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No! She couldn’t be his. No matter how much he wanted her.
No matter how much he was coming to need her.
Ignoring that voice, he replied, “Actually, I stopped in because I thought Cilla was working this morning. She works most Saturday mornings.” He knew that, because most Saturday mornings, he was there with her, eating and chatting with her as she worked the tables. At least until business picked up around late morning. By then, though, he’d taken up enough of her time—even though he could spend hours more with her, if….
If.
At Cilla’s name, Dana dropped the sex kitten act. Her lips curled into a sneer, and her eyes narrowed. She planted her hands on her hips and huffed.
“Why do you need to know where she is? Don’t tell me you’re fuckin’ her,” Dana scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Nah, no way you’re fuckin’ that pig.” She laughed to herself, like she didn’t just insult one of the kindest, sweetest women on the fucking planet.
Stiffening at Dana’s tone and her fucking audacity, Patriot stood, towering over the bitch who dared to insult his Cilla.
“You keep your ugly words about Cilla to your goddamn self, and we won’t have a problem. I’m looking for her, and you don’t need to know why.” He took a menacing step closer to the woman, whose expression read that she finally realized she’d fucked up. Dana tensed, her eyes wide. “Where is she, Dana?”
Dana’s mouth pursed, like she was planning to lie.
“And don’t lie to me. You don’t lie to an Unchained….” He left the threat to circle them in the air. It finally landed when she began trembling.
“Fine. She swapped with me. I work her Saturday morning, she’ll work my Sunday afternoon.”
Surprised, he furrowed his brow. Shit. Tomorrow he’d be on a run, so he couldn’t catch up with her until he got back Monday morning.
“She say why she wanted to swap?” Did she have plans that morning? And if she did…why hadn’t she said something to him last night?
Dana huffed, shrugging, some of her audacity returning. He grit his teeth, knowing that if he strangled her like he was wanting to, he wouldn’t get answers out of her.
“How am I supposed to know?”
One of the patrons called out for more coffee, and Dana scowled.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to work.” Without another word, Dana snatched the coffee carafe off the counter and turned to walk away.
He let her because he had somewhere else to be.
He left the diner, mounted his bike, and headed toward Cilla’s duplex. She lived a little outside of Wilkes-Barre in Plains Township, where it was more suburb than small city.
It took fifteen minutes to get to her place, and he was glad to see her car parked in her spot.
She was home, and in mere moments he would see her.
He needed to see her. It was a fucking compulsion, this need. This drive to be where she was, to look her in the eyes, to breathe in her scent—vanilla and goodness, like fresh baked sugar cookies—to touch her smooth, warm skin.
Friends.
They were friends.
Fuck, if he couldn’t keep things strictly platonic between them, even in his thoughts, what chance did he have at keeping himself from taking her mouth and kissing the shit out of her the moment she opened her door?
Shaking himself, he knocked on her door.
He could hear the TV playing.
He knocked again.
The TV shut off, and he waited.
And waited.
