23. Rosalyn

TWENTY-THREE

ROSALYN

"Oh shit!" I rush the rest of the way down the short hallway from my bedroom to the kitchen.

The oven timer is beeping, and I'm sure it's been going off for several minutes.

The towel around my hair tips to the side as I bend down, and I have to hold it back with one hand while I open the oven door with the other.

Smoke billows out, stinging my eyes.

"Fuck me." I slam the oven door shut, hurry across to the opposite wall of my apartment, and open my sliding patio door.

The tiny balcony is literally only good for fresh air. And even though I'm sacrificing my air-conditioned air, I leave the door wide open.

Giving up on my hair towel, I yank it from the top of my head and toss it toward the hallway.

My wet hair slaps against my shoulders, soaking through my robe, but I ignore it and go back to the oven.

Sighing, I turn off the oven and grab my hot mitts. Then I yank open the door and use the mitts to fan away the remaining smoke.

I try not to pout as I pull out the pan of burnt tarts. But since they're still trailing smoke, I carry the pan out to the balcony and set the whole smoking mess on the small iron side table.

I originally bought this table so I could have a plant. Maybe two. But I've killed everything green I've ever put out here, so now it's become my Fuck, I burned it table.

Standing on my balcony in my robe, I drop my head forward in defeat.

Then my smoke alarm goes off.

"Of course."

Hands still inside the mitts, I grip the pan, tip the burnt tarts onto the table, then hurry back inside.

Guess I won't be tasting this test recipe.

Using the pan as a giant fan, I wave it back and forth under the smoke detector, sending crumbs everywhere, but I'm beyond giving a fuck.

Finally, after a long minute, the shrill beeping stops.

I'm not sure I should be thankful the smoke detector doesn't call the fire station, but in this case, I am.

Though a hot, muscled firefighter might just be the thing I need to stop thinking about Nathan.

Not Nathan. Nate. Calling him Nathan is exactly what got you caught.

I drop the pan in the sink and shuffle back down the hall to my bedroom.

It's been almost a week since that night in the pantry. Since I ran away from my childhood friend like the giant chicken I am. And no matter what I do, I can't get him off my mind.

Every night, late at night, when I can't stop myself from thinking about our encounter, I question myself.

Should I have stayed?

Should I have told him who I was before he put his hands down my pants?

Should I have laughed it off, dropped to my knees, and sucked his cock?

Should I just tell him everything?

But then, in the light of day, I remember all the reasons why it's a bad idea.

There's too much history .

Too many bad days in the last twenty-five years to even try to answer when he undoubtedly asks how I've been.

Too much at stake.

I can't risk all that heartache over a fling.

And a fling is all it would be because we don't even know each other anymore.

It's been too long.

And Nathan didn't just move away to have a normal life. He went on to become a famous football player. He's retired now, sure, but he's famous, nonetheless.

Hell, the man has been on the cover of magazines. In his underwear.

I eye my nightstand, then shake my head.

My apartment still reeks of smoke from my failed tarts. I do not have time to play with my silicone boyfriend.

Grumbling over the way I have the worst luck, I shrug off my robe and toss it onto my bed.

Then I just stand there, naked, with my feet planted wide and my arms straight out at my sides while my hair drips down my back.

My shower was supposed to be a quick rinse off, but then I decided to wash my hair, and I lost track of time.

Now I'm sweaty again, and I want to get back in the shower, but I have a new batch of tarts to make.

Thankfully my ceiling fan is spinning at its max, and the breeze is helping to cool me down.

Just another glorious day in my life.

And it's then, as I stand there, like a chubby, naked starfish, that my phone starts to ring.

In the kitchen.

I grind my teeth.

I'd love to ignore it, but as a business owner, I can't do that. It's always easier to answer the phone than to try to call back and catch someone.

So, in nothing but my skin, I hurry back to my kitchen.

My phone is on the small island, and I lunge for it .

As I lift it to my face, I remember my patio is wide open and the apartment building across the street is occupied.

Hitting answer, I crouch behind the island.

The movement parts my parts, and my vagina is blasted with cold air from the floor vent below me.

I force a smile into my voice. "This is Rosalyn."

"Uh, hi," an unfamiliar male replies. "You're the caterer, right?"

"Yes." I shift so my knees are together, feeling weird talking to this stranger while completely nude.

"Cool." The voice is definitely young. "I'm, um, Blake, and I'm in charge of our company picnic, and I wanted to see if you could cater it."

If the kid didn't sound so awkward, I would wonder if this was a prank, but I'm not really in a position to turn down jobs. Not after putting new brakes on my van last month.

"If I can, I'd love to," I tell him. "What's the date of the event?"

"Next Thursday."

My brows go up. "Like a week from today?"

"I know it's last minute, but… I'm gonna be honest. My boss sent me an email an hour ago asking if I'd finished planning the picnic. But I didn't even know there was a picnic." Panic causes his voice to rise.

"It's alright." I try to calm him as I put my phone on speaker and look at my calendar. "Depending on how many people you're expecting, I can probably make Thursday work."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." I smile at the sound of his relief. Poor kid.

I spend a few more minutes talking to Blake. Getting the location—some courtyard of an office building in St. Paul. The number of people—he thinks around thirty. And what sort of food they're looking for—classic summer fare.

I take a gamble and add a five percent upcharge to my usual rate since I'll be squeezing this between a birthday party the night before and a retirement party the next day, but Blake doesn't hesitate at the cost.

Corporations usually have money to spare, and his boss deserves a higher fee for putting Blake through all this stress .

"I'll send you an email with the contract, then we can finalize the menu."

"Perfect. Thank you so much," Blake tells me, then ends the call.

Reaching up, I slap my phone onto the island, then grip the counter and try not to groan as I pull myself back up.

Feeling suddenly more positive than I have in a while, I hurry my naked ass back down the hall to find clothes.

I have a menu to work on.