Page 2 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

"Hey, cousin from Portland," I say loudly. My voice is steady. It doesn’t shake. "Your record came in. The special order. I’ve been holding it behind the counter for twenty minutes."

The stranger doesn’t blink. He doesn’t hesitate. The violent tension in his frame vanishes, replaced by a smooth, easygoing posture. It’s a terrifying transformation. He shifts from a weapon into a relaxed, mildly annoyed family member in the span of a single heartbeat.

"Bout time, Wendy," he drawls. His voice is a deep, rough gravel that scrapes straight down my spine. He knows my name. Of course he does. The sign outside says Wendy's Vinyl Vault. But the way he says it makes my stomach tighten. "I was about to buy this Loggins crap just to have something to listen to on the drive back."

He drops the record back into the bin. He turns to fully face me, keeping my hand tucked in the crook of his arm. He rests his hand over mine. His palm is scorching hot. Rough callouses scrape against my knuckles. A sharp possessiveness radiates from his touch.

We turn around together. We face the two Syndicate goons.

They’re standing by the classical section. They look confused. The taller one is frowning at his clipboard. They were looking for a lone wolf. A solitary target. They weren’t looking for the shop owner’s out-of-town cousin.

I raise an eyebrow at them. I channel every ounce of my mother’s stubborn sass. This is my shop. These are my floorboards.

"Can I help you boys find something?" I demand. My tone is razor-sharp. "Or are you just blocking my light? Because the clearance bins are outside, and the new arrivals are ten bucks a pop. You don't look like vinyl collectors."

The taller goon scowls. He looks at me, then at the stranger standing plastered to my side. The size difference is noticeable. My 'cousin' easily has forty pounds of muscle on the Syndicate man. The goon shifts his weight, suddenly unsure of his footing.

"Just looking," the goon mutters. His eyes dart to the clipboard again. He’s trying to match the description.

"Look faster," I snap. "I have inventory to log. And my cousin here has a long drive back to Oregon."

The stranger chuckles. It’s a low sound that vibrates through my chest. He squeezes my hand where it rests on his arm. The gesture is supposed to look affectionate. It feels like a brand.

"Oregon traffic is a bitch," the stranger says. His tone is conversational, but his dark eyes are locked onto the taller goon with the dead, flat stare of an apex predator. The threat is silent. It screams through the room. Take one more step. I dare you.

The Syndicate men get the message. The air is too thick. The scenario is wrong. They’re middle-management thugs, not frontline soldiers. They want easy targets. They don’t want to mess with a local business owner and a brick wall from Portland.

The taller one shoves the clipboard under his jacket. He jerks his chin at his partner.

"Wrong guy," he grunts.

They turn around. They walk out. The brass bell chimes sharply as the door swings shut behind them. Through the front window, I watch them cross the street and climb into a dark gray sedan. The engine turns over. The car rolls away, disappearing down the gray, cracked pavement of Crimson Hollow.

The threat is gone. The shop is safe.

I don’t let go of his arm. He doesn’t step away.

The silence in the Vinyl Vault is deafening. The Fleetwood Mac record is still spinning on the turntable. Stevie Nicks is singing about broken chains. The amber lamplight casts shadows over the wooden bins. The dust motes dance in the air.

My hand is still locked in the crook of his elbow. His hand is still covering mine. The heat between us is escalating. It’s no longer a slow burn. It’s a flashover. The steel deadbolt in my chest clicks shut, sealing the vault. There's no going back. I’ve survived Crimson Hollow my entire adult life by trusting my instincts. My instincts are screaming at me to run from this man. They’re also screaming at me to never, ever let go.

I pull my hand out from under his grip. My fingers tingle. The loss of contact is physically painful. I take a half-step back. I cross my arms over my chest, building a pathetic barricade between us.

He turns to face me. The easygoing mask is gone. The quiet danger is back. He watches me with a dark, burning intensity that makes my blood run thick and hot. He’s studying my face. He’s searching for regret. He’s searching for fear.

I refuse to give him either.

"Portland, huh?" I ask. My voice is slightly breathless, but I force a smirk onto my face. Portland is my invention. Might as well test how well he wears it. "You don't look like you own a single piece of flannel."

A muscle twitches in his jaw. His gaze drops to my mouth, then tracks back up to my eyes. Something violent flares up in his stare. It strips me bare right here in the middle of the L-section.

"I run cold," he says. His voice is a low, rough rumble.

"Right." I point toward the front door. "Those were Syndicate hounds. They were running an asset check. Whatever name they had on that paper, it matched your dimensions close enough to warrant a shakedown."

"I noticed." He crosses his arms. His biceps strain against the fabric of his dark jacket. "You have a habit of throwing yourself between Syndicate muscle and strangers?"

"I have a habit of protecting my inventory," I fire back. "A shootout in the soft rock section would ruin my vintage carpet. And blood doesn't come out of cardboard sleeves. It was purely an economic decision."