“I own a coffee shop. I know more about coffee etiquette than you, and I owe you a coffee. Let’s have it tomorrow.”

She grabbed the untouched coffee from her hood, walked over to the nearest trash bin, and threw it with purpose. Then she sauntered to her SUV and yanked the driver’s door open. “There. Now you don’t owe me anything.”

“You still paid for it,” I said, not entirely sure I wasn’t fucking it up, but not having much choice, either. She was a hard nut to crack. I was so used to charming my way into women’s panties, I forgot how to worm my way into their hearts. Normally, it was embarrassingly easy.

I flexed my tatted arms, picking up my surfboard.

Gathered my wild, blond hair into a bun.

Curled my fingers and stretched on a yawn, displaying my six-pack.

Stick a fork in them. Boom. They were fucking done.

With her, I was off my game.

She slid into her seat and reached to slam the door in my face. I had to do something, anything, because I was feeling less and less in control of the situation, and I hated it. Jesse Carter wasn’t responding well to my advances, and wasn’t that an ice cold bucket of shit right into my face? I slid my foot between her door and her car.

“Wait.”

Note to self: never put your limbs anywhere near Jesse Carter when there’s a door in the vicinity. She slammed the door on my foot. Fuck.

I pulled my leg away at the same time she yelped in disbelief. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. Instead of jumping up and down and praying to hell she hadn’t broken any bones, I simply flashed her my cocky grin.

“I didn’t mean to slam it that hard.” She winced, and I think she meant it. The contrast between her black hair and fair skin was shocking. She looked like a painting. Not a weird-ass, provocative painting, like a Peter Paul Rubens. Rather, like a Disney princess. One that was drawn by a horny sixteen-year-old who gave her a pair of fantastic tits.

“Yeah? Make it up to me. Coffee. Tomorrow. Call it a job interview. I need a new barista, Snowflake,” I hissed out the words, knowing they were desperate and not giving much shit.

“I’m not looking for a job.”

“Do you have one?”

“It’s not really any of your business.”

“Good point. Let’s establish a friendship first. I’ll lure you into the position later. For now—coffee.”

“No.”

“What would it take for you to say yes?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. There’s always something.”

“Nope. Nothing would make me have coffee with you, Bane.”

“Think harder. You seem like a bright girl. I’m sure we can come up with an idea.”

She sighed, staring up at the sky like the answer was there in skywriting. “Maybe if you saved my life, and I owed you in some fundamental way. Otherwise, I don’t date.”

“You’re not listening. I want you to work for me. And to be your friend.”

“I’ll never work for you. And why would you want to be my friend?”

Because your daddy will pay me six million bucks for the pleasure.

“Because you seem like a cool chick. Because you’re funny. And quick-witted. And not the worst to look at, despite that shirt. But I don’t date. And I’m not interested in sleeping with you, either.”

Told you I was a goddamn liar.

“Are you gay?” Her eyes lit up. I might as well have pretended to be gay. I let plenty of guys suck my cock when I was younger, to see if I liked it. Then again, there was no point in lying to her more than absolutely necessary. She looked almost hopeful, chewing on a lock of her hair nervously. Like what was standing in our way of friendship was my lack of love for dick.

“No. But my job doesn’t allow for a girlfriend. It’s a long story.” I wiped my forehead again, knowing I was sweaty and greasy and ruggedly delicious to every single woman in the universe who wasn’t Jesse Carter.

“So you just want to be friends?” she asked. She was sitting in her car, and I was trying hard not to look down at my foot to see if it had fallen off, and it was goddamn sweltering. I didn’t want to be her friend at that moment. I wanted to shove my foot into a bucket of ice and curse her into next week.

“And a barista,” I added. “Two birds, one stone.”

Jesse mulled the idea for a few seconds, worrying her lip, before saying, “No.”

Then she threw her SUV into drive and bolted down the road, toward Main Street, probably up to El Dorado. I watched the back of her Rover in the same way I’d watched her ass all those years ago, with a mixture of longing, annoyance, and awe.

She really did remind me of the snow.

Just like it, she was going to melt on my tongue.

ALWAYS PART WAYS WITH PEOPLE you love like you’ll never see them again.

That’s the advice my dad had given me when I was nine, and I’d mulled it over in my head since. I didn’t know why his words made me think of Bane. Maybe because I remembered the last words I told my father so vividly before his death.

I never want to see you, ever again.

We had just found out about his affair, Pam and I. Back then, she used to let me call her Mom. His betrayal cut through every layer of confidence and happiness I’d been wrapped in throughout my life. I halfway blamed him for everything else that happened afterwards. Even Emery. After all, if it weren’t for his affair, Pam wouldn’t have tried to reinvent herself and found Darren. I would still call her Mom. I wouldn’t live in Todos Santos, but in Anaheim. I wouldn’t have a Range Rover, but at least I’d be happy.

I wouldn’t have had to befriend Mrs. Belfort.

I wouldn’t have to hide away in El Dorado.

I would be me. Poor and content and myself.

Stop whining, Jesse. Self-loathing isn’t so bad when you settle into it.

“Hi, Imane! Is this a good time?” I dumped my backpack in Mrs. Belfort’s foyer.

“In the dining room.” Imane, her housekeeper, bowed her head, clearing the way for me.

I walked over to the royal blue dining room, complete with high golden arches, red curtains, and a bronze chandelier. A French provincial dining set that could fit no less than thirty diners graced the center of the room. I saw Mrs. Belfort sitting at the end of the table, all by herself, clad in an emerald satin dress with a gold neckline, bright red lipstick, and a hairdo from the movies. She stared at the empty chair across from her, all the way on the other side of the table, willing it to fill itself with her late husband, Fred. My heart shriveled inside its bony cage, every beat burning against my ribs.

“Mrs. B?” I whispered, not too loud to startle her.

She ignored me. “Fred, do try the oysters. They’re marvelous.”

Fred didn’t respond, because he wasn’t there. For the sake of argument, the oysters weren’t there, either. Mrs. Belfort had had lunch hours ago, I’m sure. Probably in the form of a soup or casserole her cook, Ula, made for her.

Your one and only friend is drifting, a little voice inside my head tsked. I’d like to believe that voice was the old Jesse. That she still lived somewhere inside me, and was a constant companion. Which, of course, was monumentally pathetic.

Roman Protsenko slipped into my mind again.

Snowflake.

I remembered the intensity of his gaze as he’d looked at me. It dripped sex, even if his words were completely innocent. I appreciated his proposition. I even half-believed him about not wanting to get into my pants. But I didn’t do socializing, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. Not with him, and not at all.

“Mrs. B,” I repeated, stepping deeper into the room and pressing a hand over her back. “Let’s go outside and look at the rosebushes. Maybe take a walk in the maze.” She hadn’t agreed to go in there for months now.

Juliette Belfort jerked away from me and looked up. Her face was marred with experience and heartache. The most fatal disease in the world was time, and her tired expression was proof of that. Juliette had two children. Both Ryan and Kacey lived on the East Coast, and she wasn’t hot on joining them in the cold. Not that they ever offered. Mrs. B had brittle bone disease, so she usually wore three layers of clothes whenever she was out and had her thermostat set somewhere between a bonfire and hell. “Jesse, I can’t spend time with you today, sweetheart. I’m having lunch with my husband.”

At least she remembered my name this time. Mrs. Belfort wasn’t always clear. That’s why she had a full-time nurse, a housekeeper, and a cook. That’s why she didn’t understand why I kept declining meeting her sweet nephew, who was around my age, for a blind date.

I stopped telling her the skinny on my situation, because she would ask all over again the next day.

I don’t date.

I don’t do boys.

I’m The Untouchable.

And Mrs. B would always reply—stop being so afraid of love. It can’t kill you!

Only it had.

“Is it okay if I wait until you guys are finished?” I mustered a weak smile, inwardly begging for her company. She shrugged, sipping tea from the fine china next to her. “Suit yourself.”

I returned to the foyer and plopped on an upholstered bench, digging out a book from my backpack and riffling through the free hugs pamphlet some girl handed me on the street last time I visited Mayra. I smiled at the irony as I stared at the words, not really deciphering any of them.

Why did Bane want to hire me? I was about as customer friendly as pneumonia.

Had he heard about my story?

Stupid question. Of course he had. Everyone in town heard a version or two of my story. I was the town’s slut. Jezebel. The whore of Babylon. I’d asked for it, so they’d given it to me.

Emery Wallace was the poor victim. And I was the leg-spreading witch.

Maybe Bane thought I was going to put out easily.

Or perhaps he really did pity me.

It made little to no difference. The only thing I had going for me was that, despite everything I’d been through, I wasn’t the charity case he tried to make me. I didn’t need his mercy, or job, or affection. I didn’t.