Master baker, p.15
Master Baker, page 15
“I don’t have that to give right now, Grady. My plate’s a little full.”
“You’re trying to keep a gallon of soup from overflowing a teacup. I know. So let me help. You don’t have to do anything besides agree to let Bailey tell a reporter how terrible I am and not let it slip that we’re talking behind the scenes.”
“And what kind of lesson is that for Bailey?”
“I’ll say terrible things about her too.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Okay, I probably won’t,” I concede.
“Probably?”
“Definitely.” My fingers inch up her firm thighs, and she doesn’t bat me away. “You know that feeling when you realize you were a better person in high school than you are today?”
She doesn’t answer, because of course she doesn’t feel that too.
Nope, that’s just me.
“What would your family say about you helping me?”
“Tillie Jean would probably blow a gasket. Pop would double down on his efforts to find me a girlfriend. But Ma would be thrilled.”
Her thighs go tense at the word girlfriend.
So I still have a chance.
“Just think about it,” I tell her.
“Do you know what I really need right now?”
“A double shot of tequila and a triple fudge cupcake?”
“No. This.”
21
Annika
This is probably the worst idea I’ve had all day, but I can’t help myself.
I need a hug.
Grady’s body goes tense as I wrap my arms around his waist and drop my head to his chest, but only for a split second before he releases that tantalizing hold on my legs to step between them and hold me close.
He smells like sugar and sweat and fresh-mowed grass, and I grip him tighter and just breathe.
I don’t realize how tense I’ve been until my shoulders start to droop. He strokes my hair, and when he reaches my neck, the ever-present tension that I don’t even notice anymore bleeds away.
Just a little.
Like a pinhole leaking air out of a blimp.
But it’s a start.
Right here, in this little cocoon, I don’t have to hold anyone else’s world together.
I can just let go.
Not for long.
But for long enough.
“Are you shoving the rest of my ice cream cone into the back of my shirt?” he asks softly while his hand trails down my back, sparking unwelcome shivers of delight beneath my tank top.
“I’m working on getting it down your pants,” I reply while I angle my head, my ear over his pounding heart, drinking in the deep rumble of his chuckle, and melt deeper into him, seriously debating just dropping the rest of the cone because I don’t want it.
I want this.
My nipples are tightening and there’s a longing pull deep between my thighs, but I ignore them both.
Or try to.
Just a hug, I remind my body.
It snorts out an indelicate yeah, right.
“You’re very tense,” he murmurs.
“I’ve had a shitty month.”
He holds me tight with one arm while he uses his other hand to gently knead my neck.
“Biscuits,” he muses.
“What?”
“Biscuits. Your neck is tight as over-kneaded biscuit dough.”
“Thank you?”
“I’m an expert in biscuits.”
“You think you’re an expert at everything.”
“Shh. Let the master work. And for the record, I’m awful at fishing and curling.”
“You took up curling?”
“No. That’s why I suck at it. Now be quiet so I can fix your neck.”
How much experience, exactly, has he had at fixing necks?
How many other women has he used this line on?
My shoulders bunch, but then he presses his thumb right into a tight band in my neck, stroking up and down with firm, sure strength, and murmurs, “Patience, sweetheart. A little love is all we need here. I know you’re already overworked, but I added more cream, and now I’m gonna stroke you just the way you like.”
“Are you talking dirty to my neck muscles?”
“Sshh. Don’t interrupt the master baker.”
“But—ooooohhh.” He hits a spot just right, putting me on that precipice between pain and pleasure, and release is so close.
“That’s right, baby. You stay right there and let my hands make you feel good.”
I whimper, because damn, this does feel good.
Also?
If he can work his way around my neck that well, what could he do to the rest of my body?
“Good girl,” he croons. “That’s right. Let the master baker take care of you. And I’ll take care of all of you.”
This should be hilarious, but there’s nothing funny about the ache in my clit right now.
“Time to flip over, baby.” He cradles my head and guides me to turn my neck, and a stiff pain hits me at the base of my skull as I twist into that spot that has a hitch in it.
But his other thumb finds it, and he puts just the right amount of pressure on the ball of tension to start to loosen it.
“Somebody’s been a bad, bad biscuit,” he whispers. “Does she need punishment?”
“I can’t decide if I love you or hate you right now,” I say.
I think.
It might’ve actually come out as a garbled plea for him to not stop.
In Klingon.
I squeeze him tighter and scoot closer, my thighs closing around his, my stomach lining up with—oh.
Oh.
Is that what he was packing back in high school too?
Maybe he stuck a cannoli in his pants.
A very large, magic cannoli for a world’s largest cannoli competition.
Yep.
That’s what I’m going to tell myself, because otherwise this hug is going to turn into something more than Grady dirty-talking the tough biscuits in my neck.
“You know what I do to bad biscuits?”
Please tell me you spank them. Please please please tell me you—no.
Bad brain.
Bad brain.
I mumble out a whimper that ends with an upward lilt.
“Sometimes I have to eat them.”
My breasts are heavy and my panties are soaked and I need to leave so I can go home and have some private time with my fingers.
In the shower.
While I fantasize about Grady’s cannoli.
And about him eating me.
I’m about to bolt when he hits that spot in my neck just right and the tension takes wing and floats away into the night.
“Oh my god, you’re so good at this,” I say.
And this time, I think I actually managed the real words.
“Better?”
“Mmm.”
My scalp tingles beneath his lips, which are hovering right over my crown, my skin on fire with a desperate need for something my brain can’t agree with, but I can’t let go of my grip on him.
And I might be trying to subtly check out his cannoli more, because dear god, if I’d known about that in high school, I either would’ve been scarred for life or in very, very deep trouble.
Probably the latter.
Definitely the latter.
I wasn’t afraid of sex, the act.
I was terrified of the consequences.
He has to feel me arching against him, but he doesn’t thrust his hips or push himself into me.
But he does slide his fingers through my hair, combing them down my back, playing with the ends and tugging lightly, setting the nerve endings in my scalp back to dancing again.
“Cooper’s gone a lot,” he muses. “Like right now.”
“Hmm?”
“He has these zero gravity massage chairs for living room furniture at his place up on the mountain. And I have the security codes to get in.”
“Are you bribing me with a massage chair?”
“Yes.”
He sweeps his hand through my hair again, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning at the electric sensation of having this man and his talented hands playing me like a bowl of cookie dough.
“What do you want?”
“My friend back.”
My eyes drift shut, and I squeeze him harder.
Maybe it really is a giant cannoli. Or maybe getting racked in the nuts with a softball makes a guy swell for a long time.
Or maybe he’s trying to do the gentlemanly thing and take care of me first.
I don’t need someone to take care of me.
But I’m so damn touched that he’s doing it anyway.
Because this is the Grady I missed.
The one who didn’t need every day to be even, because it all worked out in the end. He’d talk me off a ledge when I got spun up over missing writing down a homework assignment, and I’d assure him that the best people in life were often the ones overlooked in high school when Cooper would do all the things Cooper used to do.
He showed me that the world could be fun even when I was driving myself toward succeeding at adulting before I was old enough to vote.
I like to think I showed him that it’s okay to come in second, so long as you’re giving your best to the things that mattered.
I should take his offer of continuing our rivalry. We should play the reporter who wants to cover our bakeries.
It would set Mama and Bailey up for success.
I can’t afford a full-time baker without raising sales, but I can’t raise sales without a full-time baker.
“Okay,” I whisper, and I don’t know exactly what I’m agreeing to.
Being friends? Yes.
Letting him help me? Probably.
Kissing him until we’re pawing each other’s clothes off and I’m begging him to do to my clit what he just did to my neck?
I don’t even stop to think, because if I do, I’ll change my mind, and I don’t want to change my mind.
I want to kiss Grady.
I lift my head and straighten my spine to reach for his face, and my lips are a breath from his when my phone rings, the sound splitting the night air.
We leap apart. I smear the ice cream cone across his shirt and drop it in my haste to dig my phone out of my pocket. “Oh, shit. Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean—Bailey.”
My sister’s picture lights my screen, and I don’t hear whatever Grady replies as I swipe to answer and lift the phone to my ear.
I shouldn’t have left home.
Or I should’ve told her where I was going.
And instead, I’m taking a panicked call when she should be sleeping because she woke up and realized I was gone.
It doesn’t matter how much I want to kiss Grady, because my life isn’t my own.
Not right now.
22
Grady
Sue reads me the riot act when I get home. Apparently he doesn’t like being home alone any more than Bailey does.
Maybe I should drop the goat off with Annika’s family the next time she calls me for an ice cream run late at night.
If there’s a next time.
I hope there’s a next time.
I give Sue an extra bowl of goat food and head around the corner to the laundry room. Need to get the goop out of my ear and take care of this boner that won’t quit.
“Is this normal?” I ask the goat, who’s ignoring the goat food in favor of trying to eat my shirt, since it, too, has ice cream all over it. “Is it normal to be hung up on the same woman after not seeing her for ten years?”
“Maaaa,” he replies sagely.
I wrestle him for my T-shirt and toss it straight in the washing machine in the small room off the kitchen.
He tries to go in after it, and I end up wrangling him all the way to my bedroom, where he starts going after my ass.
“Down, you damn goat.”
I’m twisting around, realizing I have mint chocolate chip streaked down the back of my leg and need to toss these pants in the wash too, when my phone rings. I lunge for it and don’t even look at the screen before I answer.
“Annika?”
“Whoa, dude. TJ’s right. You got it bad.”
“I said, way to haka,” I improvise, because I’m not admitting to Cooper where I went.
He’d get it—back in high school, he was hung up on Ariel Bodine, and Jericka Jones, and the cafeteria lunch lady, who was a recent college grad and really fucking hot, among other women—but that doesn’t mean I want to talk to him about it.
He’s laughing, which isn’t reassuring. “So if I called Pop and told him I just met this girl in San Diego who’d be perfect for you—”
“Quit eating my pants, you asshole,” I tell the goat while I try to strip out of them.
He head-butts my boxer briefs, then licks the back of my knee.
“You need some private time with your goat?” Cooper asks.
“Nice win. Fireballs needed that. Why are you calling me so late?”
“Make sure you’re doing okay.”
I dodge Sue and head back to the laundry room with my jeans, realizing this isn’t going to end well for my hard-on, because the goat won’t get off my tail. “Doing fine. It’s almost midnight.”
“Yeah, and you’re awake. Got a text from Nana. She saw you leave home when you were supposed to be going to bed and wanted to make sure you weren’t planning on driving over a cliff so you didn’t sully the family name by getting involved with a girl from Sarcasm.”
“Why didn’t Nana—never mind.”
“Yeah. Tuesday night, man. Business sock night.”
“Tuesday’s shower sex day, and Pop wore the striped ones today.” I have no idea what Pop wore today, but if Cooper’s going to throw business sock night at me, I’m going to one-up him.
“Nana told me she spent the afternoon at the spa. Coochie smoochie day.”
Don’t need to think about Nana having a Brazilian, and I don’t know if he’s blowing smoke up my ass, but it’s helping the boner situation, so I’ll go with it.
“Reminds me. Knock before you go into the bathroom next time you’re in Crusty Nut. Although, that was an appropriate location, given how old Pop is, and how crusty his nuts must be.”
“You think vaginas get loose and hang low like dicks do? Ow. Fuck. Fuck, Darren. You don’t like hearing about my grandparents doing it like rabbits, go back to your own room.”
“Or maybe you shouldn’t talk about your elders having sex,” I say.
“I’m calling to talk about you having sex,” my little brother replies. “Specifically, with your soulmate.”
“My sex life is none of your business.”
“It’s none of anybody’s business but you and your hand lately. Which we need to change, because you can’t knead dough right unless you’re giving each of your hands equal whack-off time. Does that make you ambi-whacks-trous?”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Some reporter lady from one of those regional magazines called my agent and wants my opinion on a bakery I co-own having a war with a bakery in Sarcasm. Just want to know what I’m supposed to tell them.”
“Nothing. You’re supposed to tell them nothing.”
“I got caught in Duh-Nuts. Dude. I can’t tell them nothing. So I want to know. Are we on team Grannika, or team Enemies Forever?”
“Grannika?”
“You’d rather be Annady? That has a ring to it too.”
“It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” I grunt.
“And talented. Don’t forget that part. You see that home run I hit tonight? Four hundred and twelve feet.”
“You’re a baseball god. I have to go to bed or nothing’s getting kneaded in the morning.”
“Where’d you go?”
“To the laundry room to—dammit, Sue, let go of my underwear.”
“How does Annika feel about your goat?”
“You know where she works. Why don’t you call and ask her?” Fuck. Now I need to warn her that Cooper might be calling.
“Does that mean things aren’t great in Grannika-ville, or does it mean you’re trying to throw me off the scent?”
“Don’t you have a curfew?”
“Gods don’t need them.”
“But you do.”
“Oh, snap. Nice one. When are you seeing Annika again?”
“What difference does it make to—Sue, get off the fucking dryer.”
My goat snorts at me, turns, and drops goat pellets all over the top of the dryer, and they fall to the floor.
Yeah.
That kind of goat pellets.
My brother does that laugh where he sounds like a hyperventilating hyena, and I turn around, bare-ass, and walk out of my laundry room, wishing Annika was here, because she’d be laughing too, but if she laughed, I’d laugh.
Her happiness makes me happy.
She’s not happy right now.
She’s a flaming ball of tension over shit that isn’t her fault but that she still has to clean up.
Sue maaas at me indignantly, like it’s my fault he’s stuck on the dryer.
“You ever wonder if you and Annika will end up like Pop and Nana? Having business sock day, running the pirate festival, walking your goat through town, horrifying your grandchildren by having sex in public…”
No.
I’ve never wondered.
I’ve just known.
Deep down in my gut, I’ve always known it was her or no one. Even when I dated other women, I’d think about the future, and I’d see Annika.
She snuck into my head when I was fourteen, and I found the woman I’ve been soulmates with from the dawn of time.
“Playing matchmaker for my loser brother who can’t date one woman at a time to save his life…” I finish for him.
“You date. I hook up. We’re equally right in our own ways, and I wish you’d accept my promiscuity the way I accept that you have a self-righteous stick up your ass.”
I step into the bathroom and crank the hot water. “I’m going to bed.”
“Grady. Bro. Listen. You want her, go for her. Fuck anyone who doesn’t support you. Let love win, man. Let love win.”
