Priestess Under Fire: A Bridget Feblood novel

Priestess Under Fire

A Bridget Feblood Novel

By Samantha Blake

Published by Samantha Blake at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Samantha Blake

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction. All events described are imaginary, and all characters portrayed are fictitious and in no way intended to represent any specific person, living or dead. While certain locations are referred to by their actual name the incidents which occur in those places are entirely the creation of the author.

Dedicated to my wonderful mother with all my heart

With special thanks to: Cover Designer Colleen Litherland ( http://artofcml.daportfolio.com/ ) and Conspirators Debra Seidel Waltz, Doug Campbell, Jennifer Ramirez, and Michelle Repar

Table of Contents

Prologue: Unwanted

Chapter One: The Warning

Chapter Two: The Stranger

Chapter Three: Demons

Chapter Four: Court of Decay

Chapter Five: Eidolon

Chapter Six: Oaths in the Dark

Chapter Seven: Promises

Chapter Eight: Disturbing Signs

Chapter Nine: A Need for Answers

Chapter Ten: Unveiled

Chapter Eleven: Visions of Thorns

Chapter Twelve: Hunted

Chapter Thirteen: Blood Binds

Chapter Fourteen: Confession

Chapter Fifteen: Unexpected

Chapter Sixteen: Hard Truths

Chapter Seventeen: Difficult

Chapter Eighteen: Love and Duty

Chapter Nineteen: Beautiful Terror

Chapter Twenty: A Warlock Collects in Blood

Chapter Twenty One: Devil at the Crossroads

Chapter Twenty Two: The Demon King

Chapter Twenty Three: Decisions

About The Author

"How many of our daydreams would darken into nightmares, were there a danger of their coming true!" Logan Pearsall Smith

Prologue: Unwanted

I have to say this is highly unusual.

The woman in the threshold of the tiny parish-run orphanage pursed her lips. It was nearly sunrise but the dark skies overhead gave no indication of buckling to the first rays of dawn. Thunder rumbled plaintively above their heads.

And always that harsh, merciless rain poured down; just as it had when the woman drew her last breath. As though the angels of this small, argumentative woman's faith wept uncontrollably at the night's events.

I cannot support her. She needs a family, warmth, love.

As he spoke he held the child outward in her soggy blanket.

She'd given up on crying some time ago. Fine lashes kissed her cheeks and then fluttered open like the wings of a butterfly. The same flowery blue eyes of her mother stared groggily upward to the bleak skies.

Really, Mr...?

Feblood, he lied smoothly.

The old woman glanced back down at the child as the infant let out a small protest. A fat raindrop had landed on her cheek. It slid down like the ethereal tears he'd conjured seconds ago.

State law requires--

I can't keep her. She's wet, exhausted, hungry...and her parents are dead. You're the only option she has.

The poor thing isn't a dog, the older woman snapped. You can't just toss her on the street. We have laws against...we...

He stared deeper into those watery, dim brown eyes. You must take her, he said slowly, watching the words wrap round her as if by magic.

They were. So was he.

Magic couldn't protect the child, though. And it certainly couldn't raise her as her mother would have wanted.

Slowly, the older woman reached out to take the small bundle. The instant her weight left him an enormous sense of loss accosted him...to the point where he almost reached out to snatch the infant back.

Instead he curled his fingers into fists at his sides.

What is her name?

The words struck him by surprise. He blinked back the foul memories and stared into the blankets. Blue delphiniums stared right back at him; curious, assessing. But those words meant the woman had acquiesced. The babe would be safe.

For now.

Chapter One: The Warning

Music thrummed with a life of its own, drowning out all hope of being heard in the throng of tightly packed teenagers eager to get the attention of the band on stage. In the dull light the rather badly painted door leading behind the stage filled Bridget’s eyes. If she could reach it then her pursuers wouldn’t have a chance.

An arm grabbed hold of her shoulder and pulled her back into the cover of the crowds. Her shout went unregistered among the rest of the concert goers. Pulsing violet rays of light barely penetrated the fog rolling off stage and hovering around them. They gave an eerie glow to the murky white contact lenses the guy wore beneath his demon mask.

Did you really think you could run away? he hissed into her ear. Hands twice as large as Bridget’s own squeezed her arms mercilessly, twisting them behind her back as he pulled her close. After what you went and said?

Now would be a great time to apologize. Reason demanded she get away before his buddies caught up with them.

Too bad Bridget was born with a mouth that had a mind of its own. You deserved every word, she spat out, biting back a yelp as he pulled her arm tighter. I won’t let anyone talk about my friends that way!

Especially not Conlan. He was the only ray of light she had in life; the truest and most loyal of friends. In no way had he deserved the nasty comments from this jerk and his stupidity gang. Who came to a club on a band night just to troll? Beyond this idiot.

Stupid little— but the venomous voice cut short.

Bridget shuddered as his head drifted from her ear to the nape of her neck. She felt his nostrils flare as they pressed against her sweat soaked skin…heard the harsh intake of breath. The slightly foreign words he murmured sounded startled.

So that’s it, he hissed, pulling her around to face him. Deadened eyes stared through her as though searching for something hidden deep inside.

Then he smiled.

Bridget’s stomach turned as all kinds of bad scenarios started playing in the cinema of her imagination. She so didn’t want this creep’s attention. If he manhandled her out of the club it would all be over.

That ugly, spike covered mask moved to a breath’s width from her face. Where have you been hiding all this time? he said, barely audible over the crowds and amplifiers. I know someone who—

Another hand, rough and strong, landed possessively on Bridget’s shoulder.

Demon boy followed it to the owner and immediately released Bridget’s arms. She watched him raise both hands in the air before disappearing back into the horde of shouting, jumping teens…

…who were now spending all that pent up energy shouting and staring at Bridget.

What were you thinking?

Conlan stopped walking as Bridget’s explanation drifted to a hazy end. There were pieces she left out, of course. Like the glowing eyes or the feeling that the mask had been a cheap imitation of something deep within her pursuer’s soul.

Or the way he had sniffed her like a hound suddenly realizing the rabbit he’d chased through the murk turned out to be a fox.

Most people chalked things like this to her artistic talent.

Bridget just tried her best to ignore them and hoped to Hell she wasn’t crazy.

Gee, I don’t know, she drawled, memories still haunting her, maybe that I didn’t like my best friend’s integrity and character being questioned and smeared by a group of idiots who share a single digit IQ.

That made the firm line of Conlan’s mouth quirk upward.

Emboldened, Bridget took a deep breath and asked the question that had been bugging her the entire ride back from Wings—an under twenty one club that does not serve chicken—to her crummy apartment complex.

How in the world did you even see me with all that fog? And the lights around the crowd are always dimmed.

Her best friend, and Night Howls legendary bass guitarist, gave a shrug that tightened his rather tatty band tee against a chest that had filled out in the few years they’d known each other. He was tall, broad, and well-toned muscle with a mane of unruly black hair. Some of which now covered one brilliant emerald orb. A rough hand reached up to shove wild bangs back as he considered her question with his usual slow, methodical approach.

You weren’t that far from the stage, he said at last. And the rest of the crowd had their arms up so it naturally drew my gaze to you and your unwanted stalker.

Then the haunting smile disappeared as he bore both verdant gems straight into her.

Bridget, I’m serious, you can’t do things like that. I’m touched you want to protect me, but what would I do if one of those creeps hurt you?

I know, Bridget replied with far more sweetness than she felt, without me around you might just end up breaking your baby over Damon's head.

Conlan shook his head in exasperation. He didn’t press the issue. Just like he didn’t deny the implication that Night Howls lead singer definitely benefited from Bridget’s mediator skills.

Bridget Feblood: starving artist, Tarot reader, bakery sales associate, peacemaker for quarreling band mates extraordinaire…Oh yeah, and orphan.

They had reached the main entrance of Green Hills Apartments—a barely functional building that mainly housed the elderly with very limited incomes. It also housed a few single parent families and one or two people like Bridget, kids thrown into and out of the system from infancy until the courts decided they were old enough to fend off the world on their own.

How about a pizza? Conlan asked her. My treat.

Bridget smiled and nodded, accepting the unspoken treaty as they headed inside.

Not even three steps in to the horrid brown carpeted foyer they were met by Mr. Peaks, the janitor and sometimes repair man for the building. His wrinkled face lit up as he caught sight of Bridget then dulled as he took in Conlan. The older man had never made his dislike for the guys in Night Howls a secret. He called their music heathen and continuously told Bridget she could do much better friend-wise.

Bridget smiled despite all this because the janitor did have a softer side. He’d once brought her a large tin of homemade cookies for the holidays after learning she lived alone. And every year since, too. Everyone is entitled to their belief, right? And no way was she going to turn down free cookies.

Miss Feblood, you know the rules about sharing your key, the janitor stated coldly.

Bridget’s smile faltered. She wondered what the old man meant. Considering there was only one key and she had it in her hand it didn’t make sense.

Bridget has her key on her, Conlan answered coldly. He didn’t like the janitor’s brisk dismissal of Night Howls. Plus, he’d never had any of Mrs. Peaks delicious cookies.

Since Mr. Peaks could see the object in question in Bridget’s hand he couldn’t argue. No matter how much he wanted to. Finally he scratched his balding head. Beats me how she did it, he said at last, shaking his head as though despairing the fate of the world.

She who? Bridget asked, still lost.

The lady who came to visit you, Mr. Peaks answered. Rheumy eyes squinted as he pointed toward the staircase. Said she came to visit Miss Feblood. I figured she was a relative or some sort. And since I knew you were out I figured you’d given her the key.

Bridget didn’t stick around for the rambling to stop. At the word relative she’d bolted for the stairs—since that was quicker than waiting on the ancient box of an elevator.

As she flew up the first steps she heard Mr. Peaks ask Conlan a question.

Conlan gave a rushed, Bridget doesn’t have any relatives, by way of explanation as he chased after her.

That wasn’t necessarily true, though.

The old woman who ran the orphanage had told her a man claiming to be her mother’s brother had brought her to them. The dead beat uncle had even given the last name: Feblood. Maybe her real family had finally had a change of heart.

They’d come back for her!

Wait up! Conlan called from somewhere below.

Bridget didn’t bother slowing down. Her feet carried her up the three flights so fast she almost passed the door that led onto the third floor hall. It slammed open with a loud bang that probably jolted quite a few old people out of their early slumber. Bridget didn’t care. She turned to the right and raced for her apartment, blinded to everything but the possibility of finding out more about the ones who threw her away.

That was how she collided with the stranger in the bizarre gray cloak. She felt a slender hand grab her to keep them both steady. Then Conlan's firm grip pulled her back once more. Probably afraid she was being attacked again.

Sorry, Bridget gasped. Her desperate chase had finally winded her. I just…I heard…You aren’t…looking for someone, are you?

Bridget, Conlan cautioned.

The cloaked woman shook her covered head slowly from side to side. It was such a deep hood Bridget couldn’t even see her eyes. A strange design sat on its top in dark red; a crescent moon thrown on its side like an empty cup with a slanted dagger piercing it.

Disappointment as sharp as its lethal looking tip stabbed her stomach.

Oh, she managed, calling herself all kinds of names for letting the excitement carry her away like some foolish child, I see. Have fun at the party.

She pulled free from Conlan and headed toward her apartment. Sorry, she called again over her shoulder, unable to think of anything else.

Whether the words were meant for the stranger in the cloak or the battered and grief stricken orphan buried in her heart Bridget didn’t know. Right at that second there seemed a lot to be sorry about.

Her feet now felt leaden as they trod toward her apartment door. Bridget had the key halfway in the lock before she noticed the absence of overprotective testosterone. She glanced back to see him murmur a few words to the cloaked figure near the stairway door. As if he felt her gaze those beautiful green eyes flew over his shoulder to catch and hold her.

What was that all about? she asked as he made his way to her door.

Just apologized for the inconvenience, he answered.

He settled a hand on her arm as if afraid she might shatter into pieces. Fingertips hardened from years playing the guitar pressed gently against her skin. Bridget risked a glance upward to see an expression far too old for his youthful face; somber, conflicted, questioning.

I’m fine, she lied, opening the door. "Besides, you’re so not getting out of that pizza."

An hour later they were sitting on her quadruple passed down couch and watching the Discovery channel with a box of deep dish pizza open on the tiny coffee table she’d salvaged last heavy trash day. With a good sanding and new coat of stain it looked almost like new and was Bridget’s crowning jewel in the tiny living room.

The small flat screen television had been a gift from all the guys in Night Howls when she graduated from high school. Bridget secretly wondered whether the instigator wasn’t currently lounging back and watching the obscenely hyper TV hosts blow things up like a man entranced. Asking was out of the question. Besides, Conlan would never admit to it.

Bridget returned her attention to the sketchpad in her lap. In wispy gray lines it traced the profile of her best friend; strong jaw, perfectly formed mouth and nose, eyes that glittered with the reflection of massive destruction on screen, thick, raven hair falling every which way. All these things were quite definitely Conlan. So adding them together meant the sum of the parts should also be Conlan.

Only something was off.

With a sigh she flipped the page over.

Muse not home tonight? Conlan asked, eyes still glued to the television.

Most likely stuffed with greasy pizza and drowning in cheesy oblivion, Bridget retorted.

No way could she tell him the truth; she just didn’t have enough skill to do him justice. Every time she tried to place Conlan on paper she got a thousand different handsome men. Each one of them had a hint of her friend in them, but none of them encompassed all of him. Saying something like that to a twenty year old guy, however, was only begging for an over-inflated ego and months of embarrassing torture.

Guess it won’t need any more, then, Conlan laughed, reaching for another slice.

He’d inhaled most of the pizza, but Bridget didn’t mind. Those calories wouldn’t give her the curves she really wanted. This was all just a ploy, anyway. A distraction from the inevitability to come. At some point, Conlan would have to go home.

Then the torture would start.

Bridget jumped to her feet to avoid delving further into that dreary prospect and headed for her kitchen. She returned with two cold sodas only to find Conlan had confiscated her sketch pad. He was staring thoughtfully at a page.

Is this really how you see me? he asked as she sat his soda down on the table.

With a squeak Bridget pulled it out of his hands and hugged it to her.

I didn’t get it right, she said, hating how self-conscious that grin of his was making her. And I was desperate for something to draw.

Ah, right, Conlan chuckled.

He reached for his can and chugged half of it before the smile reappeared. A devilish light gleamed in those greener than grass eyes that made Bridget uneasy. Before she could read him Conlan reached out for her wrist and yanked her onto the couch. She fell half over him, still clutching the sketchpad like a lifeline, with a surprised yelp.

Conlan mugged furiously as he leaned over her. She laughed as he tried to imitate the Thinking Man. Which was exactly what he’d wanted.

When they’d both laughed their fill Bridget became aware of just how close they were. She was sprawled across him with her head on the vacant couch cushion. Conlan had twisted his body to lean over her. Those sparkling eyes were a lot darker now as they centered in on her face.

Next time let me know when you need a model, he quipped, but his voice sounded a little off; deeper.

And give Damon another reason to whine? I think not, Bridget retorted, pushing him back so she could pull her legs off his lap.

She snatched the last slice of pizza for an excuse to stay silent. Her thoughts were racing in a million different directions right now. Somehow being less than an inch from Conlan’s face had jump started this strange reaction inside her. If she didn’t know better she’d think her body actually found him attractive.

Oh, he was handsome, she couldn’t deny that. Not when a hundred teen girls had been throwing everything they had at him back at Wings.

Still, Bridget had never once considered him anything more than her best friend.

He was the golden beam shining down on her in a dingy gray world. A breath of fresh air in a stuffy room full of moldy furniture. If not for Conlan Bridget wouldn’t have her job or apartment. He’d found both of them for her. She owed him more than she could ever repay.

So wondering if he could put the statue of David to shame was totally wrong.

Maybe the mushrooms on the pizza were bad. Most likely it was nerves after the unwanted confrontation back at the club. That demon jerk still annoyed and frightened her. No one had ever chased her down like that with such an intense desire to scare her…or worse.

Bridget? Conlan looked a little concerned.

Sorry, didn’t catch that, she said, realizing she must have spaced out.

He glanced at the clock and drove another rusty nail through her already trembling gut. It was getting late. If he left then she would have to fend off the night all alone again.

Is it the dream? he whispered, as though it had a conscience and might hear them talking about it.

Bridget shrugged, not willing to divulge everything. She finished off her cherry soda. The dream, or nightmare, had been a reoccurring nuisance for the past ten days. In it Bridget found herself surrounded by darkness in a never ending graveyard of grotesque mirrors. They flickered with memories she’d rather keep buried, taunting her.

But even the mirrors couldn’t compete with the creature.

Always it howled as she reached the middle of the mirrors. And always, no matter how hard she tried to escape, it caught her scent and started the chase.

A lot like tonight, actually…

She rubbed her hands against her arms as the fear trickled down. Okay, now you’re just freaking yourself out. Quit it. A dream can’t hurt you. Not even that creepy nightmare. And the jerk at the club won’t even remember your face by the next performance.

Hey, I can crash here tonight if it helps, Conlan suggested.

Conlan. On her couch. Right outside her bedroom. Tonight that just didn’t sound like a good idea. Not with the strange way her body kept heating up.

I’ll be fine, she said, waving off the offer. It’s just a dream.

Bridget walked him to the apartment door a few minutes later. The television had stopped blaring with explosions, the pizza box was resting on top of her trash can in the little kitchenette, and the soda cans were rinsed and waiting to be recycled.

Time to face her fate.

Conlan paused in the threshold. He looked reluctant to leave her and Bridget adored him even more for the thought. But she couldn’t keep depending on him. At some point Conlan would settle down with a beautiful woman and Bridget would be forced to stand on her own two feet again. She didn’t need to forget how.

It only made things harder in the end when she was left standing alone in the dark.

Call me if you need anything, he said. And set your alarm clock. You don’t want to be late again. Boss man hasn’t been happy lately.

Boss man was code for Felix, the owner of the Boiling Kettle cafe where Bridget and Conlan both worked. Bridget nodded with a grin. "Yes, Dad," she chuckled.

Conlan took a step closer. His mouth opened like he wanted to say more, but nothing came out. After a few attempts he gave up and shook his head. With a small grin he waved and stepped back out into the dark hallway.

Bridget watched until the elevator swallowed him up and then shut and locked her door. With a sigh she leaned against the cold fire proof metal and surveyed the empty apartment. Shadows tumbled out of her bedroom door. The darkness felt heavy and laden with malice. But she had no choice. Bridget couldn't afford to be late to work again.

The scream stuck in her throat as her heart rate skyrocketed to the moon. It took a lot of time and concentration before the familiar surroundings of her bedroom convinced her she’d finally woken up. Books and clothes lay scattered across the room, piled on the floor, thrown haphazardly across the cheap writing desk she’d saved up for, hanging out of drawers and crammed for maximum fit into book shelves.

Not a freaky goblin adorned mirror in sight. No misty graveyards.

On a small plastic crate near her bed the alarm clock rang shrilly.

No monsters calling for blood.

Bridget moved to slide her feet over the side and felt the large sketch pad she’d been using brush against her skin. A few frantic seconds of searching managed to find the pencil under the sheet near the foot of the bed. The pad still remained open to the picture she’d finished last night; another idea for her very own stylized Tarot Deck.

On the page a lot of background had been given to trees as some ancient, ethereal forest sprouted up from the dark grass below. In the foreground the faintest trace of water could be seen. A large tree grew at its bank. At this spot a woman in a hooded cloak knelt and tested its depths with one foot. Her right hand rested against the tree for balance and where it touched ivy spread across the ancient bark.

The other hand held a rolled parchment. For some reason last night Bridget had felt the need to add fire, as well. So it flicked and rolled up from the hidden message as it sought freedom under a moon that could not be seen. It seemed to pulse with a life all its own.

Hesitantly, Bridget tried adding in the design from the stranger’s cloak last night on the hood. She stared at the effect and then erased it with a sigh.

A loud, continuous knocking broke the silence. The sound startled Bridget so bad the sketch pad actually fell off her lap.

Yo, Bridgantha! You still in your skimpies? I’m here to take you to work!

Goodie. Most people asked if you were decent. Not Tim Godbell, though. Besides, no one else she knew could be so obnoxious this early in the morning.

A glance back down at the alarm clock displayed the time: 9:30 a.m..

With a growl Bridget jumped out of bed. She’d overslept again! Even though Conlan had warned her against it. Now she had to listen to Felix rant and pray he didn’t sack her.

There was a pause in noise as Bridget rushed around the room to find clean work clothes and a towel. She stopped only long enough to unlock the door and pull the drummer inside before he could wake Mr. Benson next door. The eighty year old man might have a heart attack imagining Bridget or anyone else in their skimpies.

Wow, look at you rocking the Medusa this morning, Goodie chuckled.

Okay, so her hair was a mess. She supposed she ought to be grateful it was Goodie in her apartment this morning and not Damon or there would be references to her complete lack of sex goddess lingerie. Why bother when cotton Capri's and a tank top work just as well.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Goodie was a fashion guru. Every week he changed styles to find the perfect look for a metal band drummer. This morning’s attempt featured a lot of black and camouflage with leather and spikes. The dog collar was good. And the chain connecting it to his thrice pierced ear was a nice touch, too. The crowning glory was his thick brunette hair gelled into spikes above his head. Already the gel was losing its firmness and hair was turning every which way but up.

Why haven’t I killed you yet? Bridget demanded grumpily, hugging her clothes and towel to her chest.

Mornings weren’t really her thing.

Cuz you got no wheels and I’m the bike man, Goodie replied cheerfully. He walked past her toward the couch. I’ll wait here while you do your soap and perfume thing.

Years ago the city of Indianapolis had resurrected a long strip of ancient homes built in the 1800’s for commercial use. The owners got prime real estate as long as they promised to keep up the traditional styles of their homes for the historical society. The Boiling Kettle cafe had been born then. It nested between two other such homes-turned-business with only narrow gravel alleys between them and a wider alley along the back for delivery trucks.

Despite fresh paint and careful restoration the Boiling Kettle still looked every bit its age. Large glass windows in the front were perfect for displaying the multi-shelved bakery case and cozy tables lining its small interior floor. On one wall a massive fireplace waited patiently for the call of winter so it could fill the room and patrons with warmth and light.

Suspended from the porch roofing a stylized cauldron cut out of a single sheet of tin twirled in the breeze. The bell above the door chimed as she stepped inside. Conlan was at the cash register with Mrs. Langley, a widow and his current landlady. He glanced across the elder woman’s shoulder and grinned as he saw her.

Bridget mouthed a silent thank you as she wound her way through tables towards the serving counter. Goodie had spilled everything as they walked out to his bike. Conlan had called him and begged him to pick Bridget up as a favor since she hadn’t made it in to work. And when the bass guitarist for Night Howls asked for something he normally got it. Rarely did the guys have a chance to bank a favor from him, though he was always the first to bail them out of trouble.

See you next week? Conlan asked Mrs. Langley as he handed over a bag of mint chocolate drop cookies.

Unless I inhale these tonight and decide to come back for more, she replied cheerfully.

It was the usual Tuesday morning script. Every time she saw the old woman Bridget expected her to reach across the counter and pinch Conlan’s cheek. But she never did.

With a shrug and a grin Bridget left Conlan manning the front counter and braced herself for the worst. In the kitchen the air oozed calories. Chocolate, mint, peanut butter, cinnamon; anything and everything that could make a mouth water could be found in the large industrial ovens Felix had splurged on. Her stomach grumbled its usual litany of complaints since she’d missed breakfast…again.

Jake Stray, the chef Felix hired to do the sandwiches and other non-bakery food stuffs, motioned toward the office door with a metal spatula as she stepped further into his domain. His scruffy five o’clock shadow looked a little haggard and she guessed he’d been out late partying with his girlfriend again. When he caught her gaze pale green eyes softened for a split second before returning to his work.

She liked Jake. He was great for gossip and fun to work with. He never said a bad word about anyone or anything. And no matter how neatly pressed the shirt it always wrinkled shortly after Jake put it on. He felt…comfortable.

As she passed by him toward the office door, uncertain whether she should even put the apron on, a metal spatula tapped the iron skillet in front of him.

Tread softly back there, sweetheart, he whispered.

More like abandon all hope, Bridget thought as she clutched her purse like a shield. How many times did this make now, anyway? She'd lost count.

Keep calm. There’s a chance he might not fry you alive. All this flashed through her brain in seconds as she walked with the footfalls of the doomed toward the shut office door. It wasn't as though she were going to face down a dragon. Just an irate boss.

Felix Hunt had a reputation as an honest, hard-working, and respectable citizen by all who knew him. He donated to more charities than Bridget could name, made personal deliveries to elderly clients who had trouble getting around the city, and even spent time as a Big Brother on different occasions.

Add in he was absolutely gorgeous and it was easy to see why every woman that stepped foot inside the Boiling Kettle tried hitting on him.

Bridget wasn’t immune to that handsome, chiseled face, either. She’d had more than her share of fantasies regarding the eligible thirty something bachelor. Even thinking about the man made her melt despite her current predicament.

Felix represented everything she’d ever wanted out of life: stability, dependability, passion. In her dreams he had a kiss that turned women into a blazing, roaring ball of light and a smile that blew their ashes away.

Not that Bridget had ever experienced either. But a