She stares up at me. I stare right back, running my thumb along her skin.
“Are you going to let me go?” she asks.
A strange pressure tightens around my chest.
I keep my hold on her, maybe even securing my grip a little firmer.
Try and run, little sheep.
My lip twitches. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“No?” I release her hand, but only to pinch her chin between my thumb and finger. I lean down, slowly inching closer. “But what if I don’t want to let you go?” I ask quietly. “What if I can’t?”
Her eyes focus on my mouth, an inch away from hers. “Too bad. I’m not giving you an option.”
“Do you always decide how this works?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice now a whisper.
I know she’s expecting me to kiss her. The way she’s wetting her lips, tilting her head up to meet mine. The urgency of her breath.
I could kiss her, God knows I want to, only . . .
I’ll want more. More than just a kiss. More than she’s been offering me since she made her existence known.
I force her face to turn left and slide my mouth to her cheek. “Tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Don’t make me come looking for you.” I press a chaste kiss to her skin.
She looks up at me as I lean back and drop my hand. Her eyes narrow. “You better deliver.”
“I always do.”
I watch in a daze as she crosses the street. Her ass, this perfect heart-shaped entity, makes me rethink my decision to go a day without tasting her. I imagine peeling her out of those jeans and pressing my lips against her skin. The quiet slap of her body against mine as I bounce her on my . . .
Jesus. Again with the hard-on?
I carry the bakery box inside and upstairs to my loft, adjusting my cock in the process.
Juvenile. If she bent over, you probably would’ve busted a nut right there on the street.
Standing in front of the rubbish bin, I hesitate, look down at the box in my hands, then glance over at the fridge.
Brooke made these. And fuck, how sexy was she when she made that declaration? Her voice vibrating with pride, then melting to something softer.
I don’t eat stuff like this anymore. I don’t even keep it in the house. My lifestyle transformation seven years ago included a major re-haul of my eating habits. Out of sight, out of mind has always worked best for me. I haven’t eaten a cupcake in . . . actually, I can’t even remember the last time I ate a cupcake.
But she made these. She was so proud showing them off.
Decision made, I stick the box on the shelf in the fridge, concealed by condiments.
I palm my phone and send Tessa, my closest friend from where I just moved from, a quick text.
Me: Just met a woman who might have bigger balls than you.
She responds within seconds.
Tessa: Doubt it.
I chuckle in the silence of my loft. Seeing the three missed calls from my mum, I dial her number as I slump down on the corner of my bed.
“Hello, sweetheart. How are things?”
“Great. You know, settling in. The studio is beautiful, Mum. You’d love it.”
“I’m sure. No issues with anything? It’s okay if there is. You know, a lot of major corporations fail in the beginning, or at least have little mishaps. Doesn’t mean they aren’t meant for greatness.”
My mum worries. Especially when her youngest child lives nearly sixteen thousand miles away.
“No catastrophes yet. Give me a day or two.”
“Oh, Mason.” She sighs heavily.
I smile, resting my elbows on my knees. “How’s Dad and Ellie?”
“Good. Ellie just got a new job at one of the markets near her home. She seems to like it.”
“Yeah? That’s great. Tell her to call her little brother when she gets a minute. I miss her.”
Two quick beeps of a car horn sound somewhere outside the building. I pad to the only window in my loft and spot a delivery truck parked below.
The equipment I ordered.
“Hey, Mum, I need to get off here. I’ll talk to you soon though, yeah?”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you.”
I disconnect the call and slide my phone back into my pocket.
The mats, towels, and wedges I ordered all arrive within a few hours of each other. I sign the slips the drivers provide and set about organizing everything, then re-organizing.
Having seven sisters has made me meticulous with arrangement.
The studio itself is gorgeous, with bamboo flooring I had installed before the move. The hardwood that was originally in here never would’ve worked for the humid conditions I’m anticipating. The wood would’ve swelled and cracked. I probably would be out a couple thousand replacing it.
Not an option for me at the moment. Between my lease and the rent I’m paying for the loft above the studio, the flooring, the equipment for class, the sign . . .
It’s fucking ridiculous how expensive an aluminum sign costs. Highway robbery at its best.
I take to the footpath after grabbing a quick bite to eat.
Apple slices and some almond butter. The last of my stash of what I brought from Alabama. I jot down a note to pick up another jar, along with a few other items.
The sky is warm and clear. The street noisy, a steady line of traffic obstructing my view of the bakery. Of the window I want to peer inside, once, just one glance to see Brooke in her element.
Joggers move past me on the path, ignoring the hand I hold up to stop them, my other clutching the stack of fliers. Everyone seems tuned into their own world, the music pumping through their headphones, and ignoring everyone around them. I’m not sure how many fliers I ended up handing out over the weekend, but I drew up two hundred.