A baker’s dream.
My dream.
It was fifty thousand dollars over budget but I bought it because I thought it was worth it.
Since then, even though the first year it was rough going, I never regretted it.
As I walked through the front living room off which were two bedrooms and a bath to the double doorway that led to the kitchen, I thought the same thing.
And when I hit the kitchen and saw Brock resting faded jeans-clad h*ps against the back counter, teeth sinking into a cupcake, half of a mountainous swirl of silver-dusted, pale lilac frosting, sprinkled with pastel, candy confetti disappearing behind his full lips, I made the instant decision I was going to go through my paperwork, find out the day I signed on the dotted line that made that house my home and celebrate it with a huge, honking party every f**king year.
“She’s gone,” I informed him, stopping on the other side of the island and putting my hands on it.
I watched with admittedly captivated attention as he licked frosting from his lips after he swallowed and then he asked, “How long’s it take her to get home?”
“Twenty minutes,” I answered.
His eyes locked with mine and he said quietly, “You need to call her in twenty-five minutes, babe.”
My gaze held his as more warm gushiness hit my belly knowing he got it, he read her mood, he knew she was hurting and he wanted me to check in on her.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He studied me and I let him.
Then he asked, still talking quietly, “How you doin’?”
“Sharing that with her was not fun,” I admitted.
“I could guess that part, Tess,” he told me, again quietly.
I nodded and took a breath. Then I added, “I’m glad I did it, I’m sorry I didn’t do it earlier, I’m glad it’s done and I’m glad I never have to do it again. That’s as far as I’ve got.”
“Right,” he whispered.
Then he shoved the rest of the cupcake in his mouth. I watched him chew and swallow.
Then he asked, “Would it piss you off to know that right about now I’m wondering if I walked in here yesterday because I missed my Tess or if it was because I missed her cupcakes?”
I grinned at him.
Then I answered, “No, because I am my cupcakes.”
And it hit me right then I was. On the outside it could be tees, jeans and flip-flops or pencil skirts, complicated designer blouses and high-heeled strappy sandals or, me being me, just about anything. But on the inside, it was all about mountainous swirls of delicately colored frosting with sprinkles of candy confetti, edible fairy dust all on top of rich, moist cake.
And as that understanding settled inside me, that made me feel warm and gushy too.
“Come here, baby,” he murmured, I caught the feel of the room and the look on his face and didn’t delay in rounding the island and going there.
When I got close, his arms folded around me and he pulled me deep. Then his head dipped and he gave me a sweet, delicious, long, deep cupcake kiss.
When he was done, against his mouth, I whispered, “You taste good.”
To which he replied, “I know.”
I smiled against his lips and he returned the gesture.
Then he lifted his head an inch, his arms gave me a squeeze and he said gently, “I wanna spend the night.”
My belly dropped and I felt a convulsion between my legs.
Then I replied, “Okay.”
His eyelids got heavy, his arms got tighter, my arms around him got tighter, his head descended and he kissed me again, this time longer, deeper, sweeter and even more delicious.
This went on for awhile. Long enough for me to get my fingers in his hair. Long enough for Brock to get one of his hands up the back of my tee and the other one clamped tight on my ass. Long enough for my ni**les to swell and the area between my legs to get wet. Long enough for me to think the bedroom was way, way, way too far away and to be glad I kept the kitchen floor mopped because that was where I wanted him to take me.
But unfortunately not long enough that we were still making out standing up in the kitchen rather than somewhere either na**d or semi-naked and thus at the point of no return when a knock came at the door.
Brock’s head came up on a low, short, frustrated growl and his eyes went over my head toward the front door. I blinked at this unwelcome turn of events and twisted my neck to look in the same direction.
It was closing on ten. Too late for a caller. Unless that caller was Martha who forgot something and Martha was the kind of gal who consistently forgot something no matter where she was, like her wallet, purse, credit card and other such non-trivial items.
Another knock came at the door and I felt Brock’s arms squeeze, this also happened to coincide with his fingers digging pleasantly into my ass. That felt great, so great, I forgot someone was at the door and I looked to him to see him looking at me.
Oh my.
He was still turned on too.
And let’s just say that look on his face was nice.
“Hold that thought and for f**k’s sake, whatever you do, hold that look,” he growled before he let me go, I teetered slightly but managed to stay standing, turn and watch him stalk toward the door.
I walked the few feet to the island and put my hands on it as he unlocked the front door.
Then my eyes dropped.
On the corner of my island was a white, ceramic pedestal cake stand with glass dome.
Sweeping lines. Simple and elegant. It cost a fortune and I didn’t care. I baked cakes. I needed fabulous cake stands. At that moment in my life, I owned seven of them (in my home, at the bakery I had tons more). All of them fantastic, most of them expensive. They rotated to the top spot on my island depending on my mood.
In the one now were six cupcakes with mountainous swirls of frosting, glittering, edible fairy dust and pastel confetti. Two had mint green frosting, two had pale pink, two baby blue.
This meant Brock had a cupcake while I was saying good-bye to Martha, before I made it to the kitchen when he was eating his second one.
I felt my face go soft as I realized I missed that too. He had a great body, the kind of body that no matter what age, but especially at forty-five, you worked on. He didn’t shy away from his food, his beer or his bourbon. He lived his life like he appreciated it. But he still took care of himself. I’d phoned him enough times when he told me he was at the gym or just got back from a run to know this was true.
But he had a weakness for my cupcakes. And my cake cakes. And my cookies. In fact, anything that came out of my oven, he made no bones about liking it, liking it more than anything else that I’d noticed he liked and he didn’t do this by handing me flowery compliments. He did this by consuming them with relish.