From the Author
"What's up?" I ask, joining his side, sucking the warm mocha off my lips.
My eyes follow his across the street, widen, then nearly pop out of my skull and roll around on the floor.
The door chimes, and I think I hear Reese's faint good-bye, Ryan's more animated one, and something Dylan says, but honestly, a fucking meteor could strike the earth right now and I wouldn't notice.
I inhale sharply. Maybe a little too sharp. My hand flattens on the window pane, steadying myself when I start seeing double of the man standing outside the yoga studio. I blink once, then once more, hard, waiting for him to suddenly up and vanish into a cloud of smoke.
He can't be real.
He seriously can't be real.
A mirage, that's what this is. I'm not standing in the bakery, on the verge of licking the window like some mental patient. I'm in the desert, dying of thirst, my throat raw as I struggle to stay alive. I look up and this man, my hallucination in the distance, is beckoning me closer with promises of clean water and wild sex.
Two resources I'd be a damn fool to pass up. It's all about survival in these elements.
I bite my lip through a groan when the man places his hands on the back of his head and gazes up at the yoga sign on the building.
My God, he's the owner, he has to be. With that body? He's practically a walking advertisement for Abercrombie and multiple orgasms.
My eyes sweep over the length of him, slowly, before settling on the ass to beat all asses. Even from this distance, that thing would stop traffic in Times Square.
"I, for one, am suddenly very interested in hot yoga," Joey remarks under his breath.
I whip my head to my right. "You're married, and I'm calling dibs."
"Dibs? What are you, ten?"
"What are you two looking at?" Dylan asks from somewhere behind us. "Can one of you lazy asses finish filling the display case, or am I the only person working today?"
What am I looking at?
Sex. That's what I'm looking at.
I look down, giving a quick once-over of my outfit before I make my move.
Black v-neck tee, skinny jeans, and... fuck!
Sneakers? Why am I wearing sneakers today? There is nothing sexy about the Nike swoosh. And my thoughtless choice of footwear definitely isn't doing anything for my legs.
I spin around and march past Dylan toward the kitchen. "I need to borrow some shoes."
"What?" she asks.
"What?" Joey echoes in the distance, but I'm already halfway up the stairs, too focused on my mission to answer either one of them.
Pumps. I need pumps. Something with a heel.
Shoes are flying everywhere as I rummage through Dylan's small closet. How she manages to fit her and Reese's clothes in this thing, along with her gorgeous selection of handbags and other accessories is beyond me. They are in serious need of a bigger space, but I get it. She likes living above her bakery, and Reese will do anything to make her happy.
With this third baby coming though, one of them might have to start sleeping in the bathtub. No way is another crib fitting in this loft.
"Oh, hello pink." My hands close around a delicious pair of Steve Maddens. I toe off my sneakers and remove my socks.
Maneuvering carefully down the stairs, I re-enter the bakery, now three inches taller. Dylan and Joey take notice immediately.
"Help yourself to my wardrobe, Brooke."
Her sarcasm isn't lost on me.
I grab an empty bakery box and slide the display case open, reaching inside.
Joey nudges against me. "Do you really think he's going to be staring at your feet, Miss Cleavage?" His words are muffled by the mouthful of danish he's devouring.
"I always feel more confident in heels."
"And the cupcakes?"
"It's a gesture. Welcome to the neighborhood, now let's go get naked and eat these off each other."
Dylan laughs quietly. "I think it's sweet. What's that saying? The fastest way to a man's cock is through his stomach?"
"Mm, I don't think that's right," Joey says, laughing. "Although, how many apple turnovers did Reese consume when you two were dating, but not dating, but totally dating?"
I straighten and close the box, rounding the counter and heading for the door. "Right. I'd say wish me luck, but we all know I don't need it."
Their remarks, if they have any, are lost amongst the traffic from the street as I step outside. I wait not so patiently for a break to cross, shifting on my feet, taking quick bursts of air into my lungs.
Why am I suddenly nervous?
Because you're about to suggest a night of scandalous indecency to a man who looks like the definition of the word 'orgasm.'
Ridiculous. He can't be that hot. I'm sure some of his attractiveness will soften the closer I get.
Like a mirage. He'll vanish before I can touch him.
Steadying the box in my hands, I quickly pad across the street.
One hundred percent turned-on.