Aurelia Stark had been raised by her grandparents, who had owned the only bookstore in Sweetwater for more than forty years. She’d gone to school with Willow and had moved away after college. A few years ago, Aurelia’s grandparents had sold the bookstore when Aurelia’s grandfather had suffered a stroke and moved into a rehab facility on Long Island. Mick Bad, the attorney who purchased the building the bookstore was in, lived in New York City and had been looking for a small place in town to use as a weekend getaway. He’d gotten along so well with Aurelia’s grandmother, he’d kept the store intact on the first floor, in case Aurelia’s grandmother ever wanted to come back and run it, and used the apartment upstairs as his getaway. Aurelia came into town for a few days each month and opened the store to keep her grandmother’s dream alive. Willow hoped she could convince her to go into business together and combine the bookstore with the bakery.
“Already taken care of.” Zane leaned forward. “The exposure you’ve already gained, plus the catering for the set, should still help with getting your name out there. Even without the photographers hounding us, they’ll be around the set, and stories will still make the papers.”
She arched a brow. “Did I mention that I received an e-mail this morning from someone named Payton from craft services for the set? She’s sending over the breakfast menu tomorrow. She said they usually have bagels and pastries for breakfast, but apparently some of the crew members have special dietary needs.”
“Like I said, I’ll help.”
“I’m sure you have to study your lines and do whatever actors do.” She glanced out the window at the two security guards. She hated that they needed to be there, but she had signed up for this.
Zane slid a hand to the back of her neck, brushing his thumb over her skin.
“Come on, Wills. Let me help you bake Louie’s cake. Give me an inch.”
“You’ll take a mile.” Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“That’s true,” he admitted. “I’m good at taking more with you. But in all fairness, I can’t help it. Maybe I shouldn’t have let us go so far last night.”
“You? Ha! Aren’t you the cocky one? That was my decision, too.” She couldn’t stop her voice from rising, and the emotions that had bottled up over the last twenty-four hours rushed out. She swatted at a rose, sending several petals sailing to the floor. “And I don’t hate these!”
He crossed his arms, and despite her tantrum, he was perfectly calm. “You gave them away.”
“I was angry. Or . . . confused. I was something.”
Amusement rose from his smile all the way to his eyes. “I feel like I should apologize. But I’m not sure about which part. Asking you to lie for me, or realizing I’m in love with you.”
Her insides melted a little more. “Zane—”
“Hear me out.” He stepped closer, his masculine scent engulfing her as he touched her cheek. “It was wrong of me to ask you to lie, but if I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have spent this time together. And there’s no way in hell I’ll apologize for my feelings.”
His touch was a heady invitation, drawing the truth like a serum. “I don’t want an apology.”
He lowered his chin in that devastatingly alluring way he had, and she fought the urge to go up on her toes and press her lips to his. She couldn’t tear her eyes from his mouth, remembering the firm press of it against hers, the openmouthed kisses he lavished on her neck, her breasts. Between my legs. Her body shuddered with the tantalizing memory.
“Are you going to tell me what you do want?”
His voice pulled her from her reverie. Feeling a little unsteady, and aware of the minutes ticking by, she headed into the kitchen. Her lair. The only place she felt grounded and confident despite whatever chaos went on around her. She began setting out mixing bowls and ingredients for Louie’s cake.
Zane followed her in. “Last night was agony, babe. I’ve gone over this a hundred times, trying to figure out where I went wrong.”
“Where we both went wrong.” She carried the flour to the counter and pulled a measuring cup out from beneath.
“Bullshit, Wills.” He waved at the counter. “How can I help with this?”
She pointed to the refrigerator. “Think you can measure a cup of milk and break six eggs into this?” She pushed a bowl across the counter and began measuring the flour.
“I’m on it.” He tugged the fridge open. “I’m always happy to handle your jugs.”
“Only you could joke right now.” She tried to sound serious, but it rode out on another laugh.
“I wasn’t joking.” He smirked, and God help her, she loved his naughtiness. “Clearly this was my fault. One minute you were in my arms, and then I opened my big mouth and you were gone.”
She dumped the flour into the bowl and leaned over the counter, tapping the sides of the vanilla and almond extract bottles over his bowl. Her ring spun on her finger, scratching the inside of her middle finger again. She turned it right side up, and the damn thing spun again.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she snapped, annoyed with the ring, not him. She drew in a calming breath. “Don’t you think there’s a chance you’re just in the moment? And when the beautiful actresses and the rest of your Hollywood life roll into town, you’re going to realize I’m just a small-town girl who will never be what you’re used to?”
He looked up from where he was cracking eggs into a bowl with a serious expression. “No.”
“When you’re done filming, your life will get away from you again, and regardless of what you might or might not feel for me—”
“Jesus, Willow.” He came around the counter with a wolfish look in his eyes. “These are my feelings. I know what I feel, and I know what you feel, because I see it in your eyes. I feel it in your touch.” His voice went low, unleashing a whirl of passion in the pit of her stomach. She hated—and loved—that he had that effect on her with nothing more than his voice. No wonder his touch turned her inside out.
“You look at me like I’m a bucket of frosting and you want to dive in.” He stepped closer, stealing all the air from her lungs. “I gave up too easily back then. I should have said ‘fuck the guy’ you brought home and done this—”
His mouth collided with hers, as punishing and angry as it was sweet and provocative. Shivers of desire sliced through her as he delved deeper, crushing her to him. Her thoughts fragmented, and every ounce of her thrummed to life, pressing into him, craving more than one kiss could ever give. His hands circled her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter. He pushed between her legs, intensifying his possession and their kiss. Jesus, this kiss. It was a kiss for her hungry soul to melt into—and melt she did. He was an eagle soaring through the sky, and she was weightless, entranced by his intensity, completely and utterly lost in him.
He tore his mouth away, and she touched her burning lips.
“Yeah,” she whispered without thought. “You should have done that.”
“Then stop pushing me away and let me show you the man I can be, the man I will be for you.”
“You can try,” she said, struggling to beat her dizzying brain into submission. “But I’m warning you. I won’t fall for you just because you set my body on fire.”
He waggled his brows and pulled her closer, until she felt his hardness against her center. “I set your body on fire?”
“Oven,” she said to distract herself from the delicious man rubbing against her like a cat. She was so into him, poor Louie would never get his cake. “I need to heat up the oven.”
“I’m all for getting heated up.” He dipped his head, ravishing her neck with openmouthed kisses.
“Z—” We’re never going to finish baking Louie’s cake. She was pretty sure the words never made it from her brain to his ears.
He took her in another plundering kiss, chasing away more of her brain cells.
“Louie’s cake,” she panted out between kisses. “Need to bake it.”
“You bake, baby.” He l
ifted her from the counter and set her feet on the ground, then turned her toward the counter. He ground his hard length against her ass. “I’ll just . . .” He unbuttoned her jeans, slowly unzipping them from behind. “You’d better get mixing, or prepping, or whatever it is that needs to be done to get that little guy’s cake in the oven.”
She scrambled for the ingredients, trying to remember where she’d left off as he pushed his hand down the front of her pants, teasing her and nibbling on the back of her neck. She pressed her palms to the counter, trying to catch her breath. It was a losing endeavor.
“Finish up, sweet girl, so your big guy’s cake can get in your oven.”
She’d never made a cake so fast in all her life.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WILLOW PUSHED OPEN the front door to Bridgette’s cottage-style home later that afternoon and inhaled the scent of home-cooked meals, mommy hugs, and little-boy smiles. The hardwood floors were spotless, the carpets freshly vacuumed. Balloons were tied to each banister, and a colorful birthday banner hung across the foyer. Bridgette was everything Willow wasn’t, from her lithe figure and always perfectly brushed blond hair of various shades to her careful and methodical tendencies. She would make sure Louie’s birthday party—as she did his life—was perfectly orchestrated to ensure his happiness and his safety.
“Hello?” Willow called out. “Bridge? Where’s the birthday boy?”
“Upstairs, Auntie Willow!” Louie hollered. “We’re getting ready for my party!”
She carried Louie’s Spider-Man cake over to the stairs. Her body was still humming with memories of all the sexy things she and Zane had done earlier while the cake was baking. “Tell Mommy I’ll put the cake in the kitchen.”
Louie bolted toward his bedroom, and Bridgette’s voice sailed down the stairs. “Mommy’s right here.”
Her sister appeared at the top of the stairs, looking cute in a pair of white capris and a peach tank top. Her strained smile cut straight through Willow.
“Where’s your new fiancé?”
“He should be here soon. He had to pick something up. Do you have time to talk?” She inhaled a lungful of guilt. “I’m really sorry I didn’t call last night, but it was a hard night.”
Louie collided with Bridgette’s legs in full Spider-Man garb. “My Spider-Man cake!”
Bridgette took his hand, slowing his little legs down as he descended the stairs. A pang of sadness nipped at Willow. She remembered what Bridgette had been like before she’d lost the love of her life. She could have been the poster child for rebellious, wild risk takers. At nineteen she’d gone against their parents’ wishes and quit college to run away and get married to a drummer. Six months later she was pregnant, and almost a year after that one tragic car accident forever changed her and Louie’s lives. The old Bridgette would have let Louie sprint down the stairs or slide down the banister. Willow adored Bridgette, but she missed the part of her that she had buried alongside her husband.
Willow crouched for Louie to see the cake. She could only see his eyes through the Spider-Man mask, but they were as wide as hard-boiled eggs.
“Wow! Can I have a piece?”
“When Mommy says it’s time.”
“What do you say?” Bridgette reminded him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Auntie Willow!”
Willow pointed to her cheek. “How about some sugar, sweetie pop?”
He gave her a loud, smacking kiss and took off running toward the playroom. Louie was the epitome of a rainbow-layered birthday cake, full of sweet happiness inside and out.
“Now that’s more like it.” Willow rose to her feet. “Kitchen?”
Bridgette followed her in.
Willow glanced out the glass doors to the yard, which was decked out with all things Spider-Man, from the tablecloth to the piñata hanging from the big oak tree. Helium balloons were tied to the backs of all the chairs around a long table.
“Want a drink?” Bridgette asked.
“Only if it’s a stiff one.” She set the cake on the counter.
Bridgette arched a finely manicured brow. “Trouble in paradise?”
“It’s not like that.” Willow leaned on the counter, eyeing the cake. Zane had helped her frost it, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much. Can you imagine if we really had the ability to create webs like Spider-Man? I could tangle you up and never let you go. His tease had led to more sexy talk about being tied up, which had led to messy, frosting-covered kisses—and that was after they’d already made love on every possible surface.
“From the look on your face, I’d guess you meant something else by a hard night.”
Willow laughed and felt her cheeks heat up.
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. But Zane Walker?” Bridgette whispered his name. “I’m still getting over the shock of him being your first.”
“I told you three years ago.” She’d spilled her secret after too much wine, when Zane had texted twice to razz her about the Jets losing, since he was a Giants fan, followed by, Come see me. I’ll show you how a real baller plays.
“It was very traumatic for me,” Bridgette teased. “I mean, he used to spend the night at our house all the time. Don’t you remember lying in the hallway spying on him and Ben when we were like seven and eight? After you told me, I started to imagine all sorts of crazy things about you two and wondering if I missed hundreds of secret make-out sessions.”
“I assure you, you did not.” Much to her chagrin, of course. She’d fantasized about exactly that time and time again when she was a teenager.
“Not even when you were tutoring him in math?”
“Not even then.”
Bridgette wrinkled her brow, eyeing Willow’s ring. “So you go away to cater an event and come back engaged.” She pulled Willow’s hand closer, inspecting the ring. “That’s gorgeous.”
“It’s gaudy and awful,” she corrected her.
“Well, it’s not you, but I think it’s stunning. How could I not have noticed you’ve been seeing him? Why would you keep that from me?”
“Can you keep a secret?” Willow worried over breaking her promise to Zane, but while it was hard to lie to her family, it was impossible to lie to Bridgette.
“What do you think? No one else knows he popped your cherry,” she teased.
“The engagement isn’t real, but he wants it to be.”
“Holy shit,” Bridgette whispered. “You’re lying to Mom and Dad? Why?” She opened a cabinet and dug around, withdrawing a bottle of wine.
Willow reached for wineglasses.
“Mugs,” Bridgette said. “Covert operation with the little one around.”
Two mugs of wine later, Willow had told her the whole sordid story. “And now I’m in this state of limbo. And you can’t tell anyone this is fake.”
“This is a lot to process.” Bridgette twirled a lock of hair around her finger, a nervous habit she’d had for as long as Willow could remember. “You never knew you were his first?”
Willow shook her head. “I told you how he was that night. He was so in control. Mr. Calm, Cool, and Collected. I never would have guessed that he’d never done it before. And when we were together last night? One epic orgasm after another, like my body has been saving it all up for him. No one—absolutely no one—has ever made me feel like I do when we’re together. And it’s more than just the sex, you know? I can be myself with Zane. Good, bad, whatever. And the way he looks at me . . .” She shivered and held her arm up for Bridgette to see. “Goose bumps, Bridge. Goose bumps just from thinking about him.”
“That’s how it was for me and Jerry. And just for the record, I don’t want to hear about epic orgasms. I’m happy for you, but my girl hasn’t been touched since Jerry died, and she’s a little jealous.”
They both laughed. “I’m sorry. But . . . oh my God. I can’t lie. It’s magical. We’re combustible. Just like it was all those years ago, only different. Better. Becau
se now we’re adults, and . . .” She paused, still unable to believe what she was about to say was the truth and not a silly fantasy. “This feels real, and he wants it to be. But I’m scared shitless of getting hurt again.”
“You were young, and you made up all those stupid rules.”
“I told you about the rules?” She must have had way too much wine that night, because she didn’t recall sharing those details with her sister.
“Let’s see. No feelings, no talking about it after the fact, no looking at each other differently, no blackmailing, and he was to let you walk home alone. For the record,” Bridgette said, “I’m still impressed that you did that and no one found out. But I can’t help wondering. Do you ever wish you hadn’t set up those rules?”
Willow shook her head. “I can’t think about it. I drove myself crazy thinking about it for way too many months afterward.”
“And now it’s come full circle,” Bridgette said. “You two have kept in touch like you’re best friends or lovers. And you have sexual history, which begs the question . . . if you’re not still in love with each other, why would you have kept each other in the loop of your lives for all this time?”
Willow looked up at the ceiling and groaned. “That’s why I’m so confused.” She leaned forward, and her sister met her halfway, like they used to do as little girls sharing secrets. “I don’t think I ever stopped loving him,” she whispered. “But the whole reason we’re doing this charade is because of who he is. How can I be in love with a guy who sleeps around?”
A haunted look came over Bridgette’s face, and Willow wanted to evaporate into thin air. Jerry had been madly in love with Bridgette, but he’d been a snake in the grass before they’d started dating.
The front door swung open, and their parents walked in carrying two big presents. Louie bolted out of the playroom as if he had a grandparent-homing device. “Grandma! Grandpa! Auntie Willow made me a Spider-Man cake!”
Their father lifted him into his arms. “Spider-Man doesn’t seem to have a mouth. He can’t eat cake.”
The Real Thing (Sugar Lake Book 1) Page 14