Текст книги "Sweet Obsession "

Автор книги: J. Daniels

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Our wanting is vigorous. Our desire frenzied.

I fall back onto the bed, closing my eyes and reliving that moment as if it were real.

As if it still could be real.

BROOKE

After my emotional collapse in the middle of the city, I leave Mason on the sidewalk and hurry to my car.

I just want to keep to myself the rest of the day. I need space to think, to get a hold on things. Calm the fuck down and breathe a little.

If I had any sick leave left, which I don’t, thanks to my bout of pneumonia this past winter, I would fake an illness and head home instead of back to the bakery.

I don’t want to talk . . . to anyone.

I’m expecting Joey and Dylan to bombard me with questions and clever little comments when I step through the door, but surprisingly, they leave me alone. I don’t have to ask. It’s strange. Maybe they can hear my tangle of thoughts. Maybe they received a call from Vince and he’s filled them in on my enormously unprofessional outburst, or maybe I just look two seconds away from needing a straitjacket.

If I yell at one more person today, someone might actually have me committed.

Whatever their reasoning for backing off, I seem to settle in my solitary. My mind grows quiet and I busy myself with work. The rest of the afternoon goes by in a blur of baking timers and detailed decorating.

At home, after inhaling some leftovers, I pop my headphones in and listen to my playlist while I change my nail color. I stay in my room all night with the door shut. No one disturbs me. Smart move on their part. I am still irritated with Joey, though not as much as I was before my run-in with Mason, and hardly at all after I make a decision about him while I’m lying on my bed, reading through our old text messages.

Mason: I apologize for staring at your chest like that this morning. Did your mates notice?

Me: . . . . . .

Mason: What does that mean? Yes?

Me: That was my ‘one second while I ask them’ text. They didn’t notice. But now they know you were all up in my boobs and will be watching for it tomorrow. Your cover has been blown.

Mason: Did you notice?

Me: Yes.

Mason: Hmm. I like to think I’m pretty covert with my obsession, but your tits in that top did me in. I nearly lost my mind a little.

Me: Really? I don’t think they look any better today than they normally do. I am wearing a new bra. Maybe that’s it.

Mason: What store did you purchase it from? The bra and the shirt. I want to send a thank you gift.

Me: Shut up.

Mason: Maybe a nice bottle of wine? Or jewellery? With a note attached detailing my appreciation.

Mason: I suppose I should go to church and thank God as well. Your tits are some of his best work.

Me: Well, while you’re there, go ahead and give him props from me.

Mason: For what, sweetheart? My cock?

Me: Yup! Your PERFECT cock. I’ll say a few hallelujahs for that masterpiece. I’ll even drop to my knees . . . to worship.

Me: And by worship I mean suck your dick, just in case that didn’t translate in Aussie speak.

Mason: Right. Getting hard. Not a good thing before class. I’ll see you later, yeah? Take care of those tits for me. If they need a good squeeze, I’m just across the street.

I muffle my laugh against my hand. I trace my smile with the tip of my finger.

I make a decision, and God, it’s easy. It’s so easy to choose him. To choose this.

I don’t care anymore. I don’t care what anyone has to say about what I’m doing with Mason. Friends. Family. I’m not going to allow their opinions or remarks to get to me. I’m also going to stop overthinking everything and freaking out in the middle of the day. This is making me happy, and that should be the only thing that matters.

It is the only thing that matters.

Yes, I still have no idea what I’m doing, because this is completely new to me. Being this happy and not having sex with the person who is making me this happy, wanting to be around the same person all the time and it having absolutely nothing to do with my desire to sleep with them. It’s confusing and unexpected.

But I can’t stop smiling.

I can’t stop smiling.

Damn him and his adorable little yeahs. I’m completely caught up in this guy.

After my shower, I wait for Mason’s nightly FaceTime call, but it never comes. I’m half expecting not to hear from him. It’s what I asked for. My little minute.

The other half of me wonders if he’s staring at his screen as much as I am.

I fall asleep hugging my body pillow, my hand clutching my phone. I wake with it tangled up in the sheets and the battery nearly dead.

God bless car chargers.

When I step inside the coffee shop Tuesday morning, I find myself searching for Mason amongst the crowd.

It’s a habit now, seeking him out. He always beats me here.

His tall, lean frame usually perched against a wall while he skims a newspaper. When he spots me, he sets the paper on top of the stack next to the registers and bends to kiss my cheek. We joke about which absurdly sweetened coffee drink I’ll be ordering today. Cavities are a risk I’m willing to take. I wrinkle my nose when he drops a tiny pad of butter into his black coffee, turning down his offer to taste it.

Butter in coffee? And he thinks I’m crazy for requesting a non-fat latte with extra whipped cream and chocolate drizzle. Please.

This has become our routine. I pay for Joey, Reese, and Dylan’s coffees, while Mason insists on paying for mine. We walk together to the bakery and chat for a few minutes before he tells me he’ll see me later, takes the treats I offer him, the ones I now know go uneaten, and crosses the street.

I watch him slip inside the studio. Joey and Dylan watch me watch Mason slip inside the studio. The three of us exchange teasing looks, then we all proceed to get to work.

But Mason isn’t here today, and I knew he wouldn’t be. After breaking our breakfast plans due to a work obligation, I knew I’d be going through this morning ritual alone.

So why am I still looking for him? Why am I still expecting to see him leaning against that wall in loose shorts and a T-shirt that clings to his muscles, his hair still damp from a shower, casually unkempt in a mess of waves on top of his head. His blue eyes bright and engaging, and that charming smirk lifting his mouth.

It’s odd, how I expect him. It’s automatic. I want him to be here, and he’s not.

I carry my order down Fayette street, my eyes shifting between the sidewalk ahead and the studio as it comes into view. Cars and large delivery trucks obscure my sight. When a break in traffic comes, I strain to catch a glimpse of Mason, teaching his class, but the brutal glare of the sun blinds me.

Oh, well. I’m sure I’ll see him later.

I step inside the bakery and smile half-heartedly at Dylan as she works her fingers through Ryan’s blonde wavy locks.

I still feel like an asshole for yelling at her like I did. I regret not sending another apology via text last night.

And one early this morning.

She lifts her head and grins back at me, all casual and pleasant, as if nothing unusual happened yesterday. “Hey. Where’s Mason?” Her eyes trail over my shoulder.

Okay. I guess this here is all good. I can probably get rid of those classifieds I swiped from the recycling bin last night.

I sit the coffee carrier on the display case next to Ryan. She swings her legs in the air, her pink ballet slippers catching in the light and sparkling. “He had a class really early today,” I explain, dropping my hand to Ryan’s knee and giving it a light squeeze. “Hey, girlfriend.”

She stops chewing her muffin, looking up at me, her cheeks stuffed with food. “Hi, Aunt Bwooke,” she mumbles, spitting bits of blueberry onto her dress.

“We have that cupcake order that’s going to be picked up at eleven. Five dozen red velvet. Can you get started on them?” Dylan asks in a tone that suggests I do as she says.

Her questions regarding work-related duties are never to be interpreted as questions. They are always commands.

Do these or I will fire you.

Roger that.

I nod and grab my coffee. “Sure.”

“I’ll be back to help you as soon as I get this mess fixed.” She sighs exhaustedly, staring at the back of Ryan’s head as she struggles to work out a knot. “No more letting Daddy braid your hair, baby, okay? He has no idea what he’s doing.”

I wave at Ryan and slip into the back, sidling up to the worktop. I set my coffee down and begin pulling supplies off the shelves.

Mixing bowls. Cupcake tins. A few spoons and spatulas.

Reese enters the kitchen with Drew in the infant carrier, his free hand straightening out his tie.

“I hear you suck at braids. What’s up with that?”

He stops short and gives me a puzzled look.

I laugh and point to the doorway. “Ryan. Your wife is in there untangling her hair. With two girls you really need to step up your game. Watch a YouTube video or something.”

His eyes widen. “They have videos like that on YouTube? Hair braiding tutorials?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.” He looks down at Drew, his hand flattening down his tie. “All right. Thanks. I’ll check it out.”

I watch him exit the kitchen, smiling at the idea of Reese, Mister Serious, hovering over his laptop late at night without Dylan’s knowledge, because knowing him, he will want this to be a surprise. He becomes a hair braiding expert overnight and twists Ryan’s hair into some elaborate pattern, completely flooring his wife.

I can also see him getting extremely frustrated when he can’t figure it out after countless tries and leaving heated comments below the videos, explaining his aggravation.

NumbersGuy: This tutorial is too complex. You need to break this down better and explain your steps as you go through them. No one can follow this. The image quality is also quite terrible. Do better.

Either scenario makes for a funny story.

I retrieve my apron off the wall and slip it over my head, wrapping the long strings around the front of me and tying them together into a loose bow.

A gift from Joey when I first started working here. Right after we first made nice.

I run my fingertips over my embroidered name, remembering how excited I was when I first put this on.

Did I know then that I’d be making a career out of this job? Or how much I’d end up loving it here?

My phone beeps from the back pocket of my jeans, breaking into my little moment of nostalgia. I pull the device out and open up the new text.

Mason: Sorry I had to cancel breakfast.

I go over the message twice. Slowly.

There’s nothing unusual about it. A standard apology, but it reads strange. No sweet introductory greeting. No nickname thrown in, sweetheart or gorgeous or little devil.

I like that one. I like thinking I’m Mason’s greatest temptation. His only sin, he once said.

But this message isn’t his typical style at all. It seems too impersonal for him. Something he might send a stranger, or someone he doesn’t bother to give nicknames to.

What gives?

I quickly type my reply.

Me: That’s okay. How was class?

Mason: Great.

Great . . . that’s it?

Huh.

I stare at the screen, expecting more. More than just one word. I’m certain it’s coming. Maybe a ‘Let’s do breakfast tomorrow instead’, or a ‘Can I have you for lunch?’ to which I will then respond with something overtly sexual, and he will confirm that he does indeed mean lunch in the true meaning of the word, and also the implied innuendo.

‘You eat your strange French toast. I eat you, yeah?’

Warmth spreads low in my belly, until my screen fades to black.

What? Really?

I light up my screen again, confusion pinching my brow.

Well, this is different.

Maybe he’s really busy at the moment? No time to elaborate because . . .

Reasoning settles over me like a thick fog.

Class. He must be starting another class. His typical first one of the day. He can’t text and instruct a class.

Of course. This makes perfect sense. God, Brooke. Use your head.

I convince myself of this completely logical explanation and set my phone on the worktop.

He’ll probably text later, like he usually does. Or stop in at some point.

I smile at the thought.

The front door chimes as I’m setting out my ingredients for the five dozen cupcakes. Movement catches my attention. Joey steps through the doorway wearing dark washed jeans and a bright blue polo. He stares at me, his expression unreadable as he moves across the kitchen.

I open my mouth to utter a greeting, something to ease us back into our regular everyday banter, when he halts me with a hand in the air.

“Let me just start off by saying how much I hate not speaking to you,” he announces, stepping closer and lowering his hand.

My grip tightens on the bag of flour. He does?

“I know this is all my doing. I should’ve apologized to you yesterday but I felt like maybe it would be better if I left you alone. Teasing you like that wasn’t . . . right of me. I regret doing it. I saw how upset I made you and it fucked with my emotions.” He leans a hip against the worktop, his arms tightening across his chest.

Typical Joey. Even in an apology, he makes it all about him. He’s lucky I like him that way.

I cock my head. “Oh, really? It fucked with your emotions?”

“Yes,” he snaps. “I barely ate last night and turned down a quickie in the shower. I hope you realize how little that happens. And by little, I mean never. Billy thought I was coming down with some weird virus that diminished my sex drive. He wanted to take me to the hospital.”

My mouth twitches. I open up the bag of flour. A white cloud of dust bursts onto the back of my hands and sprinkles the wood. “Good Lord. You two are dramatic.”

“Brooke.” Joey squeezes my shoulder, prompting me to look up at him. His sky-blue eyes are sorrowful. “I’m really fucking sorry, okay?”

I feel my throat tighten. “Okay,” I quietly reply.

“It’s like when I fight with Dylan. I can’t handle it. And I fucking hate the whole silent treatment routine.” He removes his hand from my shoulder and flicks his head, tousling his blonde hair. “Let’s never do that mess again.”

“Don’t be an asshole and we won’t.”

His eyes narrow. I let out a quiet laugh, and so does he. Spinning around, he rests his elbows on the worktop and leans into it, exhaling a rushed breath. “Can I be blunt with my opinion for a second?”

“When aren’t you blunt with your opinion?”

“Tuesdays, usually.”

We exchange mocking smiles. I dip a measuring cup into the bag of flour and level out a scoop, dumping it into a large mixing bowl.

Joey looks down at the wood, moving his finger through some spilled flour and making tiny circular patterns. “You’re different with this guy, Brooke. Really different. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re usually more like a puppy with men.”

I wince, dumping more flour into the bowl. “What?”

“A puppy. A cute one. Relax. Like those teacup ones you carry around in your purse.”

“Really? They’re so yappy.”

“I know,” he says playfully, lifting his head. He smiles at my tight expression. “Anyway, you get this new toy, right? One of those bones that squeak.”

“Only when you bite down on them.”

A slow grin pulls across his mouth. “Girl, you have no idea.”

I chuckle under my breath.

“Okay, so new toy. You’re really excited to play with it, but you don’t just want one toy. You want every toy, ‘cause you’re a puppy, and the minute another toy is placed in front of you, you’re dropping the first one and lunging for the other. That’s not happening with Mason. You aren’t even looking at other toys.”

I brush my hands off.

A puppy? Give me a break. They pee everywhere.

“Okay.”

I slide the sugar and salt in front of me and palm a measuring spoon. I bite my tongue, keeping any comments that might derail this conversation to myself. I am curious to see where Joey is going with this. Some analogy . . .

Not all that inaccurate though. I do like my toys.

“I just know that sometimes new shit can be scary. You have no idea what’s going on or how to explain it, and that makes some people bolt. Yesterday, when I was getting on you about it . . .” he pauses to straighten up. His hands flatten to the wood. “Look, I just don’t want you to do that. Bolt. I think if you did, it would be a huge mistake. He’s good for you. Great for you, actually, and you know I would say something if I thought you could do better. I don’t think there is better.”

Biting the inside of my cheek, I think about all the men I’ve been with, the ones worth remembering anyway. All of them pale in comparison to Mason. I never wanted to have any sort of real conversation with them. I never thought about them in scenarios that didn’t involve sex.

Did I ever even laugh with them? Or stay up late at night talking for hours until one of us passed out on the line?

Would any of them have been able to convince me to go camping?

Fuck no. Only him.

I nod, conveying my agreement with Joey as I measure out some salt and pour it into the bowl. “I’m not bolting.”

“You’re not?” He sounds surprised.

“No. I mean, don’t get me wrong. It is different. Really different for me, which when I think about it, I get a little freaked out, but that’s okay. I’m okay with that.” I look up at him. “I don’t want to bolt. I like Mason. I like what we’re doing. I called him my boyfriend yesterday and he . . .”

“Whoa.” Joey waves his hand. “Wait a hot damn minute. You called him your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“To who?”

I make a distasteful sound in the back of my throat, dropping my head and the measuring spoon. I slowly peer up at Joey. “You know the building I delivered to yesterday? Do you remember us going there last year, and the guy who hit on me?” Joey nods. “To him. He tried to get me to sleep with him again while I was there.”

He grimaces. “Go home, Vince.”

I shove at his shoulder. “You remember his name?” I ask, laughing. “I didn’t. I had no idea.”

He shrugs, his mouth twitching with a smile. “I lost my virginity to a Vince. That name is burned in my memory. Plus, I remember you telling me how he was uncircumcised and you thought his foreskin looked strange.”

I scrunch up my face in disgust. “We talk about the weirdest shit.”

“Word.”

“Anyway, I ran into Mason right after that, and I told him what I said, that I called him my boyfriend, and his face, Joey.” I frown, leaning my hip against the wood. My cheeks burn. “He looked so happy to hear me say that. I mean, I was literally freaking out, but he was just so ready, you know? Like yes, say it again. Again, Brooke. Please. I could practically hear his thoughts.”

Joey smiles gently. “I bet. So, are we calling him your boyfriend now? Please say yes.”

I shrug, turning back to the ingredients I laid out. “I’m just going with it. Whatever this is, I like it, so . . . yeah, I guess. I guess he’s my boyfriend. I have a boyfriend.” I let out a nervous giggle. My eyes widen. Joey regards me with barely contained jubilance. “Um, yeah I just had a tickle.” I touch my throat, swallowing thickly. “That was weird.”

Oh, my God. I just turned into a preteen.

“Weird indeed,” Joey remarks, wiggling his brows.

The front door chimes again, followed by the loud tapping of heels striking on tile. Dylan steps into the kitchen with my sister close behind.

Juls used to be a regular in the bakery up until last year when she popped out her second kid. Now she’s a full-time mommy, part-time wedding planner, and hardly has a minute to spare for visits that aren’t work related.

“Good morning, everyone,” she sings, circling the worktop and wrapping her arms around Joey. “Mm. You smell nice. Is that new cologne?”

“It’s Billy’s. I ran out.” Joey leans back, releasing her from the hug. “Do you like it better than mine?”

Dylan chuckles from her stool. “Oh, Jesus. Here we go.”

“What?” Joey cranks his neck around to stare at her. “I’m just asking. I’m secure, bitch. I know I smell fantastic in my own fragrance.”

“Excuse me? Shouldn’t you be manning the front, bitch?” Dylan affronts. “Don’t piss me off, Joey. My blood pressure is already off the fucking charts lately.”

“Is it?” I ask, dropping my gaze to the top of her protruding belly.

Dylan lets out a rushed breath, then gathers her hair off her neck and secures it into a messy pony. Juls and Joey loom closer. “Yes. I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Reese bought one of those home blood pressure monitors the other day when I felt really anxious. We’ve been taking it every night. It’s pretty elevated.”

“Other than that, do you feel okay?” Joey asks, rubbing Dylan’s back and shoulders. “Nothing’s going on with the baby?”

“No. I feel fine. Enormous and constantly sweaty, but fine.” She drops her head back and smiles at him. “Thanks. That feels really good.”

“Anytime, cupcake.”

“Women having elevated blood pressure when they’re pregnant is common,” Juls says. “It’s probably just something you need to keep an eye on. Maybe try and stay off your feet as much as possible.”

Dylan closes her eyes. “That’s what I’m worried about,” she murmurs, rolling her head to the side as Joey moves up to her neck.

Jesus. I can’t imagine Dylan staying off her feet any more than she already does. She’s always planted on a stool back here, and I can tell it drives her crazy. She wants to be up, running her business. I get that. She’s a very proud woman.

Juls reaches across the table and squeezes Dylan’s hand. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, sweets.”

Dylan smiles, her eyes remaining closed.

Turning her attention on me, Juls walks around the worktop to stand closer. “I see you survived camping.”

I roll my eyes. “Barely. Some tick nearly took me out.”

She gasps appallingly. “Oh, gross. See? That’s why I always shoot down Ian’s weekend retreat ideas. I’m not picking ticks off the kids.”

Dylan and Joey both start giggling. I pinch my lips together, fighting my own amusement at the idea of Ian roughing it as Juls looks across the worktop at the two of them.

“Something funny?” she asks, hands flying to her hips.

Joey moves to stand beside Dylan. “Ian wants to spend the weekend outdoors? Where in the world will he plug in his hairdryer?”

Wow. He took the words right out of my mouth.

Dylan’s eyes go round, her cheeks lifting.

Juls glares around the room, remaining silent, seemingly pissed, until her shoulders start shaking and she covers her mouth. “I know. God, I know,” she giggles, shaking her head. “He would be so miserable. I don’t know why he keeps suggesting it. My man is crazy high maintenance, but I don’t care. He’s so sexy, isn’t he?”

“No comment. We’re practically related.” I shuffle over to the shelf to grab some cupcake liners.

Juls glances down at her watch. “Oo, I gotta go. Hey, dinner this Friday, right?”

I give her a thumbs up.

She quickly says her goodbyes, bending down to speak softly to Dylan’s belly before she slips out the front door. I grab the two mixers and set them on the worktop. The bakery officially opens, and Joey disappears upfront, while Dylan slides some of the ingredients in front of her and begins making her own batch of cupcakes.

As my batter is mixing, I hit the button on my phone and light up my screen again. It’s possible that my text alert function is on the fritz. Maybe I missed something from Mason.

I note the time, and the pink glittered wallpaper set for my lock screen.

No messages.

I check the ring volume before pushing my phone aside and focusing on work.

At least until the cupcakes go in the oven.

Strolling up front after cleaning up the mess, I stand at the window and peer across the street, standing on my toes to see above the occasional car. I can feel Joey’s eyes on me.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t stopped in yet,” he proclaims, echoing my exact thoughts.

I chew on my thumb nail, jerking my shoulder as I strain to see through his large studio window. The distance and projection of the sun make that impossible. His entire studio front is washed out by the glare.

“He canceled classes so we could go camping. Maybe he’s squeezing them all in today to make up for it. He texted me earlier.”

And it was weird.

I push that thought out of my head.

It wasn’t weird, he was busy. He’s allowed to be busy.

He’s just really fucking busy.

I repeat this same rational justification for Mason’s nonexistence today as the hours pass. I repeat it so much that it seems to transfer into my own reality.

After the cupcake order is picked up, a frantic mother rushes into the shop in tears because she forgot to order her son’s birthday cake last week. She needs it by five-thirty tonight for his party. Doable, until the woman explains what exactly her son is requesting for his fourth birthday.

An elaborate Old McDonald style cake with a tall red barn and at least five of his favorite animals.

Have I mentioned how much I hate working with fondant? It’s the devil.

Dylan and Joey exchange worried looks as the woman waits anxiously for the verdict. I can tell which way this decision is leaning, and no child should be disappointed on their birthday. Even little Timmy, or whatever the Hell this kid’s name is, who had to go all out for his big day. We should at least attempt this.

“I think we can knock this out,” I say, earning a leery look from Dylan. “What?” I mouth.

The woman pulls me into a grateful hug.

Dylan smiles at me, telling her there is no guarantee, and that she needs to be prepared to settle on birthday cupcakes in case this doesn’t work out.

She agrees. “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you so much!” And rushes out of the shop.

We immediately get to work.

Dylan stays off her feet as much as possible. I’m all over the place, pulling ingredients and supplies off the shelves, darting upstairs to grab some paper so we can sketch this out. Our design is promising. Whether or not we can pull of sculpting these fucking farm animals is another thing.

I work through lunch. Joey steps into the back after two o’clock and holds out a sandwich for me to take bites of as I roll out some fondant. Dylan takes several breaks and moves into a more comfortable seat when her back starts to hurt. We check her blood pressure twice. That whole thing worries me. I forget all about my phone and Mason in general as I mold fat little farm animals and place them around the barn.

The cake is completed with only minutes to spare. Dylan can’t believe it. I’m too exhausted to offer my opinion on the ordeal and collapse onto a stool. It only registers that I haven’t spoken to Mason at all today when I’m gathering up my things at the end of the day.

“Still nothing?” Joey asks as we step out of the bakery together.

I glance across the street. The studio lights are off. “No. Um . . .” I check my phone again and frown at the screen. No Mason.

Disappointment prickles deep in my chest.

Joey bumps against my shoulder, then throws his arm around me and pulls me along the sidewalk. “Early night, maybe? If he had extra classes today, he’s probably beat. As am I. Jesus. Just watching you and Dylan back there knocking out that cake was enough to wipe me out. Of course, I barely slept last night due to our little lover’s quarrel.”

I feel the corner of my mouth twitch.

“Pizza and beer for dinner sounds fucking perfect right about now. I need carbs and booze. You in?”

Craning my neck, I watch the studio grow smaller behind us as we continue down the sidewalk.

Early night, maybe? I cling to Joey’s reasoning for Mason’s continued silence. I accept it as explanation.

Extra classes. Right. He’s probably beat, that’s all.

“Yeah, sure,” I agree, looking ahead and tucking away my phone. “That does sound perfect.”

Or at least I think it does.

By the time that option is actually laid out in front of me, an hour later back at the condo, my appetite is deficient and I can only manage to consume half of my slice of Hawaiian pizza and nurse a third of my beer. I pick off the pineapple chunks and stack them on the plate. The ham slivers next.

Billy asks me if I’m okay, if I’m feeling well.

“Just tired,” I mumble, standing and carrying my plate to the sink.

Probably beat.

I can’t explain my mood, or what exactly it is I’m feeling as I turn in early and take a hot shower.

Disappointment? Disbelief? It’s odd, not hearing from Mason, but it’s easily explainable, and that’s what I tell myself again and again as I towel off and slip into an oversized T-shirt and a pair of black lace panties.

No reason to overreact. Or react at all, right?

God, when did I become spoiled by our daily conversations? I feel like a huge chunk of me is missing.

I comb out my hair and grab my phone before sliding under the cool sheets covering my bed. The dim light of my screen casts over my pillow as I hold it next to me, my shoulder digging into the mattress. My thumb hovers over the FaceTime icon.

I scowl at my own desperation.

He’s asleep, Brooke. Early night. Really fucking busy, remember?

With a heavy exhale, I let the phone drop out of my hand. I curl my body against my pillow and force my eyes to close.

I force myself to stop worrying, and to chase after sleep.

And the next morning, when Mason doesn’t show up for coffee, again, or stop in for a quick hello, I force myself to focus on my job, and not the man across the street who is confusing the fuck out of me right now.

Oh, and also, making it damn near impossible to focus on anything.

“Goddamn it.” I pick up the now empty container off the floor and slam it onto the worktop. A mound of sugar collects near my feet, with a trail streaking across the floor. The granules shimmering along the wood.

Well, this is just perfect. And exactly how you get ants.

Snatching up the broom, I sweep up my mess as Joey steps into the back.

“I think you need a break. Your language is getting a bit out of control back here.” He bends down to hold the pan for me, dumping what he collects into the trash.

“It is not,” I scoff, sweeping another pile into the pan, although I am a fool to argue. I know how loose my tongue has been today.

“The last customer heard you.”

I wince, my grip tightening on the handle as Joey straightens. Shit. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Leaning the broom back against the wall in the corner, I brush my hands down my apron. The hard edge of my silent, might as well be dead, phone scrapes against my palm. My teeth clench.

“Unfuckingbelievable,” I utter, ripping off my apron and tossing it against the wall below the hooks. It falls into a crumpled pile on the floor.