She fought against the tears burning the back of her eyes and turned away from his scrutiny. Her eyes flew to his when she felt his big hand cover hers for a fraction of a moment and run the rough pad of his thumb over the back of her hand.

When she’d gotten her emotions checked, she put on a bright smile and eased her hand away from his. The moment was short, yet intense. The type of moment she was beginning to understand were not so abnormal between the two of them.

Uncomfortable with her thoughts, as well as his simple comforting touch, she placed both of her hands in her lap.

“I had no idea Aunt Sadie’s had been around so long. How long have you worked here?” he asked, and the slight change in subject was a relief.

“Hmmm, let’s see…twenty-six years?” she said, and laughed when he coughed into the cup of tea.

“I was four years old when I came to live with my great-aunt, and I’ve been around the café my entire life. So it feels as though I’ve ‘worked’ here most of my life,” she said. “In fact, Aunt Sadie used to have a jazz pianist set up right over there,” she said, pointing to a small area in the corner of the café. “And for some reason I had it in my mind that I had real talent, my toy tambourine and I, and I was hell-bent on being in the ‘band’.”

“And your aunt indulged you,” he stated, a half grin on his face.

“Yeah, she was like that. Never believed in crushing anyone’s dream, no matter how far-fetched!”

“I bet you were good.”

“Not!” She choked back a laugh. “Nowhere close. But the customers didn’t mind when I’d get up and sing the only song I knew.”

“Which was probably something along the lines of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’?” he guessed, and she grinned and gave him two thumbs up for his knowledge.

“Yep, while beating the
hell
out of that little tambourine! Lord, have mercy.” They both laughed, and Leila felt closer to anyone than she had in a long time, besides Hawk, sharing the small anecdote.

“So when did you leave the cutthroat industry of musical entertainment and decide that your gift was in the culinary arts?” he asked once their laughter subsided.

“I’ve always loved being in the kitchen, was always underfoot when Aunt Sadie or any of the others were cooking. They took pity on me, taught me the fundamentals, and I experimented. Some of my concoctions were something only a mother would love, or an indulgent aunt,” she quipped. “But a lot were good. I found out that my true love was baking. I graduated from high school and got a scholarship to attend a great culinary school, and the rest is history,” she finished lightly, naming one of the top culinary schools in the world, modest, yet proud.

“The rest is history?”

Leila looked away and noticed that the café was nearly empty, that the last customer was paying their tab and heading out the door.

She turned back to Brandan and saw a light of curiosity in his eyes.

No. The rest wasn’t history.

But she didn’t want to think about how excited she’d been when they’d gotten the loan approved to expand Aunt Sadie’s, after they’d gotten their new catering business, how excited both she and her aunt had been with the opportunity to expand the business into that area.

Months before her aunt suffered the first of three back-to-back strokes that had ultimately caused her death.

The thought of her aunt no longer with her still hurt so badly, at times she woke up and thought it was all a nightmare. Hoping it was nothing more than a horrid dream.

Unfortunately, it was all too real.

She shook her head no. “Like I said, the rest was history.”

Brandan didn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed simple conversation with a woman.

Yes, the sexual energy was there between them, so vibrant, so
charged,
it felt as though it had its own life force. Yet beyond the obvious sexual attraction, he felt as though he
knew
her. He didn’t know the small things about her, what her favorite color was, her favorite music, or anything so mundane. Yet the connection was real and went beyond that.

Their email exchanges had given him a clue as to the type of woman she was. Strong, take-charge, confident.

What they hadn’t provided was something no written communication could, that she had an aura of sensuality and vitality around her that was unique, different. Something that reached out and grabbed him by the short hairs and, he shook his head, wouldn’t let go.

Damn, he was sounding like Mateo when he’d start talking about all that metaphysical stuff, but hell, it was what it was. There was something uniquely different about her, something that seemed to “fit” for him.

He couldn’t explain it, but had every intention of exploring whatever it was between them.

He reached out a hand toward her, and again lightly caressed her smooth skin. He felt his heart thud against his chest when she didn’t withdraw. Instead she turned her palm over, allowing him to twine his fingers with hers.

“Leila, I tallied the sales for you, babe, and put the money in the vault for deposit on Monday.”

Brandan straightened in his chair and bit back a cuss. He’d been so wrapped up in Leila, the two of them seemingly in a world of their own, that his surroundings had faded away to nothing.

He let the curse fly when she hastily withdrew her hand from his and looked guilty up at the man leaning against a chair at a nearby table, a sardonic look on his lean face.

“Oh, thanks, Hawk! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“Hey, no problem. You know you never need to apologize to me,” the man—Hawk—responded, and gave her a look that suggested a casual, intimate familiarity, one Brandan had no intention of allowing to continue, even if it was platonic.

Brandan stood.

He reached out a hand and saw the surprise flash across Hawk’s deep olive-toned skin before he put his hand out to shake Brandan’s.

“Hi, I’m Brandan Walters.”

“Yes. I know who you are. I’m Jarred, Jarred Wikvaya,” he said, and the two shook hands. Brandan noticed that despite his tall, lean frame, he wasn’t weak. His frame was densely packed, his grip strong, as he glanced down at his long, lean fingers wrapped around his own hand. “Hawk to my friends.”

“Nice to meet you, Jarrad,” Brandan replied before turning back to Leila.

“I’d better get out of here—”