Every Time I Fall (Orchid Valley 3)

“You’re not being a diva. I’ve had your stuff. You could make a killing!”

She studies me for a long time then shakes her head. “Don’t tell Brinley we talked about this. It’s all just fantasy.”

“So what would you do?” I ask. “Imagine you left The Patio for a career that centered more around your passions. What would that look like?”

She sips her wine, and I can tell her hesitation is less about not knowing the answer and more about not wanting to say it out loud. “I’d like to open a bakery. Something downtown, where people could run in and get a coffee and a danish on their way to work. Maybe with a few tables in the front. Customers could take meetings or coffee dates there if they wanted. And I’d have a big glass display case by the register and displays in the windows. I’d do wedding cakes too, because those are the closest I ever get to being an artist, and it’s so much fun. And we’d do catering orders for people who want coffee and snacks for their meetings or parties.” She’s been picking up speed with each word but suddenly cuts herself off. “Like I said. Pipe dream.”

“Why? It sounds like you have a great plan.”

“Eighty-five percent of bakeries fail in the first five years, and a lot of those are run by people who actually finished college.” She takes a gulp of her wine. “I know how to run a kitchen, but I don’t know how to run a business.”

“So you learn, and you contract out what you need to.” Leaning across the table to refill her wine, I give her a gentle smile. “You might have some friends who know a thing or two about running a business.”

She picks up her fork again and flashes me a smile. “You’re sweet for believing in me, but I’m just not sure it’s in the cards.”

I don’t want to push it, so I stand to clear the table and clean up.

“You really think I could help you?” she asks. “Stay away from Amy, I mean?”

It’s certainly worked this week. “For sure.”

“I think getting away from her would be good for you,” she says. “I hope that doesn’t make me sound catty.”

“Nah. I get it. I agree, actually.”

I don’t like using my history with Amy as a way to talk Abbi into this, but it wasn’t a lie. Staying away from Amy has never been easy for me. Not after we first slept together and I was trying to keep it as casual as she wanted, and not before then—when she and Kace had just split and she started with the heavy flirting. I knew then that giving in to that attraction was a bad idea. Of course, back then I was more worried about Kace and less about my heart. Now Kace is fine, but I’m the one who’s a mess. The truth is that the last week of avoiding Amy has been the easiest since she first left Kace, and I know Abbi has everything to do with that. But I don’t want her to do this just for me, either. Hell, I don’t even want her to do this because she wants to be more confident in the bedroom. I want her to do it because she wants it—wants me. And the only way I can make sure that happens is if I take it slow.

She eats a few more bites of her dinner as I clean up, but gives up on her meal, pushing away her plate before she makes it halfway through her wrap. I don’t think she touched her tots—which is sacrilege—but I let it pass, considering. I walk around the table and pull her from her seat. She stiffens when I press my mouth to hers.

“You can relax. I’m not going to fuck you tonight.”

Something like disappointment crosses her face. “Oh. Okay. I wouldn’t, uh—”

“And not because I don’t want to,” I add, grabbing her hips and pulling her body flush with mine so she can feel just how much I want her. “I’m not going to fuck you tonight because I want to focus on other things first.” I tuck a soft lock of hair behind her ear. “Because waiting is its own kind of pleasure.”

She coughs out a laugh. “Torture, you mean?”

I shift my hands down from her hips until I’m cupping her ass. She feels so damn good in my hands. “Definitely torture.” I give her ass a little squeeze. “Even more so when I consider I have to leave for a meeting soon.”

Sidestepping me, she turns to lean against the counter and cradles her wine in her hands. She watches me clear her plate and put her leftovers into the fridge. The wine’s working on her—her shoulders have dropped from around her ears, and her flushed cheeks now frame a subtle smile.