Hungry For Her: A Small Town Mafia Holiday Romance Read online

  Hungry For Her

  Jagger Cole

  Contents

  Hungry For Her

  A Special Present

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Epilogue

  Also by Jagger Cole

  About the Author

  Hungry For Her

  Cold River Falls was supposed to be a place to start over. No more fights. No more killing for the mob. Just an escape from the demons from my broken past. A new name, a new life, a new clean future.

  That plan is going pretty great, until she walks through the front door of my bakery.

  Curvy and sweet. Tempting and innocent. Sophie Caradine pulls me in like no other woman ever has. She captivates me, like a moth to flame. She’s a goodness I’ve never once known.

  I should stay the hell away from Sophie. But when trouble from both our pasts comes looking for her, there ain’t no way I’m standing by.

  Getting involved could jeopardize everything. Getting close to her could destroy the peace I’ve built for myself.

  I used to use these rough hands in anger. But now, all I want to use them for is loving her. Now, all I want to do is hold her close, keep her safe, and never let her go.

  And you can be damn sure I won’t.

  A Special Present

  The Jagger Cole fans-only newsletter is the first place to hear about new releases, giveaways, and more! Sign up today to grab a free copy of Mr Big - an extra hot billionaire romance not available anywhere else!

  1

  Caulter

  The bell on the door rings. Fuck. I sigh heavily and look up from the dough I’ve been kneading. The woman in the doorway to my shop sniffs the air and makes a face. She brushes her severe looking short haircut out of her eyes and takes her sunglasses off. Christ, I can smell the entitlement from here.

  “Excuse me!” she says shrilly. She doesn’t see me through the doors from the bakery’s front room to the kitchen. “Hello! Doesn’t anyone work here?!”

  I swear to God, the worst part of this job is the customers.

  I sigh and step away from the butcher block table. I step out into the main shop, wiping my hands off on a kitchen rag.

  “I do,” I grunt. “How can I help you?”

  The woman bristles. “About time. I’m looking for a pumpkin pie.”

  Oh, this is going to be good.

  “I don’t have any. Sorry,” I mutter. I turn back to the door to the kitchens.

  “You mean you’re sold out?”

  I shake my head. I turn back to her. “No, I mean I don’t have any at all. I don’t make pumpkin pies.”

  “What?”

  “I said I don’t make—”

  “I heard you,” she snaps. She glares at me. “It’s the day before Thanksgiving!”

  “Sure is,” I grunt.

  “And?”

  I sigh. Fuck Thanksgiving. That’s what I’ve got to say about that. “And what?”

  “And where are the pumpkin pies?!”

  “Elsewhere,” I growl.

  The woman makes a huffing sigh. “I cannot believe you own a freaking bakery and don’t make pumpkin pies the day before Thanksgiving.”

  “Or any other day.”

  She glares at me. “What is wrong with you?”

  I shrug. Lots of things. The answer is “lots of things.” But I just stare at her blankly. I’ve found that to be a pretty effective way of getting out conversations I don’t want to have with people I don’t want to be around. It helps that I’m six-foot-four and about two-hundred-fifty pounds of pure muscle. I don’t have to act tough or be aggressive to be intimidating. I just am.

  The woman bristles. She glares at me one last time and slips her sunglasses back on. “Whatever. Asshole.”

  I just shrug again. She huffs, whirls, and storms out of my shop. Good. I head back to the kitchens to get back to work.

  Fuck Thanksgiving. I hate this fucking holiday. I know I’ve got plenty of shit to be thankful for. I’m alive, for one. But I’m not sure what else there is. Alive, yes. But my current situation is like living in purgatory. It’s aimless. It’s like I’m floating waiting for a wind to blow me where I’m supposed to go.

  I haven’t had the shop long. Haven’t been in Cold River Falls very long either. But frankly, I’m amazed this damn place is still in business. It’s not the product. My stuff is good, and that’s not my ego talking. Next to hitting things hard, cooking up sweet stuff is quite possibly what I was put on this earth to do.

  So when I nuked my old life and needed a new one, this is where I ended up. A small town away from the hustle of Chicago. A bake shop I hate running, because generally speaking, I hate people.

  But that was the deal. This was my parachute for turning on Donny Pompei and his crew of utter scumbags. Donny isn’t a guy you cross though. I know what I did was right. But you don’t rat on one of most unhinged, vicious criminals in Chicago and go on your merry way. Hence, witness protection.

  The bell over the shop door dings again. I sigh.

  “Hey! You guys got any pumpkin pies left—”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, damn.”

  I look up to see a man in a badly fitting suit frowning. He smiles when he sees me poke my head out of the kitchen.

  “Taking any orders for ones for tomorrow?”

  “Nope.”

  “Really?” he whines. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, is it?”

  He frowns. “Look, you don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

  “I know.”

  He scowls at me and huffs. “Whatever. Fuck you, pal.”

  “Have a nice day.”

  He storms out, slamming the door. Whatever.

  Out here in Cold River Falls, my name is Edward Greer. I don’t know how those FBI dicks come up with these new identities. Mine clashes with the real me like oil and water. Edward Greer? The guy sounds like a fucking librarian. It sounds like a guy who wears a lot of sweater vests and tops out at hundred thirty pounds, max.

  But this “Edward Greer” has to duck through doorways. I’d probably rip a sweater vest in two if I tried to put one on. With my huge frame, square jaw, and arms like steel, it’s a pretty shitty alter ego. But whatever, it works. I’ve got my new life, new name, and my bakery. More importantly, I’m not dead at the bottom of a construction site.

  I look down at my hands, kneading the dough. In my past life, these hands didn’t make things. They just hurt things. These hands are weapons. I grew up rough in a rough part of Southside. I learned young to hit back when the world slapped me around. When I grew up, that got me into trouble. Then it got me into trouble and underground fighting.

  The fights got me on Donny Pompei’s radar. Donny is not a man you want to be familiar with. I’ve dealt with all sorts of gangsters and thugs. But Donny is a true sociopath. And he likes to hurt woman. I grit my teeth. That’s a line I’d never cross.

  The door dings again. Goddamnit.

  “Anyone here?”

  “Yep,” I grunt from the kitchen. I swear to God, if one more person asks me about pumpkin fucking pies, I’m going to lose my shit.

  “Oh, if you’re busy, I can come back!”

  The voice is pure sweetness. It’s soft and melodic. It’s easy and warm. I stop the kneading and glance at the door to the shop.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “I hate to ask…” br />
  I groan. “Then don’t.”

  The voice laughs. It’s a soft giggle, actually. I smile when I hear it. Then I freeze. Hell, this might be the first time I’ve smiled in months. Maybe even longer.

  “If you’re busy, I can just come back! Really!”

  “It’s fine,” I growl. I throw my towel down and sigh. I wipe my flour-covered hands off on my apron and turn for the swinging door to the shop. “What can I do—”

  I blink. My feet and my mouth stop moving in the doorway. My eyes land on an angel, and my world goes upside down. The girl is petite with silky long chestnut hair. She looks like pure innocence incarnate—all smiles, rosy cheeks, and bright blue eyes.

  And she’s beautiful. Goddamn is she beautiful. She’s gorgeous in that way where you can tell she doesn’t quite appreciate it. It’s not sultry sexy like one of those Instagram girls or something. She’s just beautiful.

  She’s also staring up at me. Her eyes are wide, her soft lips parted a little. I sometimes forget that I can have this effect on people when they first see me. Especially here in Cold River Falls. I mean, I’m huge. Tall, broad, and all muscle. Maybe they’re expecting sweater vest Ed Greer.

  She blushes and stares at me. Her mouth snaps shut.

  “What, uh…” I swallow. My heart races. “What can I do for you?”

  She blinks, then she smiles at me through pink cheeks and soft lips. Christ, I want to kiss that mouth. It’s the most vivid want I’ve had in a long damn time.

  “Is this your shop?”

  “It is.”

  She smiles and looks around. “It’s really nice. I can’t believe I haven’t come in here yet. It smells amazing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I know it’s the day before Thanksgiving—”

  My jaw ticks. Fuck. Not her too. “I don’t have any pumpkin pies,” I grunt.

  She suddenly smiles widely at me. “Oh, thank God.”

  I frown. “What?”

  She laughs. “My Grams wanted me to come get one. I was almost going to pretend you didn’t have any anyways.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because pumpkin pie is gross.”

  I grin. I can’t help it, I just smile. The girl quickly falters though. She frowns and blushes.

  “Oh my God, sorry, that was super rude.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Yes, it was.” she laughs. “I mean you run a bakery.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t sell pumpkin pies.”

  She smiles curiously. “Ever?”

  “Nope.”

  She starts to laugh. The sound makes my heart race.

  “Wait, that’s hilarious. Why not?”

  I shrug and grin. “Because they’re gross.”

  She bursts into laughter. “Thank you! I mean who decided we had to eat pies made out of vegetables on Thanksgiving?” She blanches. “Everyone says it’s a tradition. But who’s tradition is that?”

  I shrug. “Pilgrims, I think I’ve heard.”

  She giggles. Goddamn, that giggle might be my undoing. “Exactly. And it’s a tradition from like four hundred years ago. I’m not going out to plant corn or burn witches at the stake tomorrow, either. So why can’t we just decide that gourde pie is gross?”

  I chuckle. It’s the first time I’ve laughed in forever. I look at her, and it’s the first joy I’ve felt in a very, very long time.

  Her phone suddenly dings. She frowns a little and digs it out of her purse. “Oh, crapola. I need to go.”

  Crapola. Who above the age of eleven even says that? But it’s goddamn adorable. It makes my pulse race. It makes me grin like a fucking idiot.

  She looks up. “Sorry, it’s my Grams. She needs me. But I guess we solved that pumpkin pie dilemma, right?”

  “What pumpkin pie dilemma?”

  She giggles. “Exactly.” She smiles at me. Most people are scared of me and my size. She just seems to take it in and let it go. “Well, nice to meet you…”

  “Ca—” I catch myself. It’s the first time I’ve ever almost slipped since arriving here. “Edward,” I growl. “Greer.” I put my hand out. Then I glance at it and frown. I take it back and wipe more flour off of it on my apron. Then I hold it out again.

  “Sophie,” the angel says quietly. “Caradine.” She puts her soft, small hand in my calloused huge one. I almost groan out loud when we touch. She takes her hand back. The world seems to dim a little. I stare at her, lost.

  “Well, happy Thanksgiving Edward!”

  “Happy… yeah, same,” I mumble. I’m just staring at her.

  She smiles again. She turns and opens the door. The bell chimes, and then she’s gone. I’ve felt listless for months. I’ve felt like I’m floating, waiting for a wind to blow me where I’m supposed to go.

  The wind just blew. It just blew me right into Sophie Caradine. And I’m not sure my world will ever be the same.

  2

  Sophie

  The air is brisk and freezing when I step outside. But I barely feel it. I feel warm all over. I’m also still cloaked in the smell of cinnamon buns, tarts, and other sugary goodness. It feels like a cozy blanket surrounding me.

  But it isn’t the baked goods that have my heart racing. It’s him: the giant of a man with flour dusting his scruffed, chiseled jaw and broad shoulders. The man with hands the size of baseball gloves, whose eyes left me trembling with heat.

  I squeeze my hand into a fist in my jacket pocket. I rub the fingers together. I can feel flour or sugar still on them from his handshake. I blush, feeling warm all over. Good lord, I think to myself. What the heck is wrong with you, girl?

  I try and shake it away. I duck my head into the sharp air and walk briskly back to my truck. But despite the cold, the quaint little downtown is bustling. With Thanksgiving tomorrow, it makes sense, I guess.

  I smile at the town as I walk. Cold River Falls has barely changed much since last I was here. It’s still tiny but cozy. The old penny candy general store is still there. Martha’s, the one bar in town, is still there. It’s still run by Martha, too.

  I shiver against the chill in the air. Yep, and this small Minnesota town is still cold as fuck in the winter. But I like that. Being cold back in Chicago always felt miserable. Being cold out here just makes me want to cozy up with a fire and hot chocolate.

  Today, it makes me want to cozy up with a fire, hot chocolate, and the super-hot, quiet giant of a baker I just met. I blush. I think of those big hands again and feel a bit warmer. I have no idea what’s gotten into me, but I don’t mind it.

  The truck rumbles and sputters when I start it. It’s a bumpy drive, and drafty, too. But it gets me back home to my Grams’ house quick enough. I shut off the engine, grab the rest of the groceries I bought in town, and hustle inside.

  “I’m home!”

  “You wanna get high?”

  I laugh, loudly. “You wanna get high” is probably the last thing most people expect to hear from their grandmother.

  “You know me, Grams!” I call back to her. I know she’s in the sunroom that looks over the pond in her backyard. “I’m fine, but thanks!”

  “Suit yourself! Doctor Ellis got me some good shit this time!”

  I chuckle and start to put the groceries away. My Gramma Lucile is in remission from ovarian cancer. The pot is medically prescribed to deal with the lingering pain from the surgery and meds though. That’s why I’m back here in Minnesota, actually. Well, it’s one of the reasons.

  Helping out my grandmother is the biggest of course. But I needed a change in any case. I’ve felt like I was drowning in Chicago for way too long. Add in a shitty and abusive ex-boyfriend making threats, and it was the perfect time to get out. I hadn’t been back to Cold River Falls since I was a kid. Now that I’m back though, I’m wondering if leaving when my Grams is better is even something I want.

  I finish putting the groceries away. I pat my pockets for my phone. But then remember it’s still in the pocket of my coat, hangi
ng by the door. I walk over and reach in. But along with the phone, my fingers touch something grainy and soft. I smile when I pull my hand out. It’s dusted in white flour.

  My heart beats a little quicker. I blush, and I think about Edward. I smile. It’s a funny name for a guy who looks like him. He looks like the kind of guy you’d see owning a gym or watching UFC. Maybe someone in the special forces or something. You’d expect his name to be something hardcore like Blade, or Slash. Edward kind of sounds like a librarian though. The juxtaposition makes me giggle to myself as I walk back to say hi to my Grams.

  “What’s got you giggling?”

  I blink and quickly back away from the doorway. I cough and wave a hand in front of my face. The acrid smoke fills the light-filled sunroom.

  “Jesus, Grams,” I cough. “Open a window!”

  She cackles a laugh. “The hell with that. It’s freezing outside.” She grins at me and holds out the joint. “You sure?”

  “You know I’m not into that, Grams.”

  “Whatever, suit yourself, hon.”

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “High as shit.”

  I laugh right alongside my Grams and shake my head. It’s been a huge comfort to see that not even cancer could knock the sass out of her. Or extinguish the fire. Grams and my mom never had much of a relationship. But then, neither did my mom and me. I reconnected with my grandmother after my mom passed when I was in college. When she got sick, she decided to keep it from me. But the recovery was going to be too much by herself. That’s when I moved back here about two months ago.

  “Got everything okay for tomorrow?”

  “I did,” I smile. “Even those gross pork rinds you love.”

  “Sophie, everyone loves pork rinds.”