Free Sinful Rewards 12 by Cynthia Sax Page A

lips. “It’s human. This is your hometown. Your mom still lives here. You want the gossip to stop, and today it will.”
    â€œIf it’s possible to stop the gossip, I know you’ll do it.” I walk with him toward the diner. My big, strong man can do anything, and he’s put quite a bit of thought into this, arranging a party, dressing me from head to toe in sumptuous designer fashions. His team encircles us, looking for hostiles, protecting me from the judgments of others. I’m safe, loved and I belong.
    As we approach the door, men and women snap into sharp salutes. I return their greetings, mimicking them as best I can. This most recent attempt must be another failure. Their lips curl into smiles and Hawke chuckles.
    Prick holds the door open for us, and a rush of sound escapes the building. “Congratu—”
    Mack’s fist connects with his gut, and the smaller man doubles over. “It’s too soon for that, jackass.” The bald man glares. The door closes once more, sealing the noise.
    â€œYou’re wrong, asshole.” Prick wheezes, holding his stomach. “The party comes after the propo—”
    Mack slugs him again.
    â€œMen,” Hawke barks. Their spines straighten.
    â€œSir.” Mack sheepishly opens the door for us.
    I press my lips together, trying not to laugh, giddy and nervous and a tiny bit terrified. What if he doesn’t propose? Everyone is expecting him to do this and all of his comments point to a proposal, but I’ve been disappointed in the past.
    Not by Hawke, though. I gaze up at him. I’ve never been disappointed by him.
    â€œSweetheart.” He wraps his arm around me and we step over the threshold together.

Chapter Seven
    A WAVE OF cheers sweeps over us. Ellen’s wolf whistle temporarily deafens me. The beautiful assassin stands behind the counter, next to Dawg, Hawke’s second in command, and Karl, the diner’s chef and my mom’s good friend.
    The weathered mugs of Hawke’s team mingle with the familiar faces from my childhood, my past meeting my present.
    Mrs. Davis, Happydale’s biggest gossip, the woman who made my life a living hell, presides over a booth, her deceivingly sweet apple face puckered into a disapproving frown. Her compatriots hang on her every acidic word.
    Tara, my nemesis, sits in her usual spot, alone. Her perfectly manicured fingers are curled around a white ceramic mug. Her phone is set flat on the tabletop. She’s impeccably dressed in a sleeveless peach stretch-wool dress from Michael Kors and Gianvito Rossi python pumps.
    Although Tara doesn’t turn her head, doesn’t look at me, I know she’s aware of my presence. She’s likely making mental notes, finding things to criticize about me.
    I run my fingers through my hair, the strands sticking stubbornly to my skull. She won’t have to look hard. I’m a mess.
    â€œThere are so many people here.” I turn. Screens cover the walls, familiar faces on the displays. “Is that my mom? Cyndi and Cole? Susan?” Susan’s eyes are puffy and her nose red. She must still be sick. “Lona?” Although the escort wears a classy black lace mask, I’d recognize her face anywhere. “Your parents?” They appear as they did in his photo, smiling and wholesome and happy.
    â€œYou’ll talk to them soon.” Hawke’s grip on my hand tightens. “Right now, there’s something I must do.”
    He leads me into the middle of the diner. Dawg steps forward, his left foot dragging behind him. Hawke’s second in command presses something into my big man’s hand and then backs away. The hum of conversations fades. A door opens and closes. Everyone watches us.
    Oh my God. My heart pounds in my chest. This is really happening.
    Hawke lowers one of his knees to the tiled floor, kneeling before me. Excitement churns my stomach. He takes my left hand, his palm