Reid opens the door and does a double take. His brows pinch together, and I get the distinct feeling he doesn’t want me here. His lips pull into a tight smile, and immediately, I know something is off.
“Hey…sorry to drop in on you. I was just on my way to work. I should have texted first. Or called…” I trail off. Shit. I’m bumbling. My crazy is on full display.
“No problem. I was about to hop in the shower.”
“Oh.” His hair is wet. Like he’s already taken a shower. Weird.
“Well, I won’t keep you. Just wanted you to have these.” I practically shove the cookies into his hands.
Opening the container, he frowns, which is the exact opposite reaction I was shooting for. “Callie. I’m sorry you wasted your time coming over here.” There’s a slight hesitation before he pushes on. “But I think we need to cool things down for a bit. Especially with the close call with Tom…”
Holy shit. Am I getting the shaft? “They’re cookies, Reid.” There’s no way Mel is right, and cookies somehow don’t mean cookies. Humiliation washes over me because I did want to come over here. And I do want this to be something more.
And obviously, I’m an idiot.
“Great. I appreciate them. Just…don’t want to lead you on.”
Say what? What happened to our conversation earlier today?
My hackles rise because I don’t appreciate his tone or the way his words make me feel. As if I’m a pathetic loser begging to be with him.
“Trust me, you and your subpar lovemaking skills will not be missed.” Okay, subpar might be a bit much, but who is he to judge me on my cookie making? We were cool this morning, and now he’s acting all cagey.
He lifts a brow. “Subpar?”
“I’m sorry, do I need to use simpler language?”
No, no, no. Don’t do it. But I can feel us slipping back into our old routine. Only this time, my tone’s taken on a vicious edge. One that, even if this was a fling, doesn’t deserve for me to be a complete turd bucket to him.
Before I can apologize, he says, “Thanks again for the cookies, Callie. See you at work.” And with that, he shuts the door in my face.
24
Reid
Subpar lovemaking skills.
Callie’s words swirl in the back of my mind, perpetually taunting me in the days following our interaction when she showed up at my door.
When I opened it to find her standing there in her pencil skirt and blouse, hands gripping a container of what appeared to be cookies, I balked. Hell, I’ve never experienced such an intense inner struggle. A part of me wanted to tug her inside my apartment and taste her again. And also to see if I’d accurately detected the scent of butterscotch cookies. Because the only woman who bakes those for me is my grandmother.
The fact that Callie somehow discovered my love for that particular kind of cookie made me feel things. Dangerous things. And that set off the other part of me. The level-headed and cutthroat part. The part that knew I needed to steer clear of Callie for the sake of gaining her position.
Fuck. Why can’t shit be easy for once?
So I decided to be blunt and tell her we needed to cool things off. I mean, when a woman shows up at your door after you’d been buried deep inside her most of the previous night—and part of the current morning—with cookies she baked, it usually means she has strong feelings.
Turns out, she has strong feelings, all right. Strong feelings of hatred toward me now.
But no way in hell was anything we’ve done together subpar.
No. Fucking. Way.
“What did that register do to you?”
I whip my head around to see one of our waitresses, Lea, watching me, her eyes dancing with amusement. “You seem to be waging a war on it right now.”
Shit. I’ve been counting the money in the drawer, busting open rolls of coins to get it ready for when we open. I hadn’t realized how abrupt and forceful my movements were.
I force an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
She leans her hip against the bar and crosses her arms over her chest. “You look tense.”
Oh, shit. My entire body goes rigid at her tone, at the slight hint of flirtation in her soft voice. It sets me on edge because Lea’s never been like this with me. My eyes fly up to lock with hers, only to find her regarding me. Her gaze drops to my lips for a beat before skimming down my body.
Jesus. I shift, suddenly feeling awkward as hell. As if I don't have enough to worry about, now I’ve got Lea fixing her sudden interest on me.
I focus on my task to avoid meeting her gaze and keep my tone even. “I’ve got a lot going on.”
“Well, maybe I can help you...decompress.”
There is no mistaking the intent of her words because Lea practically purrs.
“I’m pretty sure Reid’s got that covered.”
What the— I stiffen at the sound of Callie’s voice behind me. But I don’t dare turn around. I’ve been doing great at not looking at her. At not allowing my eyes to take in the way her ass looks in those skirts or slim-fitting pants she wears. The way her neck practically calls out for me to nip at it when she wears her hair twisted up in a clip.
Nope. I don’t pay her any attention.
“Reid’s got a harem, it seems,” Callie continues, the snark heavy in her voice. “They even deliver his favorite butterscotch cookies to his doorstep.”
I scowl and grit my teeth, still refusing to turn around and face her. “Maybe he didn’t want the cookies,” I snipe. This is getting fucking ridiculous. I don’t want to fight with Callie, but I brought this on myself. Now I’m pissed because I don’t know how to fix it, and we’re both just edging each other further until one of us breaks.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure he wanted the cookies.” Her heavy insinuation sends pulses of arousal through me at the memories her words are triggering. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say he wanted to eat all the cookies.” There’s a pause. “All. Day. Long.” Another pause. “But the cookies decided they would rather be eaten elsewhere.”
What the fuck? Now I whip around to stare at her and...damn. She’s wearing a blouse I haven’t seen her in before, and it’s red, matching her lipstick, and fuck all hell if I don’t imagine kissing that red off them.
Until her words finally sink in. Elsewhere? Oh, hell no.
I squint at her, eyeing her dangerously. “Those cookies know they can’t be eaten elsewhere. Because no one else eats them as well.”
Callie glowers at me, her eyes narrowed angrily with her hands fisted at her sides. Her lips part, likely preparing to toss out another barb, when we’re interrupted.
“Uh, guys?” Both of our heads whip around to stare at Lea.
Shit, I’d forgotten all about her standing there.
Our co-worker shifts her feet from side to side, appearing uncomfortable. “I’m not really following this conversation, but…” She hesitates, her eyes darting back and forth between Callie and me, before her expression turns hopeful. “I could actually go for some butterscotch cookies.”
Callie makes a disgusted sound and spins around to storm away, leaving me with a baffled Lea. I shake my head in exasperation and get back to dealing with the register.
Lea stares in the direction that Callie went. “What’s her deal?”
With my mouth curving into a devious smirk, I mutter, “Someone wants another nibble of her cookie.”
“She sure has a way with customers.”
I flash a glare of warning at Bert, who’s seated at the bar nursing his beer. His attention rests on Callie as she chats with patrons at a large booth in the far corner.
More specifically, patrons who consist of four guys and a lone woman. They’re all dressed in business suits, the woman in a suit jacket with a matching skirt. I wouldn’t normally give a group like this a second glance, but the men aren’t bothering to hide their open appraisal of Callie. Jesus, they’re practically eye-fucking her as we speak.
“Yeah.” I cl
ench my jaw in agitation. Somehow, I manage to tear my gaze away and settle my attention on Bert. “She sure does.”
The older man arches an eyebrow, his oversized dentures jutting out as he flashes me a knowing grin. “Seem a little uptight around her lately.”
My initial response is to fire back a sharp response, but I know that’ll just feed into what he’s already zeroed in on. Instead, I school my features to portray casual nonchalance. “Nah.” I wink at him. “Just business as usual, Bert.”
Another bar patron a few seats down from Bert signals me for another beer, and I immediately snag a new glass. “In my experience, it’s good to talk things out.”
“Tried that. Didn’t go as planned.” I place it beneath the appropriate microbrew and pull the lever to begin dispensing it. I tip the glass to the side, and as the dark, amber liquid fills it, I can’t help but think of how similar in color Callie’s eyes appeared that morning.
“Where’s the persistent guy I know? The one who’s going to do great things one day.”
“Wishful thinking, Bert. Unless you count future manager of this place as great things.” If I keep saying it, it just might happen.
He raises a brow and folds his hands on top of the bar. Shaking off my errant thoughts, I press the lever to shut off the flow of beer and proudly take in the sight of yet another glass poured with the perfect amount of head.
“Well, if you do end up as the manager, you need to teach the other bartenders around town how to perfect their pour and give the perfect amount of head.”
I narrow my eyes at him and joke, “What’s this about other bartenders, now?” We both know he only comes to On Tap.
“There was that one time...” Bert grins, and those damn teeth make it hard not to reciprocate. “Before you started working here, of course.”
“Of course,” I parrot back with a smirk.
Once I confirm all my customers are set and none of the wait staff needs me, I decide to refill the ice. We’re already half-empty, and there’s still at least five hours to go in my shift, so it’s best to do it now during a lull.
I head to the rear of the kitchen in the small alcove where the ice machine sits. Just as I’m about to reach for the handle of the large ice bin to begin filling it, I hear footsteps behind me.
A light tread and a click of heels I’d recognize anywhere.
“Are you freaking kidding me? Anyone can pour head. Damn you, Bert. What the—”
Callie’s words, spoken in muted disgust, halt, and I assume she’s caught sight of me at the ice machine. I don’t acknowledge her, however. I simply grasp the metal handle of the ice bin from where it sits off to the side and place it at my feet, ready to begin filling it with scoops of ice. It’s better to have something to focus on rather than tell her how I’m really feeling. That I don’t know how I’m feeling. That I wish I could fix what happened the other day.
As I bend slightly to reach inside the large ice machine, I swear I catch the slightest hint of a groan from behind me.
Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by the light floral scent of her shampoo. Tension radiates from my entire body as I sense her nearness before she says in a whisper-hiss, “What the heck are you doing?”
I continue scooping ice, refusing to look at her. From the corner of my eye, I see her sleek black shoes mere inches away from my own. I’m not a complete dumbass. I know what will happen if I turn my head and take in the sight of her up close. To have her lips within close reach of my own.
It would be the worst damn torture.
“Well, Callie”—I inflect a good deal of sarcasm into my tone—“when a person needs to have their drink a certain temperature...say, I don’t know, cold, maybe...they use the little things called ice cu—”
The shove is unexpected and catches me off guard, sending the scoop flying out of my hand and deep into the ice bin.
I spin around, ready to light into her. But the moment I catch sight of the way her eyes are alight with fiery indignation and her nipples are puckering from the cold air wafting from the open ice machine, my mind veers off and heads straight for the off-limits section.
Callie.
She obviously doesn't sense the path my thoughts are now taking because she steps in, crowding me, and pokes an index finger to my chest.
“I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to stop.”
Her tone triggers a part of my brain that’s actually operating, and I rear back, giving her a look of confusion. “Stop what?”
“You know.” Two more finger jabs, and damn, she’s got some force behind them. “Glaring at me all the time and giving me dirty looks. Regulars are noticing, and it’s awkward when they ask me what’s wrong. So what if we slept together? You wanted to make it a fling, so get the fuck over yourself.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. “Customers ask—”
She cuts me off, continuing to poke away at my chest, and I’m becoming concerned I’ll have a small bruise there by morning. “Yes! And it’s making it awkward. Because”—she glances around quickly to ensure we’re not going to be overheard, yet still lowers her voice to an accusing hiss—“I sure as heck can’t tell them that you sexed me up until you had your fill and then tossed me aside faster than McDonald’s wrappers on I95. And then you—”
“All night and in the morning. For two weeks.” I don’t know what makes me interject this, but I do. And I notice my voice has gone down a couple of octaves.
Fuck.
She sputters, clearly thrown off, before finally recovering. And that fire in her eyes… Man, it’s burning even brighter, flaring dangerously. Not to mention, the way she purses her lips, making her red slicked mouth look so damn hot.
Her eyes grow squinty, shooting fiery sparks of anger. “Oh, so now you’re suddenly concerned about the specifics of our…” When she falters, something in me snaps. I can’t stand that we’re this far apart. Fuck, everything is so messed up, and all I want is to tangle my fingers in her hair.
I step into her jabbing finger. I wrap my fingers around her wrist and give one swift tug, bringing her body flush against mine. The last shred of my resistance crumbles.
I dip my head until the tip of my nose barely brushes against hers. With our eyes locked, a ragged whisper spills from my lips. “Our what, Rainbow?” My gaze drops to her mouth, to her slightly parted lips. “The specifics of when”—I slide a palm to her ass, pull her to me, and her eyes flutter closed at the feel of my hardening cock pressing against her—“I ate your cookies?”
I wait for a beat, knowing it will sink in soon. And, dammit, I know I’m playing with fire here. My job’s on the line. The promotion is within reach now. But I can’t seem to help myself when it comes to Callie. I love pushing her buttons.
Among other things, too, of course. Which is obvious by my reaction to her.
Callie’s eyes widen, and she shoves against me, immediately putting distance between us. My gut reaction is to reach out and tug her back to me. Because as much as I love verbally sparring with her, I love having her close to me. In my arms and—
Shit.
“This isn’t a game, Reid. You don’t get to toy with my emotions.” Her voice is shaky but firm and makes me feel like even more of an asshole.
Abruptly, I turn around and hurriedly scoop ice to fill the damn bin. Grateful for the frigid air to cool me down from whatever that just was. Goddammit. I need to keep my head in the game.
The one with my brain in it.
“You’d be smart to forget all about my cookies, Reid Morgan.”
With that parting remark, her footsteps fade away, and I finish refilling the ice, slamming the machine’s lid shut with more force than necessary.
25
Callie
How I’ve made it through the remainder of my shift without stabbing Reid Morgan is a miracle. It’s nearing closing, thank God, but it’s been a challenge.
Seriously, girl, get a grip.
Maybe I need to take a spa day.
Something calm and serene. I need to breathe, to find inner peace or namaste or whatever, but instead, right now I’mma namaste Reid in the head with a napkin dispenser. Or a beer stein. Basically, anything could be considered a possible weapon at this point with the way he keeps flashing glares my way.
I’ve always prided myself on having a good head on my shoulders. Making good life choices. Though, when it comes to Reid, all my common sense goes out the window, and I turn into a ’roid-raging teenager.
You’re better than this. Plus, I need to keep my cool because the last thing I want to do is make a scene at work. Job. No working for parents. Keep it together, woman.
I focus my attention on stuffing napkins into the dispenser and make it a point not to glance over at the group of ladies currently swarming the corner of the bar Reid’s manning, which is the entrance to the back of the bar where I need to go to grab some more napkins.
I sigh when I come to my last wad of napkins and resign myself to the fact I need to move through the crowd of women clad in cowgirl attire.
Oh, hell. Their outfits remind me of that time at the country bar, bringing on a barrage of memories of Reid and his masterful fingers. Gah! I need to stop this. He’s an ass.
I move to squeeze between them, but they’re clustered too close together. “Ahem.” I clear my throat loud enough to be heard—not just over the din of conversation in the bar and the incessant chatter and giggling from the women practically drooling over Reid. I just need the napkins and an extra glass of beer for one of my tables. The wife decided she’d like a glass of one of our seasonal ales after all.
And my throat clearing results in...nothing. Not one single head turns my way.
“Oh, Reid,” the obviously-from-a-bottle redhead gushes, “you have such finesse, pouring the drinks so quickly and without spilling.”
His eyes lift from his task, and he flashes her an easy grin. His gaze flickers over her head, spying where I stand, before he offers a quick wink at the woman and resumes pouring.
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