Chapter 7

Ithink she fully expected me to give up that easily.

Like hell.

I survived a training course that has a ninety-seven-percent attrition rate. I went through a week where I got five hours of sleep total. I ran three miles once on a sprained ankle because I had men’s lives, and mine, on the line.

So Charlotte’s getting a bit of cold feet, when the rest of her is so blatantly hot for me, doesn’t scare me off in the least.

It makes it . . . interesting.

I want to see how far she’ll push herself to hold back from me, hear more of her silly puns, and learn every single thing about her, from her thoughts on the future of the world to where she’s most ticklish. A big spectrum, I know, and that’s why I’m guessing it’ll take a lifetime to get it all in.

Ha, get it all in. Fuck, she’s already rubbing off on me.

I snort. I wish she’d rub off on me.

But her thinking she’s an easy pass, and that I’d just get on with my life, must be why her eyes grow to dinner plates when she sees me bright and early the next morning.

“What are you doing here? I thought we agreed . . .” she stammers.

My smile is cocky as shit and I know it. “We did agree that things were nice. That’s why I figured I would hang out a bit today. Enjoy a nice muffin now and a nice cupcake later, maybe one with loads of cream filling.”

I let every filthy thought in my head coat the puns she tossed at me last night. Two can play this game, Charlotte Dunn.

She looks a bit pink, the splotches faint but rising. They’re not classic blushing beauty marks, but that makes them even hotter to me. They’re authentic. “But don’t you have to work?”

“I am working. I don’t exactly have a corner office, or any office, really. Been mostly working at a conference room table to get caught up on the business, and I’m thinking that table over there has a much better view,” I say, pointing to a round table in the corner. “So, you think maybe I could sample your muffin now?”

Fire lights her eyes, and I await her devilment with hope. This is the sassy spitfire who draws me in even as she tries to burn me down.

She pauses dramatically to get my hopes up intentionally. “Today’s special is a cinnamon apple pie combination. The cake is a bit spicy, a bit sweet, with a warm, gooey apple pie filling you want to lick out and savor. I’ll let you in on a little secret, too—if you ask just right, we’ll lay a drizzle of glaze on top or it’s good with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream too, just melting into the cake, covering it in sweetness.”

Fuuuuuck.

Her words have me rock-hard in my jeans, throbbing stiffer than I’ve been in days. And it has absolutely nothing to do with food and everything to do with the way her tongue curls and her lips purse as she seduces me, knowing damn well what she’s doing and doing it expertly.

She’s way better at this than I am.

I swallow, or maybe it’s more of a gulp, but I step closer. “Sounds like something I’d love to eat every morning, just to start the day off right with that flavor on my tongue, lips, or running down my chin.”

My voice is quiet, husky, and dark, and I can see Charlotte’s breath catch. Smooth? No, but it works because it’s passionately honest.

“Girl, if you don’t run your ass upstairs with that chunk of man right this second, I’m liable to shove you to the ground and take him upstairs myself,” Trixie says from way too close.

Shit. Neither of us had noticed that we have an audience now, but Trixie is smirking so much I think her face might crack. The same guy is sitting by the door, and I swear he’s fighting a smile too.

For a split second, I can see Charlotte consider doing exactly what Trixie said, but responsibility reigns and with the slightest shake of her head, she steps back. I don’t hide that I adjust myself, wanting her to know how much she gets to me and not giving a shit about the rest of the eyes that see.

“I’ll just sit over here and work. Don’t let me bother you, and I’ll take a muffin whenever you’ve got it ready.” It’s a promise as much as a breakfast order. I’ll wait for her, but I’m not going anywhere.

I sit, opening my laptop and getting to work. The bakery starts to get busy, and before I know it, Trixie and Charlotte are running around like mad.

At one point, Trixie delivers my cinnamon apple pie muffin, whispering that Charlotte didn’t trust herself not to sit on my lap and ride me like a pony if she came any closer. My guess is that’s Trixie’s take on the situation, not Charlotte’s actual words, but when I glance up, Charlotte is watching me closely from across the room.

I take full advantage of her attentions, picking up the muffin she made with her own hands and inhaling deeply, savoring the rich smell that I can imagine is the same as what she smells like in her most secret of places before taking a huge bite.

Trixie chuckles from beside me, but it’s Charlotte’s reaction I’m looking for. I see her shift behind the counter, pressing her thighs together as her mind goes to the exact places that I’m going, distracting her with the fantasy. I give her a wide grin, cheeks stuffed full like a chipmunk, and hold up the muffin in praise.

We all resume our dance, me working on my laptop, Charlotte and Trixie feeding the hordes of people coming through the door, and the security guy holding watch by the door. Steven, she called him, and it makes me wonder what he’s doing here.

It’s not unusual for people to have security or bodyguards in our level of social circle. Hell, my parents’ driver is trained and could safely pull off a movie-worthy car chase scene in a Toyota Corolla. He’s that good.

But the Dunns aren’t exactly at a level where I’d expect possible threats warranting a full-scale guard worthy of a royal. Thomas Goldstone would warrant that type of treatment in Roseboro, but not many others.

But there sits Steven, discreet enough that he doesn’t disrupt business, but it’s in his subtle movements that I realize he’s well-trained and situationally aware.

It causes me to look around a little more closely. The front windows to the street look a little thicker than I’d expect and with that slight difference in the diffraction of light that makes me suspect they’re polycarbonate. If so, that means they’re bulletproof, which worries me.

And Steven mentioned street patrol. Whatever other issues may surround the business, someone feels Charlotte deserves 24/7 security, and that worries me even more.

It’s an intense amount of coverage for almost anyone, but certainly for a baker, even one as gorgeous as Charlotte. I’ll have to ask her about it, make sure she’s okay or if there’s anything I can do to help if she’s not. I’ve got some skills of my own, and they don’t just extend to sucking the filling out of a muffin.

My attention is drawn back to the woman sitting across from me, who’s been rambling non-stop since she sat down ten minutes ago. Kelly Washington, she’d said her name was. She’s my third seatmate of the day because Cake Culture is frantically busy and there’s not an empty seat in the house. Even Steven has a tablemate, although he looks like he’d rather share the table with a rabid Rottweiler.

“So, anyway, after I had a single bite of the cookies here, I knew this was my new favorite treat. I told our pastor that he needed to get these cookies for the post-service social every week because if people knew they were getting this kind of goodie, they’d come for the service. He’s a great speaker, you see, and more folks need to hear the good word . . .” She continues babbling in one long run-on sentence, and I’m not sure if she’s hitting on me or trying to recruit me to her church. I’m hoping the latter because she’s probably a few years older than my mom, and I’m not into being anyone’s cougar cub.

I let her ramble on, smiling politely but mostly watching Charlotte. She’s slammed, or what’s busier than that? I don’t know the proper food industry slang, but it’s what Cake Culture is. Charlotte and Trixie are bouncing around like rubber balls, rushing between serving the line and scurrying to get more from the assembly line they’ve got back there. Every time Charlotte comes out with a fresh tray, people cheer like she’s bringing food to the starving, which maybe they are, I guess, because then they descend on her like it’s Shark Week, begging to buy each and every morsel.

It’s a miracle those two haven’t buckled under the pressure, but they both have genuine smiles on their faces, not fake customer service ones, like they’re enjoying the madness. And the well-oiled machine they’re keeping in motion means that every customer walks away with a treat and a smile on their face.

It’s impressive, but I can see the strain. They’re running at full capacity, and all it’s going to take is one pebble thrown in the works and they’re going to have problems.

Charlotte disappears to the back to turn off the beeping alarm of the oven, and Trixie continues helping the swirling line of customers. Suddenly, I hear some grumbles near the front of the line.

“You’re buying them all?” A man’s voice shouts out grumpily. “That’s not right, and I promised my kid.”

“Too bad, so sad,” a woman’s voice taunts, not helping matters in the least.

Aaaaand . . . the pebble is tossed.

The glob of people moves a bit, almost the swirl of a mosh pit before things go bad, and I can see Trixie’s eyes widen in surprise and a bit of panic. She’s losing control, and a crack under pressure for a new business could be the kiss of death.

Not on my watch. I leap into action, standing up and letting out a shrill whistle that can and has stopped entire troops of men.

Everyone freezes, turning to look at me.

“I know these treats are the best thing this side of heaven, but no one is fighting over frosting. Understood? If everyone could line back up, you’ll be served as quickly as possible. Everything here is delicious, and there’s more on the way from the back.”

I make my way over to the bakery cases, slipping behind to stand next to Trixie. She starts to protest and then seems to think better of it. “Okay, Commander Cookie, take your shot, but if Char kills you, I’ll cover for her and you were never here. Wash your hands. You do the boxing and I’ll do the register.”

I nod, doing as she said and donning the white half-apron she tosses my way. “What can I get you?” I ask the next customer.

I’m on my sixth order in four minutes when the door opens and Charlotte sticks her head out, her eyes going wide when she sees me boxing up a six-pack of red velvet cupcakes along with a French silk pie. But she also notices that the line’s now at the register where Trixie’s being held up more by the credit card machine than anything else, and she seems agreeable, or at least not murderous.

“Chill yourself out. Go make magic back there,” I assure her, giving her a thumbs-up. “We’ve got this.”

The rush lasts another hour, and when Charlotte brings out her third big tray of cookies for the case, she jerks her head toward the back. Saying nothing out front, I follow Charlotte into the back, where she turns on me. “What are you doing?”

“Trixie was drowning, and you were being sucked down at the same time,” I explain easily. “You can’t say you weren’t, and look at this kitchen. That sink’s full, and you’re going to be here until one in the morning cleaning up at this pace. Then what, up at four to start cranking the next set of cupcakes?”

Charlotte looks over at the mountain of stuff in the sink and sighs, nodding. “I can’t have you out front though. You don’t have a food handler’s license or health certificate or any of that stuff. Health Department comes through here and my ass is grass.”

I make a mental note to look into what it would take to get the paperwork she’s talking about. It’s not that I want to be a baker, or a bakery worker, but I want to spend time with Charlotte and this is where she is. So if being legal to throw some cakes in a box is what it takes, I’ll get that piece of paper.

“Fine, for now. I’ll just help out by cleaning up back here so you don’t have to stay so late tonight,” I retort, walking over to the sink. “Unless Roseboro has a dishwasher’s certificate?”

She bites her lip like she’s going to stop me or maybe like she’s going to jump me. I’m okay with one of those options. But eventually, she just shakes her head, chuckling. “Have it your way. Thank you.”

She disappears back to the front to help Trixie.

It’s weird, but her letting me wash the dishes feels like a victory. I can tell she’s not someone who asks for help often, so I feel like she’s letting me see behind the curtain a little bit. Progress, I think.

For the next hour, I scrub, scour, and rinse plates, silverware, and big baking pans, sending them through the industrial machine just like Charlotte showed me last night. I didn’t plan on ever using the teaching session again, but I’m glad to help her if this is what she needs.

Besides, it keeps me distracted from the shit with my family. The hours I spent working this morning helped me get a better handle on things, but I’m basically reviewing the last ten years of Jacobs Bio-Tech.

Before I left, I had no real idea what Dad did. He mostly seemed like a paper pusher and handshaker to me, which is why I wanted out of that gig. I didn’t want to be some boardroom suck-up or pampered prince who gets handed the keys while his ass shines an office chair.

I’d wanted adventure, to see the world, to make a difference, and though the bio-technology that my family company creates makes life better for some, it didn’t appeal to me. So when it came time for college, I bounced my way across the country.

Florida was where I ended up, and for two years, I was a party guy in a party school. But one day, I saw a Naval ROTC booth, and all that changed. I earned my commission, went straight to the SEALs, and I found a home for a long time.

But now I’m back and woefully out of touch with Jacobs Bio-Tech. I’m remedying that, getting in deep and engaging with everything a decade of Naval professionalism has taught me, but shit, it’s so boring and dry. Not that dishes are exciting, but at least they’re wet.

I smirk at the pun, thinking that Charlotte would like that one.

Every once in a while, Charlotte makes a trip back to start another round of baking. As I work, I can feel her eyes on me, and I watch her too, entranced by the way the sweat-darkened hair at the nape of her neck clings to her skin and the way her muscles flex as she lifts a heavy bowl of cake batter to pour it into the floured pan.

It feels like we’re dancing again, but instead of being body to body with only the thin layers of fabric between us, we’ve got space and stainless steel. And instead of pulsing music, we’ve got humming machinery. It’s a seductive tango, and I can see that she’s as affected as I am.

It’s almost closing time, and I’m betting Charlotte is ready for a repeat of last night, maybe an extended version where we head upstairs after all her prep work is complete. It’s tempting, so very tempting.

But I don’t want her to think I’m only helping to get in her pants. Oh, I want in her pants for sure, but I want more than that too.

So I take a look around and do as much as I can to get her set up for the work she needs to do tonight—a stack of mixing bowls ready on the prep table, a set of spoons and spatulas nearby, the ovens preheated, and I order dinner to be delivered for her, Trixie, and Steven in two hours.

I step back out front, pleased to see near-empty cases, tables full of happy cake eaters, and a smiling Charlotte. I step behind the counter, close enough to put my hand on her lower back where no one can see, but Trixie notices and suddenly becomes very invested in cleaning on the other side of the room.

“You are amazing,” I tell her honestly, murmuring into her ear so I can smell the sweetness that surrounds her.

She smiles even bigger, and I love that as happy as she is about her fledgling business, she’s happy to see me too. “You’re pretty awesome yourself.” She shoulder checks me, flirting.

“The kitchen is spotless, I’ve got you all set up for your work after you close, and dinner will be here shortly.” I press a soft kiss to her temple, not quite goodbye, but she senses that I’m leaving.

“You’re not going to stay and help me tonight?” she asks, and her cheeks get splotchy as she realizes that she’s admitting she likes me being around. “I mean, not that I expected you to just suddenly become my helper, but last night...”

I lower my lips to her ear so that only she can hear, my words a silky caress of her ivory shell. “Last night was so nice I stayed up for almost an hour when I got home replaying every minute of it in my mind and jacking off to thoughts of you bent over your prep table.”

I hear her intake of breath and I continue, “So tonight, do what you need to do as quickly as you can, and then . . .”

It takes every bit of restraint I’ve got to give her the order she needs, not the one I want. “And then go to bed because I’m hoping you were up a little extra-late last night too. You’re running yourself ragged, and I won’t be the cause of your burning out too soon. I’ve got a vested interest in making sure you keep baking.”

Her eyebrows lift, and she glances over her shoulder. “To make me happy?”

Hope and romanticism are woven through the words, but I can’t help but lob the ball she setup so perfectly. “To keep my belly happy. I’ll be back in the morning for breakfast. I’ll expect my table to be available and the muffin of the day to be hot and ready for me.”

My voice is barely a rumble, a promise only she can hear.

Laughter flashes in her eyes, and she turns to face me squarely. “You are smoother than buttercream frosting, aren’t you? I think you could read the phone book and make it sound like the dirtiest of bedroom talk.”

I lean down until my lips are a fraction of an inch from her ear again, whispering, “Aaron Abernathy, Allison Ackard, Amber Ada, uhm . . . that’s all the A names I can think of. I’m much better when I get to the Os, though.”

She doesn’t laugh, instead sighing blissfully. “I think I just want you to say my name.”

“Trust me, I did. Every time I’ve come since the gala, I’ve had your name on my lips. Sweet dreams, Charlotte.”

I want to kiss her fully on the lips, not giving a single fuck about the room full of people or that this is her place of business. I want to publicly claim her even though we’re still doing this dance around each other. Let every single person in here know that I’m the lucky fucker who gets to frost her cookie and fill her Twinkie.

But I don’t. This is her place, and I want to show her that I respect her as not just a woman, but as the baker and businessperson I know she is. So I can’t... not in front of her customers.

Fuck. I’ve got to get out of here or my attempt at being the good guy is going to fail miserably because I’m at the end of my rope, about to drag her upstairs to fuck her right now. I’m not a total shit. I’d feed and listen to her talk about anything she wants to talk about for hours after, but we’d definitely end up fucking all night. I can feel it in the sparks floating between us.

“I’ll see you in the morning, beautiful.”

Grabbing my laptop and bag, I make a beeline for the door. Steven gives me a smirk, recognizing the gait of a man trying to walk with a boner hanging thick between his legs. Fucker. He gets to stay, but at least he doesn’t seem interested in Charlotte at all beyond his job. Again, I meant to ask her what that’s all about.

Tomorrow, maybe?