So Much More (Made for Love #3) (12 page)

Walk away. Walk away, man, walk away. Do. Not. Kiss her.

You can look but you can’t touch.

Walk. Away.

The timer sounds, alerting me to my first finished batch of muffins, and I’m yanked out of my trance. I break eye contact with Sarah, just long enough to glance over at the oven—the oven I hate so much right now. When I look back down at her, she’s pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

He lied to me. Then he left me. For his wife.

I want to know more. I want to know
everything
.

Then I want to hunt this loser down and kick his ass.

Without thinking, I reach for her lip with my thumb, coaxing it free. She studies me as I trace my finger back and forth across her silky-soft skin. I can feel it as my self-discipline begins to evaporate into thin air. I don’t realize that I’m biting my own lip, my final act of restraint, until she reaches up and pulls it free with her thumb.

Fuck it. I’m going to kiss her.

Before I do—the timer beeps once more, bringing me back to my right mind.

Dammit. I
cannot
kiss her.

If it was a bad idea before, it’s certainly a horrible idea now. It’s obvious she’s still messed up over this ex-douche-bag. I’m
not
looking to be some sort of rebound.

Hell no.

That’d never be enough…

As if she can sense that the moment has changed, she drops her hand away from my face. Reluctantly, I pull away from her, too.

“I better get those muffins,” I mutter.

“I better finish this coffee cake,”she murmurs.

She told me that if she couldn’t bake something, she was going to punch someone. I can’t change her past. I can't kiss her, but there is one thing I
can
do. I can let her loose in this kitchen.

“Maybe I’ll leave you in charge of the lemon loaf, too.”

When she grins at me, I wonder how long I’ll be able to last without kissing that sweet mouth. My guess is, not long. Not long at all.

I
T’S BEEN THREE DAYS
since the
Lip Incident.
Three days. I can still feel the pressure of his thumb against my skin. I’m trying not to think about it.

Trying not to think about the way he was looking at me. Trying not to remember those rich hazel eyes, dark with curiosity. Trying not to replay the moment when he licked his bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth…

Trying not to imagine him running his tongue across
my
lip before tugging it into his mouth.

My heart feels smug, completely aware that I Can’t. Stop. Thinking about it.

I’m trying! Okay? Nobody's perfect.

As I manipulate my damp hair into a stylishly messy bun on top of my head, I try and convince myself that I’m imagining things; that there wasn’t an ounce of lust in his eyes, because men don’t lust over me. That only happens in romance novels. The one man who
did
lust over me—well, we know how
that
turned out.

I tell my reflection that it meant nothing; that Brandon’s touch didn’t make my whole body tingle. I’m not interested in men these days, therefore, I’m not interested in Brandon. I remind myself that I was upset about Luke. I wasn’t thinking with my right mind. In fact, the whole thing was just a fleeting moment in time that isn’t meant to be remembered.

But it’s been
three days
and I
swear
I can still feel the pressure of his thumb against my skin.

He hasn’t touched me since. Not even an accidental shoulder graze. Nothing. If there isn’t anything else that will sway me to believe that the
Lip Incident
shouldn’t be privileged with a title at all, it’s
that
.

Nevertheless, when my phone vibrates, dancing across the bathroom counter, I can’t pretend that my heart doesn’t leap
knowing
it’s Brandon. I’m certain because it’s barely five a.m. No one I know is crazy enough to get up this early.

I shove one more bobby pin in place before I reach for my mobile and swipe my finger across the screen.

Brandon:
I woke up in a panic, afraid I’d overslept. Then I remembered the stubborn woman who sweet talked her way into my kitchen and told me I should sleep-in today.

I grin, proud to be that stubborn woman.

It took five perfectly delicious pastries to convince him, but Brandon’s invited me to be a permanent fixture in his kitchen. I’m trying to talk him into letting me work long days on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, so that he can go home before close at least three nights a week. I haven’t sold him on that just yet. I’m fairly certain, given my recent track record, I’ll be able to change his mind eventually. Today’s the first morning we’ll be meeting up at five-thirty instead of four.

Me:
Stubborn? I think the word you’re looking for is brilliant!

I reach for my mascara, the only bit of makeup I can even
think
about applying at O-dark-thirty, but my phone alerts me to another text before I can unscrew the top.

Brandon:
Nah. Maybe relentless.

Me:
More accurately, incredibly talented!

Brandon:
Let’s just call her beautiful and leave it at that.

Brandon:
See you in a few.

He closes the conversation before I can pick my jaw up off the floor.

He just called me beautiful
.

Three days. It’s been three days since he’s touched me. That is fact. I need to concentrate on what’s
real,
not my heart’s
speculation.
His compliment is just that. A compliment. People say nice things about people all the time. Back when I was an undergrad, working as a waitress at Cooper’s Pub with Roman and Addie, Roman used to call me
gorgeous
. It didn’t mean anything. Neither does this.

As I discard my phone and concentrate on applying two coats of mascara, I try not to pick out the differences between my relationship with Roman and my growing relationship with Brandon. I try not to point out that Roman
never
touched my face.

And I never touched his
.

I remember the way Brandon’s lip felt underneath my thumb. I imagine what it would have been like had he pulled my thumb into his mouth and—

“
Shit!
” I hiss after I poke myself in the eye with my mascara brush.

Really, Sarah? Really? Sucking on your thumb?

This is why I’m not falling for my boss. It’s hazardous to my well-being.

I need to get a grip!

I take a deep breath before chancing a glance at my reflection. She mocks me, my left eye red, teary, and smudged. I wipe away the mess and pray that the redness goes away in the next ten minutes so that I don’t have to explain why it looks like I have pinkeye.

I tug at the bottom of my sleeveless yellow top and run my hands over the front and back of my teal denim shorts. Confident that I can look no better before the rising of the sun, I gather my things and head to work.

It's comforting, having someplace to go every morning. I’m not crazy about the
time
of morning, but even still. I'm not saying that simply because it keeps me far away from Millie, either. Who, by the way, is no more warm and fuzzy than she was last Saturday. No, it's the growing familiarity of the workplace. I know it's only been a few days, but I'm starting to feel like I belong somewhere again. I didn't know how much I missed that sense of being grounded by the responsibilities that come with the repetitive nature of full-time work. People are starting to rely on me. Sure, they're more than a decade older than my favored crowd, but I'm getting used to the change. I'm embracing the good and trying to move forward. I most certainly can't go backwards.

I miss my students so much that I can't allow myself to think about it. I'm a good teacher; not because I’m smarter or somehow better than any other teacher, but because I love it so much. All the bullshit politics that encroach upon the education system never stood a chance against my enthusiasm. I worked with some pretty jaded people, but I was always determined to stay positive. I honestly thought I was impenetrable. Then Luke happened. Or, I suppose I should say, his wife happened. My reputation went to shit two seconds after she showed up on the scene. Luke did nothing to stop her. Suddenly, my enthusiasm meant nothing. Not to me. Not to the parents who no longer trusted me.

I shake my head, wanting to rid my mind of the thought before I step out of my car. It’s Saturday, the day where Brandon puts all the customer favorites on the menu—that’s what I should be thinking about right now. Baked deliciousness.

Thank you, God, for Brandon’s butter pecan scones and blueberry crumble muffins.

Oh, and a double thanks for Josh and his kick ass kickboxing class that still has me wanting to cry a little bit with every step I take.

The coffee shop is lit up as I approach, announcing Brandon’s presence. I use my key to get in and head straight for the back. I find him in the kitchen, preheating ovens. He hasn’t donned his apron yet and I see he’s wearing a navy t-shirt with gray jeans. I try not to make note of how low his pants hang around his hips, or the way they show off his legs—his gorgeous, sculpted cyclist’s legs.

Or, you know, the legs I try not to imagine are gorgeous.

Fuck. I’m doing a lot of
trying
lately and it’s all been for nothing. I fail at every turn.

When he faces me, I see that his shirt says something. I read it and laugh.

WTF.

Where’s the food?

He offers me a smirk before looking down at his chest and then back up into my eyes. He winks at me before he speaks. “Morning, Sunshine.”

I smile at him, assuming he’s referring to my choice of shirt. “Morning.”

“No braid today?” he asks, reaching for his apron.

My heart flutters, surprised that he would notice. I ignore the feeling.

“I thought I’d switch it up and mimic you for a change,” I tease.

He chuckles, reaching for my apron, where it hangs next to his, so that he can hand it to me. “I like the braid,” he states matter-of-factly.

My heart flutters once more. This time, I don’t even try to ignore it.

“Noted,” I say in reply.

“So, what do you want to make today?” he asks as he begins grabbing ingredients.

I love the way he moves around the kitchen, pulling out necessities without even pausing to think. I’m learning that
this
is Brandon in his element. He owns this space—and not just literally. His head is filled with recipes. I’ve not once seen him refer to any of the recipe cards that he takes out for me to use every morning.

One of my favorite things about baking is that it’s not an exact science. You can play around with your creations. I’m confident that while Brandon delivers top-notch pastries every day, each batch is not exactly the same as the one before. What that means is, customers get a product that is made by heart
from
the heart.

I admire his process. I admire
him
. He works so hard every single day, trying to make Little Bird someplace special. I don’t think he knows that he does more than enough and that people
love
it here. His
regulars
are many. I don’t think I’ll tell him, though. I bet it wouldn’t change anything. He lives for this and he gives it all he’s got.

“I get a choice?” I reply, adding an exaggerated gasp in jest.

“I’m feeling generous this morning. Must be the extra hour of sleep I got.” I can’t see his face, but I can hear the smile he’s wearing in his voice.

“
How
generous?” I ask with a grin. “Will you let me make the blueberry crumble muffins?” I know he’ll say no, those are his favorite to make. I think it’s fun to mess with him just the same.

He looks at me from over his shoulder, lifting an eyebrow as he says, “Try again.”

I giggle. “How about the scones?”

“They’re all yours.”

I flip open the recipe book and before we know it, it’s eight o’clock and we’re opening up the coffee shop. Sage is the first barista on the schedule today and he mans the front while Brandon slips back into his office and I finish cleaning up the kitchen. When I’m done, I join Sage.