by Cole Gibsen
He makes a face. “I’m not scared of my parents. I just don’t want anything to do with them.”
“Because,” I prompt.
He makes a face. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Nope.”
He sighs again. “Fine. My parents are very wealthy, and they’ve used money my entire life to control me. Play this sport and we’ll take you to the toy store. Earn straight A’s and we’ll buy you whatever video games you want. Get accepted into this college and we’ll buy you a sports car. I had a trust fund I was going to use to buy a fishing boat and RV so I could travel the country and fish. My parents took the trust fund away the day I enlisted.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
He shrugs. “It’s just money. Yeah, it sucks, but what really pissed me off is they would punish me just for making my own decisions. I remember watching the news after that marathon bombing, and seeing the face of that four-year-old kid that died. I can’t explain it; I just knew I had to do something. I didn’t enlist to spite them. I enlisted because I felt a sense of duty. But they didn’t care. After my discharge, they never showed at the airport to pick me up. Just another way they punished me for going against them.”
“Reece, that’s awful.”
“It’s fine. I made it through the surgeries and physical therapy on my own. Eventually my sister came to visit me. My parents must not have realized I was permanently disabled, because after her visit, the phone calls started. They left so many apologetic messages I had to change my number. I’m done with them.”
“So that’s why you hid from your dad in the hardware store.”
“Exactly.”
I wrap my arms around his neck. “My mom is the queen of guilt. We don’t have the best relationship, but we still have a relationship.”
He grunts. “And your point?”
“My point is she fought breast cancer several years after my dad died. Even though she makes me insane, I can’t imagine how awful it would be if something happened to her and she didn’t know I loved her.” I give him a pointed look.
“What makes you think I love my parents?”
I shake my head. “I guess I don’t know either way. But, God forbid, what if they died tomorrow? Would you be okay leaving things as they are now?”
His jaw hardens and he looks away. “I don’t know.”
“I’m not saying you have to go back to being their dutiful son, complete with Thanksgivings and Sunday dinners, but maybe you could take one night to hash things out. That way you won’t get stuck wondering what might have been.”
He’s quiet for nearly a minute. Finally, he turns to me with a smirk. “How can someone so sexy be so completely annoying at the same time?”
“It’s a gift. So, are you going to make the call?”
“Not so fast.” He places his hands on my hips, pulling me against him. “Speaking of your many gifts, let’s talk about another one.”
“Nah, let’s not.” It’s then I realize the real reason he put his hands on my waist isn’t to kick off a sexy-time session—it’s to trap me. Damn, sexy, conniving bastard. I try to squirm away, but his hold on me only tightens. “Look, I know you’re trying to keep me from running away. But I can’t lie. I’m a little turned on.”
“Later.” He grins devilishly. “We’re talking now. It’s obvious you have a gift for baking.” He wipes away a stray crumb from my lower lip. “Have you brought up the possibility of you selling your baked goods in the coffee shop?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to fool around? There’s always time to talk later.” I wriggle against his lap until he grows hard beneath me.
Reece groans and tips his head back. “Em, you drive me crazy.”
“I know.” I wrap my arms around his neck.
Slowly, he lifts his head up. He slides his hands beneath my shirt, his fingers gliding up my ribs until they hit the edge of my bra.
I inhale sharply.
“Two can play this game, little girl.” His voice has turned husky and it tightens things low inside me.
I lick my lips. “Oh, yes, please. Let’s play.”
He grabs my wrists from behind his neck and tosses me off of his lap, onto the couch beside him. Just as quickly, he straddles me and pins my arms over my head. “We’re going to make a deal,” he says. “I’ll call my parents and arrange for one dinner. In turn, you have to talk to the coffee shop about selling your baked goods. Do we have a deal?” Before I can answer, he dips his head and kisses my lips. Soft brushes of satin broken up with flashes of teeth.
I moan. “You’re not playing fair. I’d agree to anything right now.”
When he talks, his words are hot against my neck. “That is a hell of a tempting offer.”
My desire is so hot it burns like flames beneath my skin. Even so, a few coherent thoughts manage to pass through my brain. My baking is very personal. If I were rejected in any way, it would feel like my grandma was being rejected along with me. I don’t know that I could stand that. “What if my boss hates my baking?” I ask, my words coming out in heavy pants.
“Impossible.”
“What if she still says no?”
“What if you never find out?” He kisses up my neck and takes hold of my earlobe between my teeth.
I exhale loudly. “Why is this so important to you?”
“Because you’re important to me.” He takes a handful of my hair and tilts my head back, forcing me to look at him. “And you’re happiest when you’re baking.”
“I can think of one activity that comes in at a close second.”
His fingers tighten in my hair. The flashes of pain quickly melt in heated pleasure.
I gasp as need swells inside me.
“We’re not going any further until you agree to talk to your boss.”
“Sexual blackmail? Not cool, Reece Montgomery.”
He grins. “I fight dirty.”
I give a frustrated growl. “I don’t need you, you know. I can take care of myself.”
“Don’t doubt it.” He grins. “But can you take care of yourself the way I can take care of you?”
He has a point.
“Fine. But just so you know, if I agree to your demands, and I talk to my boss, the sex better be damn good.”
His hold on me tightens and his eyes flash with that look of dark hunger that makes me pulse with desire. “Oh, you can count on it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Emily
Ashlyn places a hand on my bouncing knee to steady it. “It’s okay, Em. Everything’s going to be okay.” She smiles from her seat beside me in the coffee shop.
I try to smile back, but it feels weak even to me, and I’m pretty sure it falls right off my face. “Thanks for being here.”
“Of course, though, I’m not sure I’m going to be much help.”
“I’m a nervous wreck.” I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “Having you here for moral support is all I need. Plus, you were Alice’s favorite employee when you worked here. Maybe she won’t reject me in front of you.”
“Don’t say that. You’re not going to get rejected.” She shakes her head. “I still can’t believe you kept your baking a secret from me all this time. Seriously, all of this looks amazing.” She gestures to the plates set before us piled with cupcakes, cookies, Danishes, and sliced banana bread.
I shrug. “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret. I haven’t baked in a really long time. I wasn’t even sure I remembered how.”
“Obviously you did,” she says, picking up a slice of banana bread and popping it into her mouth. She rolls her eyes heavenward and groans. “Oh my God. So good. When did you start doing this?”
“It’s funny. I was in the kitchen one night and inspiration took over. It hasn’t let go since.”
“Huh. Interesting.” She smiles wickedly.
“What? Why are you smiling so weird?”
“Inspiration—is that what we’re calling Reece now?”
&n
bsp; “Oh, shut up,” I say, swatting at her. “It’s not like that.”
She laughs. “So what if it is like that? It’s not a bad thing. You seem really happy, Em. And that makes me really happy, too.”
Before I can respond, Alice, owner of Live Wire, approaches our table. She unties her apron before plopping down on the chair across from us. “Sorry I’m late.” She runs her fingers through her wispy gray bangs. “The new guy’s taking a little longer to catch on than I’d hoped.”
I look at him just in time to see him burn his fingers on steam from the espresso maker. He lets out a yelp and drops the cream onto the floor.
“Um, should we help him?” Ashlyn asks.
“Absolutely not.” Alice removes her wire-rimmed glasses and wipes them off with her crumpled apron. “How else is he going to learn?”
The sound of glass shattering rings out behind us.
“On second thought,” Alice says, “we better make this fast.” She sets her glasses aside and folds her fingers together. “I’ve had a chance to sample everything, Emily, and let me start by saying, I’m impressed.”
Her words stun me and I inhale sharply.
Beneath the table Ashlyn bumps my leg with her knee.
“But I’m afraid I’m going to have to be blunt,” Alice continues.
There it is. I exhale in a whoosh.
“I love you, Emily,” Alice says. “You know that. I was friends with your mother before you were born, so I’ve known you your entire life.”
Each muscle in my body pulls tight, like a rubber band on the verge of breaking. I don’t know where this is going, but I know it can’t be good.
“You’re a good girl, Emily,” she says, patting my hand. “But you have a hard time committing to things.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. “What does that mean?”
Sighing, Alice pinches the bridge of her nose. “Where do I even begin? First you wanted me to host an open mic night. I said sure, but you’d have to run it. You never even put up the fliers.”
Heat burns up my cheeks, and I clench my hands into fists beneath the table.
“This is different,” Ashlyn cuts in. “You can’t deny she has amazing talent.”
“The cupcakes are to die for,” she agrees. “But how can I be sure you won’t lose interest in baking them tomorrow? Remember when I offered to make you assistant manager, but you declined because you couldn’t give up your Saturday nights?”
“I was nineteen,” I argue.
“And you’re twenty-one now,” Annie continues. “How do I know you’ve changed so much in two years? If you became my baked goods supplier, you would have to deliver your pastries before the sun came up. Every day. Can you really commit to that? Remember when you gave me one-day notice before jetting off to Europe with one of those guys of yours? You left me in a real bind then, Em. I can’t afford to make that mistake again.”
“I, uh…” I stare at the cookies I spent hours carefully icing. Now all I want to do is throw them on the floor and stomp them into crumbs. God, this was a stupid idea. I’m even more stupid for believing for a second it would have worked out.
I stand suddenly, and the metal feet of the chair squeal against the ceramic tile. Everyone in the coffee shop turns to look at me. If only I could dissolve into the ground and no longer occupy useful space with my worthless self. “I’m sorry,” I say, pulling plastic containers out of a bag beneath the table. I pack the pastries in them as quickly as my shaking fingers allow. “You’re right. This was a terrible idea.”
“Emily.” Ashlyn reaches for me, but I withdraw my hand before she can grab it.
“It’s fine, I’m fine.”
“I tell you what,” Alice continues, “how about we revisit this conversation in six months? Prove to me you’re ready to take on the added responsibility.”
“Yeah, sure,” I mumble, shoving the boxes of pastries inside the shopping bag. Heat flushes up my neck and my eyes burn. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. Don’t do it, I tell myself. Not in front of them. Not in front of anyone.
I smooth my skirt as I turn back to the table. “Thank you for your time, Alice. I need to go.”
“Emily, I didn’t mean to upset you. This isn’t a permanent no.”
I hold up a hand before she can say more. “It’s fine. I’m a big girl. You don’t have to sugarcoat it for me.”
“So, we’ll revisit this again in six months?” She stands and ties her apron around her waist.
It feels like a golf ball-sized lump is wedged inside my throat, keeping me from talking. I nod.
“Good.” She glances at the new guy, who’s fumbling with the syrups. “Then I better get back to babysitting.”
I don’t wait for her to leave before I turn for the door. I refuse to fall apart here. I can’t. But I don’t even make it two steps before Ashlyn grabs my arm.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod, keeping my eyes trained on the door. For the first time in several months, I’m desperate for a drink. The need swells through my veins, pulsing with each thrum of my heart.
“You’re not acting okay.”
“I’m fine,” I manage to choke out, untangling myself from her grasp. How am I going to break this to Reece? He was so excited for me when he left for school this morning. It’s bad enough I let myself down. Now I’m going to let him down, too. Loser Emily strikes again.
“Can I go with you? We can hang out, watch movies—”
“Actually,” I cut in, “I’d rather be alone right now.”
“Oh.” She takes a step back. “Maybe later, then?”
“Later,” I echo. Lifting my chin, I march out the door. Outside, I dump the entire bag of pastries into the closest trashcan before heading toward my new car. It’s a used Honda Fit. While it’s cute, it’s not the MINI Convertible I loved so much. The MINI Convertible totaled by a drunk idiot because I was stupid enough to give him the keys.
I let my head fall against the steering wheel as tears well in my eyes. God, will I ever stop being an idiot? I don’t blame Alice for not giving me a chance. Of course she thinks I’m a loser—because I am.
My phone buzzes inside my pocket, startling me. I pull it out and see the text is from Reece.
So proud of you.
Disgusted, I close the screen. He wouldn’t be proud if he could see me now and realize what a miserable failure I am.
My phone buzzes again.
Your bravery inspired me. I called my parents. They want to meet for dinner tonight. Please come. I can’t do this without you.
I toss the phone aside. It makes me sick just looking at the words. He’s inspired by my bravery? If only he realized there’s nothing here but failure. And when he does realize it, what will he think of me then?
I start my car, undecided where to go. I’m not sure I can face my failure alone, in an empty apartment. At the same time, I don’t want to talk to anyone, even Ash, who I love. I know she’d only spoon-feed me sugarcoated bullshit in an attempt to make me feel better.
No. There’s only one person I feel like spending time with. First name Jim, last name Beam. I can practically hear him calling my name from the liquor store up the street.
I turn my car in that direction.
If I were a smart person, I’d turn around and head back to my apartment. If I had any sense, I’d call Ash or my sponsor, and tell them what I’m about to do so they can talk me out of it.
But I’ve already established I’m not a smart person, and the last thing I want is to be talked out of taking a drink.
Because I need the escape from the suckpit that is reality. Just for an hour. That’s all. Afterwards, maybe I can sort this mess out, come up with a new plan, or I can just keep drinking until I forget the old one.
Yep, I think, smiling to myself. Things are starting to look up already.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Reece
This was a mistake. Call it so
ldier’s intuition. I can sense a darkness creeping over the horizon, like the first gust of wind before a hurricane.
The building pressure puts me on edge, more so than usual. My lungs swell with it, expanding my ribs to the point of breaking. I can’t draw in enough air, not without exploding. I’m dizzy. My knee aches, forcing me to rely heavily on my cane. And that extra feeling of vulnerability doesn’t help any.
I hate pills. But maybe, just this once, I should have taken a Xanax for this meeting—or ten.
The restaurant lobby is dark, and I keep darting my eyes to see who is hiding in the shadows. I swear something moves off to my left, and I look over my shoulder for the hundredth time. Damn it, I wish Em were here.
I don’t know why she insisted on meeting me at the restaurant. Something about not wanting the motorcycle to mess up her hair, though that’s never bothered her before. Maybe she’s just as nervous about meeting my parents as I am.
The restaurant, a five star Italian place—one of my parents’ favorites—might have been another bad idea. While quieter than my usual pizza place, the dancing shadows cast by the candlelight play tricks with my head. I can’t shake the feeling I’m being stalked.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the relentless pounding of my pulse inside my head. I run my fingers through my hair. Get your shit together, Reece. We’re not going to do this today.
Outside the glass doors, a white car pulls to the curb. A second later, a blonde in a tight red dress—the same color as her signature lips—steps out. Emily. Thank God.
She hands her keys to the valet before walking into the lobby. I start toward her, only to stop. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s off. I can practically taste the wrongness of it, something sour on the back of my tongue.
“Hey.” She smiles weakly and averts her eyes.
Definitely off. “Hey. Everything okay?”
Still not looking at me, she combs her fingers through her curls. “Why?”
“You didn’t answer your phone when I called earlier.”
“Shower,” she answers shortly. The smell of mouthwash on her breath is strong. I notice the dark circles beneath her eyes she’s attempted to cover with makeup.