Abbi: Yeah.
Dean: Am I scaring you?
Abbi: Not at all.
Dean: Are you wet?
My face is so hot. Then again, so is the rest of me. I feel like my skin could combust. I know what I want to say—how I want to reply—but it’s just a matter of making my fingers type the words I’d never say if we were on the phone. I’d never have the courage. That realization is what makes me reply the way I want to. I’m not doing this so I can be the same person I was before. I’m doing this so I can be better in bed . . . a better girlfriend all around.
Abbi: I don’t want to answer that question, but I wish you were here to find out for yourself.
Dean: Would you let me investigate? In your office, door closed?
Abbi: We’d have to be quiet, but I take meetings in here often enough that we could get away with it.
Those dots appear and bounce again and again before his reply finally comes through.
Dean: I have a meeting in ten minutes, or I’d be on my way.
My stomach flips and twists. Texting hypothetical fantasies is one thing, but the fact that a meeting is the only thing standing between this moment and him acting out what he just described? I’m pretty sure if he’d said he was on his way, I’d be chickening out right now.
Thank goodness for afternoon meetings.
Chapter Ten
Dean
My brain is so foggy with lust that I don’t think twice before heading in the main doors of The Orchid late Tuesday afternoon, but the second I see who’s manning the receptionist’s desk, I freeze in my tracks.
“Dean!” my sister calls out from her position behind the front desk. “What are you doing here?”
“I . . . I’m just . . .” I snap my jaw shut and smile, lowering my voice. “I thought I’d buy a gift certificate for Mom.” There. That’s a perfectly believable reason for me to come to The Orchid, and one that has nothing to do with wanting to feel up Abbi Matthews. Maybe my brain can work through lust after all.
“Oh. Sure. But . . . why?” She pulls a booklet out of a desk drawer and starts writing up the gift certificate.
“Just . . .” Shit. That’s a good question. Mother’s Day is long gone, and her birthday isn’t until March. “Getting my Christmas shopping done early.”
Stella lifts her pen from the pad and drops it on the desk. “Oh, I’m sorry. Our gift certificates expire in ninety days, and that won’t give her much time after you give it to her. Brinley’s been meaning to get back to the numbers on that and see if we can justify a longer time frame, but it’s a cashflow fail-safe leftover from the old owners.”
“Oh. Right. Sure. No problem. I’ll just . . .” I clear my throat, feeling like my true intentions are written all over my face. “I’ll come back in December.” I gaze toward the back hall—the one I was planning to take to Abbi’s office.
“Sounds good. Can I do anything else for you?” She cocks her head to the side. “You look a little tense. Maybe I should schedule a massage for you.”
I do enjoy a good massage, but the only hands I want on me right now are Abbi’s, and I want them—
“Dean?”
I jerk my gaze back to my sister. “I’m sorry. What?”
“I said Wren just had a cancellation if you want a massage tonight.”
I shake my head. “Nah. I’m not up for it tonight. I think I’ll just run back to the kitchen and see if Abbi has any of her cookies lying around.”
Stella grins and points to a table behind me. “Baked fresh every day.”
I turn slowly, and sure enough, there’s a whole fucking table with cookies, brownies, and coffee. “When did you start doing that?”
“It was Brinley’s idea. It’s good customer service to our spa guests but has also increased our carryout catering orders tenfold. Abbi’s going to have to hire another baker to keep up.”
“Shit,” I mutter.
“It’s no big deal,” Stella says, totally misunderstanding my distress. “She works too much as it is. Brinley’s been trying to get her to hire a second for months now.”
“I guess I’ll just go, then.” I walk out the door, planning to swing around to the back entrance of The Patio, where the employees enter.
“Dean!” Stella calls from the door behind me.
I spin around and try not to snap at my kind and well-meaning but meddlesome-as-fuck sister. “What do you need?”
She frowns at me, as if she thinks I might be losing it. She might be right. She holds up a stack of cookies wrapped by a napkin on one side. “You forgot your cookies.”
“Changed my mind,” I say.
She steps onto the sidewalk, letting the door float closed behind her. Her expression grows serious as she studies my face. “Listen, I know you’ve been having a hard time lately. You’ve lost weight, and Kace said you work like crazy. I’m worried about you.”