His hips pressed to her, the evidence of his arousal apparent against the zipper of his jeans. She moaned, her neck arching to the side. He moved his mouth to the indentation at the edge of her throat, using his tongue and teeth and lips to show her all the things he’d rather do in private.
Private.
Shit. They were in a bar.
He dropped his hands from her waist and pulled back. He clocked the moment Heather came back to her senses. She pursed her lips and pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.
“We should go,” she said with efficiency, turning toward the exit.
Jase was not a guy to dissect every kiss, every tumble in the sheets. His philosophy was to just let things be what they were going to be. Enjoy the moment, then move to the next. Watching Heather as she hustled away from him? That philosophy seemed like the stupidest shit he’d ever thought.
“Heather?” he asked her back.
That kiss was not a moment he wanted to move away from.
She didn’t even turn around, just grabbed her bouquet and gave a wave with her hand. “Nope. Not doing this.”
The fact was, they had.
And he didn’t have any idea what to do about it.
6
Chapter Six
Heather had kissed Jase. And he’d kissed her. And she needed a huge volunteer project or something to shift her attention off him. There was only so much prom planning needed. Maybe she should look at opening a second shop, so she could burn the candle at both ends and avoid thoughts of Jase’s tongue and the way he felt so good pressed against her. The way his deep voice, with just a touch of sandpaper, mesmerized her.
“What happened shouldn’t have happened.” She stopped just outside the door of her shop, turning to him to break the silence. She hadn’t said anything since they’d left the cowboy bar. He hadn’t tried again once they were outside.
They hopped on his bike and, penis cookies in her grip, he brought her back.
On the sidewalk outside her shop? He’d had the audacity to look hurt.
That wasn’t fair. He couldn’t look hurt. Looking hurt meant feelings, and they were not doing the feelings thing.
“I trust you are as committed to our fake breakup as I am,” Heather continued. “We’ll just keep moving forward, like two people who are pretending that nothing happened.”
“Heather…”
Ugh. He kept saying her name.
She pushed open the door to the shop. He followed her inside. It was immensely hard to ignore whatever was going on between them when he was right there.
Candy met her right at the door. “Okay, hear me out. I know I’ve been texting you that she’s still here and she won’t leave, but”—she tossed her hands out wide—“I just tried her cookies and they are ahh-mazing. I think we should let her work here.”
“Her cookies are pretty damn good,” Jase concurred.
Heather made a low gurgling sound in the back of her throat. No. Absolutely not. Heather gave her sister her best no-way-in-hell look and hurried through the shop toward the kitchen.
Candy and Jase were right behind her. Not that she turned around to see that they followed, but she could hear Jase going on about his love for Babushka’s tea cookies as they moved behind her.
Heather shoved open the swinging door to the kitchen.
And there she was. Babushka. Hairnet in place, apron tied around her neck, with what appeared to be a flour bomb detonated on the countertop in front of her.
“Good, you have arrived.” With a final thwack to a lump of dough, Babushka brushed her hands together.
The flour particles in the air tickled Heather’s lungs. What this day needed was hard alcohol and carbs. On that thought, she reached for a cookie from one of the baking sheets.
Babushka edged the tray away from Heather’s grasp. “They are not ready. They must cool.”
Heather rubbed the throb starting in the center of her forehead. Chin up. Be strong. “I really appreciate your offer to help me out here in the kitchen.”
Deep breath.
“I have a plan, and it’s already in place.” She tracked Babushka as the old woman shuffled around the counter to the cooling rack next to Heather and snagged a half-dollar-size cookie. “I really cannot take on another employ—”
Babushka shoved the cookie into Heather’s open mouth.
“Is good, no?” The old woman’s eyes shone with pride.
The powdered-sugary shortbread crumbled against Heather’s tongue in the most delightful dance of nutty, buttery goodness. Dammit all. The cookie wasn’t good. The thing was extraordinary.
That was not the point.
A bit of cookie fell from the side of Heather’s lip, but it did not deter from the fact that she was the boss and this was her kitchen.
Although, the cookie was damn good. Better than her own recipe. And she was pretty committed to her ability to bake just about anything.
“I am sorry.” Babushka went about working the dough in her hands. “About this morning. You are nice girl. I lend you my car until you have a vehicle, and I vill vork off my debt to you vith pastry. Ve vill have some fun, yes?”
There were not enough deep sighs in the world for this day.
Heather only needed to step aside and think this through. Treat Babushka like she would any other business challenge. Step back, evaluate, make the best decision for the company.
So, yes, her van had been creamed by a demented old woman. A demented old woman who’d thought she was defending the honor of her grandson. Heather could, on some really weird level, appreciate that kind of dedication. It was, in its own screwed-up way, sort of sweet.
Jase was buying her a new van and making that situation right. She didn’t even have to pay a deductible.
And she could use Babushka’s Buick. That would come in handy.
Babushka had apologized and made exceptional cookies.
Perhaps the time had come to start embracing all that was Babushka. This was a woman offering to bake for free. Heather had been thinking she needed to bring on another baker, anyway. This would essentially lower overhead. And boy, the woman could bake.
“What if we start this as a temporary experiment and see how it goes?” Candy suggested. “I’ll supervise. You don’t have to do anything.”
Babushka nodded as though she had no doubt this was the decision that would be reached. “I vill come in early every morning.”
“Oh, we don’t do that,” Candy replied. “We aren’t that kind of bakery. We just do cookies, so we have a solid eight a.m. start.”
“Vell, that vorks even better.” Babushka nodded. “I vill be here again tomorrow. Eight a.m.”
“Okay,” Heather heard herself say, against her better judgement.
“You sure you want to do that?” Jase sounded as unconvinced as Heather felt.
“Of course she is sure.” Babushka laid her weathered, floured hands on the table and nodded toward Heather. “I vill vork in your kitchen until I die. Vhich vill not be long. I vill leave you my recipes vhen I am gone.”
“She’s gonna leave the recipes.” Candy squeezed Heather’s arm. “Isn’t that the best?”
The best? Heather might not take it quite that far.
“This is just a trial. We’ll see how it goes. It’s temporary,” Heather confirmed.
And she almost believed it.
7
Chapter Seven
Jase was bringing Heather flowers. A bouquet of two dozen carrousel roses, to be exact. These were now his so-you-hate-flowers-I’m-going-to-make-you-love-them flowers. Officially, he was just calling them “Heather’s flower” from here on out.
He had a system—a flower for every occasion. From sorry-your-ex-got-married-today to I’d-like-in-your-pants-please. For Heather? He was going all in. Sometimes a florist just knew the right type of flower for a person.
While he waited in the shop, he shifted from foot to foot like a teenage boy. This time he didn’t barge
into her kitchen. Today he waited out front for her cashier to go get her. Like a good little Jase.
Babushka pushed through the kitchen doors and headed for his bouquet. “Jason, you brought me flowers. You are good boy.” She leaned a cheek up so he could kiss it.
Shit, he couldn’t exactly give Heather flowers in front of his grandmother. The grandmother he had convinced of the breakup that never was.
Babushka smiled a wry smile and took the bouquet.
Heather emerged from the kitchen in her apron, a smudge of flour against her cheek. “Hey, Jase. Your grandmother was just teaching me to make kolaches. They’re freaking awesome.”
He focused on the way she said his name. He liked it. She could say his name all day long. Scream it, even. He didn’t mind at all.
“He brought you flowers. He is good boy.” Babushka handed them to Heather.
Well, he had, but Heather didn’t need to know that. Not with his grandmother standing right there.
With an abundance of reluctance, Heather took the bouquet. “I thought we had an understanding about my feelings toward floristry.”
“See, he brings you flowers.” Babushka fussed with a few of the blooms on the bouquet. “Is not big deal. You make such fuss about seeing him.”
“You made a fuss about seeing me?” Jase didn’t have to fake his surprise.
“Absolutely, no—” Heather started.
“She says, ‘I refuse to hear him out.’ I say, ‘You be kind to your neighbors.’ You two make up and give me grandbabies before I move back in with your dedushka.”
“I see you and Babushka are getting along great.” He swung an arm around his grandmother.
“Hey, I have some deliveries. Ethan hasn’t been by. Can you send him over?” Heather asked.
“He is late, this Ethan,” Babushka said on a huff. “Ve have deliveries to be made.”
Because of her vengeance. She forgot to add that part. Deliveries to be made, because of her vigilante justice gone wrong.
That’s what Jase thought. What he said was: “I’ll send him over.”
“Good. And I have doctor’s appointment this morning. I need transportation. Who vill drive me?” She brushed his arm off and pointed between the two of them.
“That’s a negative for me. I’ve got a full afternoon. But I can call Anna.” He was already pulling his phone from his back pocket.
Babushka waved him away. “She is busy today. I asked her.”
“Then I’ll call Mom.”
“She is at luncheon this afternoon.”
“Dad?” Jase scowled at his phone in an apparent attempt to dream up more family member names.
“Golfing.”
“Zach?” Jase asked.
“He spends time with his girlfriend. I not bother him. They will be married, and I will have grandbabies.”
Jase leaned his hands on the countertop, a scowl plastered on his face. “I’ll ask Ethan.”
“I can do it,” Heather volunteered. “It’s her car and I’ve got to go pick up the prom tickets, anyway. They’re done at the printer.”
“You want to take her to the doctor?” Jase confirmed. Heather clearly didn’t know what she was stepping in.
“I don’t mind. I can drop her off and pick her up.”
“Well, then, thank you, Heather.” He hugged his grandmother and headed for the door.
“What time is your appointment?” he heard Heather ask.
“Foot doctor is at ten, then heart doctor, then eye doctor.”
Yup, stepped in it.
“Oh,” Heather said in reply.
“After eye doctor, then late lunch. Best steaks in Denver. All you can eat for ten dollars.”
On that, he glanced back.
His grandmother’s cheeks folded into creases with her smile. “My treat.”
* * *
Heather drummed her fingers against the arm of a chair in the waiting room of Cherry Creek’s most esteemed ophthalmologist.
“Ms. Reese?” One of the nurses, the one in the blue scrubs, opened the doorway leading to the back rooms. “Nadzieja had her eyes dilated, so she’s having a harder time seeing than usual. She should be better by this evening.”
“I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.” Phone stuffed back in her pocket, Heather stood and gathered her purse.
“She insists she doesn’t need a wheelchair.” The nurse’s expression turned sympathetic.
Of course. She was Babushka, master of her own independence.
“I’ll help her to the car.” Heather followed the woman to where Babushka sat, ankles crossed like a demure debutante instead of a feisty old woman. “They say you won’t use a wheelchair.”
“I am dying. I’m not dead.” Babushka boosted herself to stand and grabbed on to Heather’s arm. “I vill use vheelchair vhen I am dead.”
“Nadzieja, you’re not dying. We’ve been over this.” The soft-spoken nurse was no match for Babushka. Even Heather could see that.
“Vat do you know?” Hand raised in goodbye, Babushka pulled Heather toward the exit. “She knows nothing.”
“The cardiologist agreed with her,” Heather pointed out.
“He knows nothing. Now, ve go to lunch.” Babushka plowed ahead.
Heather had to do a tug-and-yank combination to keep her from toppling over an old man with a cane.
“Vatch vhere you go,” Babushka admonished him. If she’d shaken her fist at the guy, Heather wouldn’t have been surprised.
“Let’s head back to the shop. I’ll order in.” Heather could keep things contained at the shop. Things meaning Babushka.
“No. It is eye doctor day. Ve go to steak. This is how it alvays is.” Babushka nearly stepped into oncoming traffic.
Heather gripped her arm and pressed the walk button. “Hold tight. The crosswalk is still red.”
“Cars vill stop. You go. They stop.”
“Or we can wait for the light to change so we don’t become one with the asphalt. Then we can get in your car, head back to the shop, and I’ll order you lunch.”
“Steaks.” The one word said it all. Babushka was going to get her piece of a cow.
“Yum,” Heather replied. Thumb shoved on the crosswalk button again, Heather contemplated becoming a vegetarian.
* * *
“We cannot go in here.” Heather slumped farther down into the beige leather seat of Babushka’s Buick.
“Vhy not?” The black-sunglass-wearing old woman peered at the building.
The building with the sign that read Pistol Polly’s and showcased a vintage-style pinup woman riding a pony in short-shorts and pigtails. The building everyone in Denver knew housed a strip joint—as in poles, VIP back rooms, and topless waitresses. The building Heather was absolutely not taking Babushka into.
“It’s a gentlemen’s club.” Heather slid a side-eye to her…whatever the heck Babushka had become to her. Baker. Grandmother figure.
“Vomen are velcome, too. This is Morty’s place. Best steak in Denver. I alvays come after eye doctor.”
After she couldn’t see anymore.
“Always?” Heather confirmed.
“Oh yes, this vas my driver’s favorite.”
Well, Heather just bet. Her old driver appeared deserving of his firing.
“Your old driver? He brought you here?” Heather confirmed.
“Yes.” Babushka harrumphed. “He knows good steak. Bad driver. Alvays goes so fast, but good vith picking restaurants.”
That point was debatable.
“He brought you here because you had your eyes dilated and you couldn’t see that… It. Is. A. Gentlemen’s. Club.” Not that there was anything wrong with that. A girl had to make a living. But Jase would likely murder Heather in her sleep if she took his presently blind grandmother to lunch at a place that also served up half-price lap dances between three and five p.m.
“This is no true. He also brings me to Le Peep for breakfast.” With that, Babushka pushed open the car door
and scooted outside, her orthotic-covered feet shuffling across the parking lot.
Heather didn’t trust her in a parking lot. The woman could barely make it from the ophthalmologist’s office to the car without getting swiped by a Chevy. Heather rushed after her.
“You vill love steaks here,” Babushka assured with all the confidence of a mostly blind elderly woman entering a strip club.
It better be the best damn steak of her life, because Heather was pretty certain she’d have a front-row seat at her own funeral soon enough. Throat thick, she heaved open the metal door to follow Babushka straight past the vacant hostess station, through a darkened waiting area with leather-covered walls, and straight into the lion’s den. Low blue and pink lighting, fog-covered stage, polished poles where two women in bedazzled G-strings gyrated their hips to Lady Gaga for a couple of suits in the front row.
“Where are we going?” Heather stumbled along with Babushka.
She pointed toward the bar area, away from the stage. “My table is in back.”
Of course Babushka had her own table at the strip club. Because that made total sense.
“Nadzieja.” An old man with a comb-over and a wide smile ambled toward them. “I was hoping you would come today.” He folded Babushka in a hug that seemed to go on a few seconds too long.
“Morty, it’s good to see you again.” Babushka leaned in for a cheek kiss as Morty held on a few seconds more. “This is Heather. She is Jase’s fiancée.”
Hell-to-the-no.
“Hello, I’m Heather.” She shook Morty’s warm hand. “Definitely not Jase’s fiancée.”
Babushka climbed onto the barstool and gestured for Heather to join her. The thickness in Heather’s throat turned to ash. She glanced to the stage, to Babushka, finally settling on the varnish of the table. Perhaps she could step outside. Call Jase and explain what had happened. That would absolve her of any guilt.
“They have lover’s quarrel.” Babushka held her large purse tight against her lap, leveraging it between her knees and the table. “Vill make up soon enough.”
Blow Me Away: A Mile High Matched Novel, Book 2 Page 6