Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
I’m humming. I don’t notice at first, but I’m straight up humming as I stroll inside. Ridiculous. I should be exhausted, but nope, my body is running on pure adrenaline and filthy flashbacks.
I dump my bag on the prep counter and bask in the silence for a hot second before throwing myself into the pre-opening ritual.
First up, I punch the digital display on the main oven and wait for the familiar whoosh of heat. Within seconds, the place goes from meat locker to cozy bakery bliss.
The espresso machine gets a solid glare since it’s been misbehaving for the last few days. If she keeps this up, I’ll have to dig into my savings for a new machine.
While the machine comes to life, I grab my mixing bowls and start the banana-nut muffin batter. You’d think after three years, the recipe would be muscle memory, but I measure anyway.
Scooping the batter into tins, I let my mind wander, which is a dangerous game, because it’s all Oliver, all the time.
I can still feel his hands on me, rough but gentle, pinning me to the mattress like he’d never let go. The way his voice went low and dark when he whispered that I was his, all his. How I nearly lost my damn mind every time his mouth found a new place to claim. My thighs squeeze together just thinking about it. The only thing hotter than his dirty talk is the way he looks at me after, all soft and possessive and starved.
I slide the first tray of muffins into the oven, the heat whooshing over my face and grounding me for a second. Okay. Focus, I tell myself, but it isn’t easy since I have sore girly bits and two hickeys hidden under my thick sweatshirt—both presents from my weekend with Oliver.
I tuck a rebel strand of hair behind my ear, noting the flush in my cheeks. Not from the ovens. From the memory of how Oliver’s mouth found that exact spot and made me beg for mercy.
By the time the clock says 6:01, I’ve got the front completely ready. Muffins cooling on racks, cinnamon rolls slathered in icing so thick it could double as spackle, and the espresso machine purring like a kitten.
And somehow, somewhere in all this, I find myself replaying the rough brush of his lips behind my ear, the way he whispered “mine” before dragging me under all over again. I mop the counter, head spinning, and nearly miss the sound of a key in the lock.
Tessa is always early, but today she’s Olympic-level punctual.
She slips in, dropping her purse behind the counter and eyeing me with a devious little smirk.
“Wow. It looks like you had a good weekend.” Tessa twists into her apron and shoots me a sideways look. “Are you going to tell me about it?”
I try to play it cool, but my cheeks go nuclear. “What do you mean?” My voice cracks on the last word like I’m a middle-schooler with a crush.
Tessa just laughs, grabbing a hair tie and wrangling her curls into a shaky topknot. “Oh, please. You’re practically skipping around the kitchen. You’re usually a literal zombie in the mornings, yet today? You look like you’re floating on air.”
She slides over to the espresso machine, bumping my hip as she goes. “I want all the details,” she fires, eyebrow arched to the ceiling.
I fumble with a tray of muffins, nearly losing one to the floor. I can’t even deny it. “It’s Monday. Fall air. Magic in the ovens. Take your pick.”
Tessa snorts. “Yeah, okay. Sure, Cyd.” She grabs a mug and leans in, stage-whispering, “Neither the fall air nor magic ovens will put that kind of hickey at the base of your neck.”
Oops. I really thought my mock turtleneck hid that. I try to put my game face on, playing innocent as I set out cinnamon rolls, but I’m a lousy liar.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, but my lips twist up anyway, smile wrecking my poker face.
She’s on it like a bloodhound. “Somebody got lucky this weekend,” she sings. “And I’m gonna find out all the dirty details before we run out of espresso shots.”
I roll my eyes, shoving the pastry trays into place. “You’re impossible.”
Tessa laughs, loops an arm around my shoulder, and gives me a quick squeeze. “You love it. Now, spill the beans while I make myself a much-needed latte.”
She grabs her favorite mug and loads it up with all the good stuff. As she steams the milk, her knowing smirk grows into a full-blown grin. She isn’t going to drop it. Not for a second.
Tessa watches me over the mouth of her mug, eyes gleaming like a cat with a trapped mouse. “So, are you going to give it up, or do I have to interrogate you all day with my patented ‘you know I won’t quit’ technique?”