Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
“Nothing happened?” She sounded incredibly disappointed.
I nodded, leaving a few beats of silence between us, trying to figure out whether I was going to kiss and tell.
Who was I kidding? No way I could keep this quiet.
“We did almost have sex on my car this morning.”
Fiona let out a low shriek and hit me on the arm. “You sneaky bitch!” She looked me over. “What do you mean ‘almost’?”
I abandoned the dough once more, giving her my full attention while dusting flour from my hands. “Well, Fiona, do you really expect me to have sex with a man I’ve been obsessing over on my car? A man I haven’t even been on a first date with?”
“Of course, I fucking do,” Fiona replied instantaneously.
I studied my nails, scraping flour out of my cuticles. “Okay, well, I might’ve. Had he not cut it short.”
“He cut it short?” she repeated. “What was he, on drugs?”
I chuckled. “No, he… I don’t know. It’s confusing. He’s confusing. He went from being nothing to me to staying at my house, saying things. Doing things.”
I shook my head, trying to shake it free of the intrusive thoughts that had been swirling since I walked in.
“This is too much for a human being to deal with.” I threw my hands up.
Fiona squealed, squeezing my arm. “No, honey, this is exactly what you’ve needed all this time. You need someone to take over your mind so thoroughly that you don’t have the time, space or energy to talk yourself out of it, doubt yourself or convince yourself that you’re dying.”
Though I wanted to argue with her, I couldn’t.
Because beneath all of my anxiety, dramatics and protests, I knew that Rowan Derrick was indeed what I’d needed all this time.
And that scared the crap out of me.
ROWAN
I knew she was special the second I first saw her.
Three years ago. When I first came into the bakery after hearing all that shit about her coffee and all the baked goods.
I wasn’t typically interested in sugar or food in general. Not at that point, at least. Food was a thing that kept me alive. No more, no less. That’s what got me through eating MREs or whatever shit was on base when we were there. I’d turned off that part of my brain. Even after I came back, haunted by all the shit I’d seen and done over there, I’d kept that mindset.
And control. Control was important. Controlling my body, what I did with it. What I put in it. What it became. A weapon.
So no, I did not go there planning on becoming fucking addicted to pastries. The exact opposite, actually.
I’d gone for the coffee. And because Kip wanted to hit on some waitress there. Even then, four years ago, he was fucking everything in sight in order to get away from reality. I’d been worried about my friend then, watching him closely at the same time as trying to deal with my own shit and start our business in a new town.
My mind was on a million other things.
But then I saw her. With fucking flour on her face. With hair escaping from the bun on her head. With a smile and a face that would launch a thousand ships. And it was clear she didn’t know it. How god damn stunning she was. Women who knew they were good looking held themselves differently. Not that it was bad. Not with all of them, at least. But some of those women used their beauty as a weapon… as they should’ve because I’d seen a lot of fucking men think that a woman’s beauty was theirs to own, take or destroy. No, I never judged those women.
But Nora… she didn’t acknowledge her beauty. She was shy, easy to blush, and her smile was small, uncertain but warm and genuine. I didn’t know her then, aside from what I could glean from her body language. But I knew enough.
And I knew she was too fucking good for me. So, I kept coming back for the coffee. For those glimpses of her. So I could eat the things she created.
Even when she was wearing a ring that another man bought her, one that was flashy, obviously expensive and didn’t fucking suit her at all. She was better suited to something original, vintage, unexpected. Not some huge, cold rock without any warmth or story behind it other than the six figures it was worth.
But there was no ring on her finger anymore. And I was fucking desperate to make her mine in every way I could.
That’s why I was there. For another glimpse of her. Another taste. But not of the sugary shit she’d gotten me addicted to—well, that too—but her lips. Because those were the sweetest things I’d ever tasted. Because I had no intention of letting her go. Letting her get in her head like I’d seen last night and this morning. Her nose had wrinkled, her eyes went far away, and she shrank into herself.