My Heart For Yours (Sinful Secrets 2)

He laughs. “It’s based on temperature.” He taps a stack of pamphlets in front of the rings. “They just change color. Want one?”

I can tell he’s joking, so I deadpan nod and pull a blue one off the plastic display. I look right into his eyes and tell him, “It’ll look good with this dress I have.”

I get a kick out of watching his eyes bug out, then watching him compose his face, until it’s so tight, he looks like some kind of doll.

I take the bag and nod. “Thanks, dude.”

I can feel his eyes on me as I get back onto my bike and drive off toward this strip mall I see on the next corner. I can’t help thinking of Breck. He’s got this older brother, Casper, who was born female. Over the years, Breck would tell people at bars sometimes that he was born a woman. He was pretty big, not as big as me but ripped as shit, and more than once, I watched him throttle someone who had something negative to say.

“Just doing a little weeding,” he would say.

He had this half-assed Southern accent, just a little bit like Gwen’s, because his mom was from one of the Carolinas. South, I think.

I park in front of a bakery with a neon blue “OPEN” sign flashing in the window. I know, as I walk inside, that I’m walking into more than buying scones.

I know.

But I’m not sure how much I care.

* * *

Gwenna

His room is clean and quiet. The bed is empty. On the pillow beside me, I find a note.

HOPE YOU SLEPT WELL. I HAD SOME THINGS TO DO THIS MORNING. CHECK THE OVEN BEFORE GOING HOME. B.

I go downstairs and find the house empty. The stove clock says it’s 10:43 a.m. Inside the oven, I find a tinfoil-covered dinner plate piled high with scones. Blueberry scones, apparently. In the garbage can, I find a box from Mona’s Bakery in Gatlinburg.

My chest goes hot. He went to get these just for me—or us. I know he did it this morning, too, because Mona’s only sells food baked the day of. I down two delicious scones and drink some orange juice, then I float into the den, where I find my clothes draped over the couch’s arm.

I take my time upstairs, dressing and making the bed, and have to struggle not to check the drawers.

I wonder if he folds his clothes or they’re just in a messy pile, shoved in. Somehow, I doubt they’re messy.

Before I go, I hug his pillow. Smells like him.

I wonder if he’ll call.

SIXTEEN

Gwenna

December 30, 2011

I slide my Kindle into my carry-on bag, a little leather backpack propped against the arm of my black suede couch. Elvie stops messing with my new DVD player and walks over to me, wrapping an arm around my waist. “You and your imposter books,” he drawls.

I wriggle free and swat his cheek. “They’re not imposters. They’re ebooks.”

He snorts. “I don’t know how you do that.”

“You don’t read, so I imagine not.” I quirk an eyebrow at him.

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“I read music. Isn’t that enough for you, woman?”

“Of course it is.” I reach instinctively for him, but remember he doesn’t want me touching his hair. He’s playing tonight.