Don't Go Baking My Heart

Devon

Devon wokeup to the enticing scent of vanilla and an empty bed. He was definitely not in his bedroom. The bright pillow lying next to his head clued him in.

The guest room.

Reba.

Everything they had done last night.

He jolted up, looking around. Her bag wasn’t on the floor. Had she just left?

A small noise downstairs made him jump up and throw on his t-shirt. Luckily, he had on his shorts—less time wasted. Every second counted when the woman you’d just had amazing sex with was probably trying to sneak the fuck out.

He rubbed at his eyes. He didn’t even know what time it was, having left his phone in his room. He hadn’t planned on having sex with Reba when he’d come to check on her. That was supposed to have been a short visit to make sure she was awake and ready to be on her way.

How the hell had they gotten here? There was usually a method to these things, at least for him.

It wasn’t that Reba, in her bright clothes and makeup, was easy to resist. He had been silently struggling from the moment he had agreed to let her help him. But Reba looking soft and drowsy, dark brown eyes unframed by any shiny eyeshadow, was somehow much more dangerous. She had looked so vulnerable, like a peaceful angel dozing on the bed.

A lie, clearly. The Reba of last night was hell-bent on wrecking him and his life just as much as her colourful persona.

He debated whether he should take a second to brush his teeth or not. Even though time was ticking, his habits were too ingrained for him not to at least dash some toothpaste in his mouth and swish some water around before rinsing. He briskly made his way down the hall to the stairs, ready to walk down, when he caught sight of her at the door, bag slung over her shoulder, her shorts and top from last night nowhere to be seen. He supposed the sunny yellow dress had also been in her bag of never-ending supplies.

So she’d had time to shower—the fresh vanilla scent made him believe that to be true—and get ready to leave without saying a word to him. It definitely irked him.

“So, you’re just running out like this?” he called down. She froze, hand on the doorknob. He stomped down the stairs. “Seriously?”

She turned around. Her eyelids shone with bronze; her lips were slick with a deeper maroon colour. So the makeup was back on. She had time for all of that and yet hadn’t been about to leave him a note or anything.

He shouldn’t be this worked up about it, yet the casual sweep she took up and down his body threw fuel on the fire already simmering in his chest. Dangerous Reba was back, and Devon needed his guard way up.

Her tongue peeked out the corner of her mouth. Do not look at her mouth, you fool.

“I’m not running. I’m very casually walking out.”

He looked her right in the eyes. “Is this what you do? Fuck and run? You don’t even…”

She held up a finger, cutting him off. “One, we just established I’m not running. Do you see these shoes?” She kicked out her leg, showing off her pale-coloured heels. “Two, let’s be real here. I’m making the morning-after situation less awkward.” She shrugged. “That’s all.”

“Who says it needs to be awkward? You didn’t give us a chance to find out, did you?”

She cocked her head to the side, gaze contemplative. “If you wanted me to stay and cuddle, you can just say so. Are you actually upset with me about this?” She seemed confused.

Hell, so was he. This was what he had wanted hours ago before sex had happened. She was doing them a favour by ensuring there didn’t have to be a weird, tense moment when he woke up and she was here. And yet, he wasn’t used to his bed partner just disappearing, leaving nothing behind except that damn intoxicating vanilla scent.

“It’s been two years.”

“What?”

“I haven’t been with anyone intimately in two years.”

“Oh?” Her brow crinkled. She still didn’t get it.

Neither did he. Making an attempt to explain was difficult and made him want to cringe, yet he made an effort. “I just didn’t expect you to be gone. No note. Nothing. It’s not what I’m used to. Maybe I’m old-fashioned or whatever, but the first woman I have sex with in the last two years, and she dashes out like the house is burning down? Makes a man feel a way, you know?”

Reba wrinkled her nose. “Note? I don’t do notes. Do people still write notes? I would’ve sent you a text or something later.” She patted her stomach. “I need food too, and I don’t think you would have appreciated me raiding your fridge, so leaving felt like the best idea. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad or anything.”

“Yes, note writing is still a thing. Even in 2018.”