Tymber Dalton (11 page)

It only took her a few minutes to go through her nightly routine. To scoop Galileo’s box, top off his food, wash out and refill his water bowl, and brush her teeth. She grabbed one of her smaller, battery-operated vibrators from the bedside table drawer and dragged it under the covers with her.

Closing her eyes, she flipped the switch on the vibrator and let out a sigh as she touched it to her clit.

Thaaaat’s it.

In her mind, she stared into Ken’s blue eyes as he knelt between her legs. She found the perfect angle and clamped her thighs together, holding the vibrator in place. She cupped her breasts with her hands, imagining they belonged to Charles, his fingers knowing exactly how to torment her nipples and drive her closer to the edge.

She’d read plenty of ménage fiction in the past couple of years. More than once she’d had to put her Kindle down to go seek out her vibrator and take care of erotic urges.

Focus.
She imagined staring up into Charles’ blue eyes as he tweaked her nipples while Ken’s tongue worked on her clit. It would be heavenly to feel Ken’s hands clamped around her thighs, forcing her to endure the pleasure he’d make her take, neither man relenting or releasing her until they’d satisfied her.

Men to take charge, that she could trust and let go to. Men who would take what they wanted and give plenty in return.

Men who would take care of her.

She softly whimpered as her hips rocked against the vibrator. She’d love to feel two sets of hands pinning her down to the bed while they had their way with her, completely and utterly owning her body.

When the first flutters started, she pinched her nipples harder, the little bite sending her over the edge while the vibrator buzzed against her clit, stretching her climax out. She came down from her orgasm and pulled the vibrator from between her legs. She had to fumble to find the switch, but as she dropped it into the drawer where it resided with her other Bobs, she already felt herself drifting.

Too bad it’ll never be anything but a fantasy.

Libbie awoke Tuesday morning at her usual time when the alarm went off at ten ’til four. As she slowly flexed her hands, she breathed a sigh of relief. Part of her had worried Mandaline’s miracle mixtures wouldn’t work more than once or twice.

She was happily pleased to admit she was wrong. While achy, her hands weren’t bothering her any more than on a mildly uncomfortable day. The pre-bedtime orgasm had helped her sleep well, too.

She started her coffee, added dry chow to Galileo’s bowl, and headed for the shower. As she stood under the spray for a few minutes, slowly stretching and easing the rest of her muscles, she thought about dinner the night before.

The cousins were handsome. Stunningly so. Their identical blue eyes melted things deep inside her she never thought would see the light of day again.

And dammit, they’re gay.

She let out a wistful sigh.

Charles, the friendlier one. Scratch that, it wasn’t very fair of her to say such a thing. He had a more outgoing personality was all. Ken had his own unique charm, but she got the idea he was used to paying close attention to details for a living. The way she felt his eyes on her several times during their meal, as if evaluating her. Not in a creepy way…

It reminded her of one of her customers, Detective Haines from the Hernando County Sheriff’s Office. He came in once a week to buy munchies for staff meetings.

She felt herself blush over the dreams she’d had about the men. Of being sandwiched between them, of them doing deliciously immoral things to her, of ravishing her body all night long.

I’m spending too much time on my Kindle.
Then again, it made great vibrator session fodder. She was glad she’d accepted their offer for dinner. She’d had a good time and enjoyed talking with them. And she’d have a chance to spend more time with Charles down in the bakery.

The giddy shiver that raced through her body at the thought brought her to a mental stop.
They’re gay
, she firmly reminded herself.
And you’re not in the market for a boyfriend, remember?

She suspected if given a voice in the matter, her pussy would be wearing a sad panda pout at that thought.

Shaking her head to snap herself out of her thoughts, she said, “Damn, I reeeally need a social life.”

She was dressed and down in the bakery less than twenty minutes later, with a second cup of coffee in hand and having started the office coffeepot as well. She fired off a quick e-mail to her supplier with her order before pulling down her Tuesday list.

She crossed
send wholesale order
off the top of the list with a black dry-erase marker. Every day had a its own list, even though over three-quarters of the daily items were duplicates. Next to the daily list was another laminated sheet labeled
Special Orders
. On it, written in dry-erase marker, the Palmer order. They’d get those knocked out today and ready to go.

The lists made it easier on her when the fibro fog was so bad she could barely remember her own name. Before, when it was one large list for the whole week, she found herself doing things that didn’t need to be done, or redoing things that had been done days before, despite being crossed off already.

The daily list system was fibro-fog foolproof, as she thought of it.

It also made it easy for Ruth, Grover, and Jenny to see what still needed to be done and take over when necessary.

Libbie wasn’t too proud to admit she had a great capability to screw things up when in the grips of a severe flare.

Hence, the lists.

A noise on the stairs startled her. She turned to find Charles walking through the back door into the kitchen area.

The pleasant thump her heart made at the sight of him caught her off guard.
I really need to get better about that.
“Hey. Wow, you’re up early.”

He offered her a sleepy smile. He looked delicious in faded jeans, sneakers, and a plain white T-shirt. “I wasn’t sure what to wear in a bakery, so I hope this is okay?”

The T-shirt wasn’t overly tight, just snug enough it clung to him and showed off his physique. She nodded. “Uh-huh. Um, I mean yeah. It’s fine. You didn’t have to come in this early, though.”

He shrugged. “I’m not doing anything else today. Might as well start learning.”

She swallowed hard as she looked up into his blue eyes. “Okay,” she squeaked.

* * * *

She started with the easiest, showing him the lists. “Every day has a list. When something’s done on the list, it has to be crossed off with one of these markers.” She used a magnet to hold the list onto the whiteboard near the office door, where it could be seen from anywhere in the kitchen area.

“Are there drastically different routines from day to day?”

“No.” She pointed to a second sheet held to the board with another magnet. “Except for special orders, it’s pretty routine for the most part.”

“Then why does each day have its own list?”

“Because I need it that way.” She tapped her temple. “Fibro fog. You have no idea how bad it can be.”

His face showed recognition instead of the ridicule or ignorance she’d prepared herself for. “Ah, that makes sense.”

“You really think so?”

He nodded. “I work…worked with a woman with fibro. I don’t know how she made it through some days.”

“Oh.” Her estimation of him rose even higher. “Okay.”

They were interrupted on the tour of the bakery by Ruth’s arrival. After the introductions, Ruth looked Charles up and down. “So you’re half of the new tenants, hmm?”

“How did you know?” Libbie asked. “You weren’t here when they got here on Saturday.”

She stepped forward to shake hands with him. “I heard all about them from Grover when I ran into him at Publix Sunday after church. Nice to meet you, young man.”

Libbie left Ruth to get started on the morning’s preparations while she continued showing Charles around. When they reached the storeroom, he let out a low whistle. “Someone likes their label machine.”

Admittedly, she’d gone a little hog wild with the thing, a housewarming gift of sorts from Grover when she bought the building.

Bless his heart, he’d foreseen her need to stay organized to help combat the fibro fog. Utensils, pans, and tools, along with specialty items that didn’t need to be in the main kitchen all the time were stored on shelves and in two large sets of stainless cabinets with drawers, each one bearing several labels reflecting the contents neatly stored amongst dividers inside.

Along many of the shelves, where pots, dishes, pans, and other assorted items resided were more labels, taped to plastic cards affixed to the wire racks. As well as places for standard dry supplies like sugar, flour, salt, and the like.

“Do you have the cooler labeled like this, too?”

She felt her face heat. “No. They wouldn’t stick.”

“Does the label maker have a label?” He laughed, but she sensed no meanness behind it.

“You think I’m crazy?” she asked.

“Yep. You’re crazy,” Charles gently teased.

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Shows how much you know,” she lightly retorted. “I’m
not
crazy. My mother had me tested.”

Charles roared with laughter at her playful smirk. “Ah, you love the show, too, huh?”

“Yeah.
The Big Bang Theory
has to be my all-time favorite. No matter how crappy I feel, I can watch that and laugh. I practically know all the episodes by heart.” She dumped the ball of dough out onto the floured board. “I have all the past seasons on DVD, and the current ones on my DVR. I can watch them over and over again and never get tired of them.”

“Something we have in common, then,” he said.

* * * *

He’d finally coaxed a smile out of her. If it meant he had to go around quoting
The Big Bang Theory
all the time, he’d do it. Anything to make her smile, to take the perpetual look of pain from her face for a moment.

Admittedly her system, while perhaps appearing to be overkill to those who didn’t understand how bad the mental fuzziness dubbed fibro fog could be, was genius. It meant he’d have little trouble finding things or figuring out what to do next.

She led him over to a little alcove between the office door and the bakery. Several shelves held clean aprons and dishtowels. Another held a box of hairnets. “Sorry they’re not a fashion statement,” she said. “Health regulations. If you’re working the counter, or doing cleanup, you don’t need one, but for actual prep work and baking, you do.” He realized she’d worn her hair in a braided ponytail today. She reached up and deftly twisted it into a makeshift bun before pulling one of the hairnets over her hair and grabbing an apron. She handed him a hairnet and an apron. “I’m going to have you working with Ruth this morning. She’s handling today’s usuals. We make them every day. Grover takes on the more specialty items and helps me with some of the decorating.”

He pulled on the hairnet before slipping the apron on over his head and tying it around his waist. “Point me in the right direction. I’m here to help.”

When Grover showed up a few minutes later, he walked over to Allan and, out of earshot of Libbie, leaned in and asked, “She doing okay today?”

He glanced across the kitchen, where Libbie had just headed out into the storefront. “I think she’s hurting, but she’s good at hiding it well.”

“You better believe she is. She don’t like to ask for help. She’s a proud, stubborn, independent woman.” He tapped Allan on the shoulder before wagging a finger at him. “Remember what I told you. I’m counting on you two being my eyes and ears.”

Allan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

By the time the store opened at seven thirty, the display cases were over three-quarters full with more items on the way out of the ovens or fryers. Three people were lined up outside the door when Jenny raised the shades, unlocked the door, and welcomed them in.

Allan was surprised to discover some of the items, while technically fresh, were prepared in advance and frozen. “I don’t know why I never thought of that,” he said to Grover while lifting a tray of bread into the oven. Libbie was in the store, helping Jenny serve the wave of morning customers as more filtered in.

“It’s a time-saver. Some things, we have to make fresh every day or they just wouldn’t taste as good. Or Little Miss Pigheaded refuses to make them ahead because she prefers to do them the same day. But we do ahead what we can the afternoon before, sometimes even a couple of days before. She don’t like to do them too far in advance. Special order items are always made fresh, like wedding cakes.”

“How many of those does she do?”

“Not as many as I wish she would. They pay really well, but it’s hard on her. I can do basic stuff, some piping and flowers, but she’s the artist when it comes to the fancy cakes. Not to mention she’s only one person and only has twenty-four hours in a day. She can’t predict when her pain will be bad, so she rarely takes on more than one special order a week that requires a lot of decorating.”