by Shandi Boyes
“What’s with the containers?” I ask Harlow after dismounting my bike.
The hub of her bakery is shrouded with the same darkness it had last month, but there are a stack of Tupperware containers braced against the front door that weren’t there during my visit.
Harlow waits for me to assist her off my bike and remove her helmet before replying, “I send my leftover stock to a shelter a few blocks down each night.” She glances at her shoes, looking shy for the first time ever. “Reusable containers help keep expenses down. Paper bags may not seem expensive until you’re using them by the hundreds every night.”
Her eyes float up from the ground when I say, “That’s smart. They can accept your generosity without placing any burden on your shoulders. It’s a win-win for all involved.” I furrow my brows before quirking my lips. “There is just one matter we need to discuss further.”
Confusion crosses Harlow’s features, but she remains quiet. I take a few moments to relish her crinkled nose and twisted lips. She’s extra cute when she is curious, and since I don’t see that happen very often, I must cherish every rare moment.
“Did you give them my Bundt cupcakes last month?” I keep my tone high, aiming to defuse the tension left hanging in the air.
It has the effect I am aiming for when Harlow smiles a traffic-stopping grin. Even with her hair blown out from our fast pace, she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“Yeah.” She grimaces. “Sorry.” Her smile outshines the full moon when she asks, “I take it they’re your favorite as well?”
“Most definitely. I’ve only tasted one thing more delicious.” I fist her crinkled shirt in my hand before tugging her closer. She comes without too much force. “Do you want to know what it is?”
Her head shake surprises me.
“You don’t want to know what tastes better than the most scrumptious cake you’ve ever eaten?”
“Nope.” She lets me stew in silence for several uncomfortable seconds before whispering, “I already know your answer.”
I quirk a brow. “You do, do you?”
“Uh-huh,” she purrs as the confident sexpot I devoured on my couch returns stronger than ever. “Me. . .” She taps her pursed lips. “Or was it my pussy? I guess it doesn’t really matter. My pussy is a part of me.”
I glance down the almost bare street, praying I don’t have any witnesses to my body’s reaction to her filthy mouth. There are a handful of people mingling outside a Thai restaurant I bought earlier this year, but other than them, my dignity remains intact—barely.
After returning my eyes to Harlow’s, I grumble, “You know you’re killing me, right?”
She laughs, having no idea I’m on the verge of coronary failure from all my blood rushing to my cock. “I tried to ease your dilemma.” Her eyes on my crotch reveal what “dilemma” she is referencing. “But since you had to flex your muscles by insisting we take your bike instead of your car, you castrated yourself.”
I grimace. Women shouldn’t know the word “castrated,” much less use it around men.
Smiling at my blanching face, Harlow clutches the collar of my shirt and drags me to within an inch of her. “Call me.” This is not a question. It is a demand. “Then maybe we can work through your dilemma the next time we go out?”
Her guarantee of a fun time isn’t needed to make me agree to a second date, but I nod all the same. If I hadn’t felt my phone constantly buzzing in my pocket the past thirty minutes, I’d take her on a second date now. Not to get my cock sucked, but because I like spending time with her.
I’m a different man around Harlow. I’m the one I wanted to be before I measured my accomplishments by the number of digits in my bank account. I walked away from my life nine years ago to stop me from becoming my father. Only now am I realizing all I did was walk in a circle. But it isn’t just my family wealth influencing my bad decisions anymore; it’s my own.
I’m dragged from my somber thoughts when Harlow presses her lips to my mouth. Our embrace is nothing like the fire-sparking ones we shared many times tonight, but it still ignites a light in me I’ve spent years searching for.
After drawing back, she paces toward her bakery. Just like earlier tonight, she walks backward. Her steps are wobbly. Once again, it isn’t compliments of the wine she consumed with our meal. It is from the world falling from beneath her feet. I can only hope it remains a good crumble and not a bad one.
“You better call, Cormack. Because if you don’t, I know where you live.” She says her last sentence in a freaky, stalkerish way.
She is lucky I don’t scare easily, or I might have burrowed down for the next decade. Although I doubt ten years could erase a woman as captivating as her from my memories.
“I’ll call. I promise.”
Although I don’t deserve her trust, she nods, accepting my oath as if it is gospel. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
I wait for her to disappear into the darkness of the alleyway before tying my old helmet onto my bike. I nearly threw out this helmet last year. I’m so glad I didn’t. Although Harlow’s comment about what would have happened if I had driven my car should make me curse my bike, I’m still glad I got to share my love of riding with her. As Isaac often quotes, “When your life ends, it isn’t about how many breaths you took, but how many moments took your breath away.”
When I secure my helmet onto my head, the thickness I’m striving to ignore in my pants grows. Harlow’s sugary scent is imbedded in the lining of my helmet.
Seriously, she tastes as sweet as the treats she bakes.
Our time together tonight blew my mind. It was one of the most carefree nights I’ve ever had. I took her to my home, my place of solitude, and she rewarded me in a way I never knew I wanted, but now crave more than anything.
If only I could return her integrity with the same amount of grit.
I want to tell her the truth, but I won’t. I haven’t felt this free in years. I don’t want to lose it. Does that make me a self-righteous asshole? Yeah, it does. Do I care? Ask me in a few weeks when I’ve rubbed out the kink our record-setting relationship is causing to my neck, because until I work through whatever this craziness is, you’ll never get an honest answer out of me.
People often say honesty should be the first chapter of every book, but if that stops the magic from happening, why can’t it be pushed back a few chapters? No one knows how a story will end once it starts; you just have to trust the author. That is what I am doing. I’m trusting my instincts. I’m giving our story a chance to be written. It might be based on a lie, but it is a chance all the same.
Chapter Eleven
Harlow
I stop gleaming like the cat who ate the canary when I hear my cell phone buzzing in my purse. After yanking my keys out of the back door of the bakery, I pull my cell phone out of my purse. I don’t know who would be calling me so late on a Sunday night, but I can’t stop smiling. Tonight was. . . must I lower the magic of it with words? I’m not a poet or an author. I’m a baker. I express myself in calorie-filled products that’ll make you feel as giddy as I am now, not words.
That’s probably the best way to describe it. Pick your favorite dessert of all time. Now add a sprinkling of spice. Did it become ten times better? Mine did.
Although I don’t recognize the number calling me, I slide my thumb across the screen of my cell and lift it to my ear. “Hello.”
I grow woozy when the deliciously smooth rasp of Cormack sounds down the line. “Is it too early to call?”
After cupping the speaker of my phone, I dance on the spot. His honest eyes revealed he would call me, but a bit of hesitation still bombarded me. I was caught off guard by his frank eyes once before; I didn’t want to look foolish for the second time.
“Not at all. But I’m a little wary. How are you calling me? You just left.” I climb the stairs at the back of my bakery kitchen. My steps are faint, wanting to ensure Cormack doesn’t hear the breathless state I’m in.
“I’m on my bike. I have Bluetooth in my helmet.”
“Oh. . . so that was the annoying ring I heard during our drive? I thought I was hearing things.” His powerful engine did play havoc with regions of my body still in the steps of recovery, so I took the buzz as a side effect of my mind-blowing climax.
I flick on the lights of my loft apartment before entering my makeshift kitchen in hunt for a bottle of water. “Can you ride and talk at the same time? I don’t want you hurting yourself.”
“As long as you don’t leave me hanging like you did on the sidewalk, I’m perfectly safe on my bike.”
I lean into the fridge, needing its chilly temps to lower my rapidly skyrocketing body temp. His voice—my god. Richer than sin and smoother than caramel.
“So I shouldn’t tell you about the whipped cream and strawberries I’m in the process of devouring?” I purr, lying through my teeth. Other than a moldy container of Chinese, my fridge is bare to the bones.
I thought my tease would rile Cormack up. It has the opposite effect. “You’re already home? You said it yourself: I just left. How did you get home so quickly?”
I slam my fridge door shut, suddenly cold. “Ah. . . I live close by. Saves the commute.” I punch myself in the thigh. What is it with me and lying tonight? That is two in a row, so I can’t pretend it is a one-off.
“So, anyhoo, why are you calling me?” I aim for my tone to be playful. My performance is a knockout.
“After spotting Clara’s thirty missed calls on my cell. . . ” I giggle from the eccentric gag he releases. “. . . I figured I better call you before dealing with that mess. I didn’t want you to think I forgot.”
Someone call in a clean-up crew. I’m nothing but goop on the ground. If Clara wasn’t his sister, I’d be steaming mad, but I’m not worried about her stealing him away from me. Family morale is important. It is one of the reasons I’m so determined to weather my bakery through its latest storm.
“You didn’t want me to think you had forgotten about me? Or are you worried I’m going to turn up on your doorstep tomorrow wearing nothing but a frilly pink apron and a basket of baked goods? I wasn’t joking when I said I know where you live.” I deliver my last line with the same stalker edge I used earlier tonight.
My brows furrow when a click sounds down the line.
“Cormack?”
Silence, nothing but devastating silence greets me.
“Are you there?”
My heart smashes into my ribs when I pull my cell down from my ear to discover our call has been disconnected. I grow panicked. He warned me not to tease him. Jesus—did I just get him into a wreck?
I throw my cell into the air when it suddenly vibrates in my hand. After scampering to grab it before it hits the floor, I swipe my finger on the screen and slap it against my ear.
“Are you okay? Did you get in a fender bender?”
My worry is instantly obliterated when Cormack’s deep chuckle barrels down the line.
“Argh!. . . Ggrrrr.” It is either growl or scream, so I do both. “You scared the shit out of me. That wasn’t funny.”
His laughter simmers when he hears the panic in my tone. “You said you’d turn up in nothing but a frilly pink apron if I didn’t call. I’ve never wanted to sidestep someone as bad as you right now.”
I try to stay mad.
I do.
Somewhat.
A little.
Not. At. All.
Even over the phone, our connection can’t be missed. It is fire-sparking.
“You have such a way with words, Cormack. You make my lady bits all tingly.”
“Jesus. . . Fuck. . . Sorry!”
He isn’t playing this time around. The honk of an angry motorist sounded down the line a nanosecond before his curse word.
“Unless you want to scrape me off the asphalt, please don’t say anything in regards to your. . .lady bits again. At least not while I’m on my bike. Save it for when I’m at home. . . in my bed. . . stroking my cock.”
I’m frozen. Dead. Incapable of moving.
“You don’t play fair,” I grumble down the line when Cormack’s laughter snaps me out of my trance.
“Says the lady who nearly got me killed—twice.” The honesty in his words makes me smile.
“Alright. No more naughty talk.” I don’t know why I’m whispering. I live in an industrial zone. The cats hissing in the alleyway are making more noise than me. “So what can we talk about that we haven’t already discussed?”
Our blossoming relationship is forming extremely quickly; it feels like months flew by in a matter of hours. We discussed so much tonight, I’m overloaded with information. Cormack knows my dad’s life was cut short by cancer. His diagnosis devastated my family as much as Cormack’s was rocked when they discovered his mother’s forgetfulness was early onset dementia.
He mentioned he has access to family money but wants to make his own financial footprint in the sand. I explained that what my family lacks in affluence, we make up for with morals. I didn’t necessarily say I was poor, but I kind of tiptoed around it.
Normally, if money is mentioned before a third date, I run for the hills. But since this conversation took place in Cormack’s house, on the floor of his fancy but not over-the-top residence, it didn’t bother me as much. We cooked, danced, and ate together, so why can’t we discuss financial matters as well?
It wouldn’t matter if Cormack was as rich as a king or as poor as me, when two strangers mesh, you’re bound to face rumors. It is lucky for me, I don’t give a hoot what people think of me. I barely scraped through my final year of school, and I didn’t go to college. But do you know what? I’m still a good person. I have life experience by the bundle. No amount of money can buy common sense.
I’m drawn away from my thoughts in the most exciting way. Cormack is asking me on a second date.
“That will be great. When?”
I charge for my double bed propped on a corner wall, flop onto the lumpy mattress, and struggle with all my might not to scream like a banshee when he replies, “Whenever you’re free.”
“Okay. . . let me check my calendar.” I kick my legs wildly in the air, pretending I’m having trouble squeezing him into my busy schedule. I’m not. I just don’t want him to think I’m easy, even if he did get to third base on a “non-date.”
“I’m five seconds from turning around and ripping the pages out of your planner,” Cormack warns a short time later, exciting me with the command in his voice.
Loving the nip of jealousy in his tone, I stab a few more nails into my coffin. “One, you’d need to know where I live for that. Two, I don’t know if I should move Tom to Tuesday or Wednesday. Andrew’s eager. He’ll take any damn day I tell him. But Tom. . .”
My heart rate surges to coronary failure territory when the skidding of tires sounds through my ears. It is closely followed by the rumble of a man in a hurry.
“I’m joking, Cormack. Totally joking.”
The flogging he is giving his engine is barely heard over his scrumptious growl. Cormack has mentioned a few times that it’s been a while since he has dated. His quick fuse when it comes to jealousy backs up his claim. If I were nice, I could lay off the tit for tat routine we’ve been playing all night, but where is the fun in that?
“I’m free every night but Friday. It is my friend’s birthday, and we’re going out to celebrate.” I try to keep infamy out of my tone. If I had ever won an Oscar, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences would be knocking down my door, demanding their award back.
“Is that Isabelle?” Cormack’s tone has revved down as swiftly as his motor.
“Yeah.” I pause to contemplate a way to ask my next question without sounding rude. I shouldn’t have bothered. “When have I ever called Izzy ‘Isabelle?’”
I expect him to cough, murmur or drone on about it being a fluke. He does no such thing. “Isaac has mentioned her a few times. He told me about the card he left at the bakery.�
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“Oh. Sorry.” I grimace, baring teeth. “After a few douchebag dates, I’m a little wary of people snooping into my private affairs.”
Now he wheezes and wails. I don’t know if it stems from my admittance I am active in the dating scene, or because he is a delayed liar.
I hope it is neither when I ask, “Do you think Isaac would be up for Double Date Friday?”
“Eh.”
I wait, anticipating for more than a half-grunted moan. If I were a shirt hanging on the line, I’d be dry by now.
“That’s it? Just an ‘Eh.’”
I can’t see Cormack, but I don’t need to see him to know he’s smiling. I can feel it deep in my bones.
“Have you met Isaac?”
I giggle while nodding. “He dropped off his card for Izzy, remember?”
“Then you were in his presence long enough to deduce he isn’t a fan of intimidation.”
Air whizzes through my teeth when I tsk. “Oh, I don’t know. You didn’t see him sitting across from Izzy. I think she could get him to do anything.”
“Kind of like you with me?” Cormack’s tone is as low as mine, his hope just as high.
“Maybe?” My short reply can’t hide my euphoria. “So what do you say? Shall we arrange a double date?”
After a long pause, Cormack replies. “Eh.”
I roll my eyes, faking annoyance. I’m not annoyed. I’m far from it. You can’t be frustrated and sitting on the edge of orgasmic bliss. It is impossible.
“From here on out, every time you say ‘eh,’ I’m accepting it as a yes. Alright?”
My heart beats in an unnatural rhythm when Cormack replies, “Eh.”
I stop running a wire comb through my hair when my phone dings. My conversation with Cormack ended not long after we conspired to get Izzy and Isaac together, but I’m still dead on my feet this morning. I’d give anything to crawl into bed and secure another three or four hours, but there are customers to serve. Not many, but it is better than none.
After squeezing a blob of toothpaste onto my toothbrush, I snag my cell from the tiny dining table and open my text messages. I’m secretly hoping it is a message from Cormack, but considering it is 4 AM, I’m highly doubtful.