Chapter 8

I can categorically say I’ve never woken up earlier than the sun and sprung out of bed with the same amount of enthusiasm my nephew has when he’s been promised ice cream, but here I am.

Sex is a powerful motive.

Except I arrive so early to collect the cinnamon buns that the bakery isn’t open yet, and I have to stay in the car to wait. It was so early that Haven walked past the car, and I ducked down so she wouldn’t see me.

There’s a strong scent of sugar wafting through the air, even with the windows closed, and the queue outside the bakery has quickly snaked around the corner, almost to where I’m parked. A man who looks like he’s about to head on a North Pole expedition is standing right in front of the car, while everyone else is wrapped up and ready for a day in the mountains. Several of them are carrying large boxes for what I assume is to take home their purchases—the bakery equivalent of a reusable shopping bag.

They look like they mean business. I look…well…Miles would call me a loser…I’d prefer to use the term go-getter.

Because I think that’s what I’m doing. I’m getting…

Cinnamon buns? Definitely. Coffee? Absolutely. Haven? With any luck.

She’s the only reason I’d be out of bed this early on holiday. It’s not even seven.

In fact, if I was only given a choice of one thing to get, I’d pick Haven. Because since last night, she’s literally all. I. Can. Think. About.

I know if I’d taken her home with me last night like I’d wanted to, I wouldn’t now be sitting in my car trying to keep warm. Nope. I’d be warm enough and balls deep inside what I can only imagine is the sweetest pussy in existence. It has to be. There’s no way Haven would have anything else.

But sadly, instead of enjoying a night with her in my bed, I left her in the bar, arrived home to empty, semidarkness, and jumped into a cold shower. I needed to make myself come twice before I could calm the raging hard-on I’d been sporting since I’d kissed her.

When I woke up thinking about her, I’d repeated it all again—to the image of her kneeling in front of me, her full lips wearing that berry-red lipstick wrapped around my cock as I fed it down her throat. It was followed by the visual of bending her over, my fingers digging into her full, voluptuous arse, and fucking her until she screamed my name.

I can’t remember the last time I had a connection like this with someone. Maybe it’s the mountain air and the prospect I won’t see her again after Saturday. Based on the ferocity of her moans I swallowed while her tongue was down my throat, I’d say Haven was of the same opinion.

If we hadn’t been interrupted, I’d have fucked her on the bar.

With any luck, I can pick up where we left off. I told her I’d see her this morning, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word.

The guy next to the car steps away and I realize the bakery’s been opened up. Show time. Zipping up my thick puffer coat and pulling on my beanie, I hop out and immediately regret it.

Jesus Christ. I’m sure it wasn’t this cold yesterday. No wonder Arctic Expedition Guy is dressed like that. This is what happens when you get into the car from the comfort of a heated garage. I don’t even question my sanity, because I’m too cold to think.

Miraculously, the queue moves quickly and I’m only standing outside for five minutes before I reach the store entrance. I’ll hand it to the people in front of me, they weren’t messing around when they decided to come here. They knew what they wanted—mostly the cinnamon buns and coffee from the looks of everyone on their way out—paid, and left.

My eyes are already trained on Haven as I step inside. She’s filling the shelves behind the counter with her back to the customers. Today, a pink apron is hugging those curves I dug into last night, and unlike every other time I’ve seen her, her hair is down, tumbling over her shoulders, and even from where I’m standing behind ten patrons still waiting to be served, I can tell it’s still damp.

And that fact does something to me because now all I can think about is whether she was doing the same thing in the shower this morning that I was, and what she looks like when she comes.

The guy in front of me turns around and frowns like he can hear my thoughts.

I really fucking hope he can’t.

He stares so long that I’m about to ask what his problem is, but then the queue moves, and the pull of sugar is too strong for him to resist. He buys up what’s left of the cinnamon bun tray, and from his narrowed side eye at me, I swear it’s only because he thinks that’s what I want too.

What a dick.

Before I can think any more about it, he steps to the till and now it’s my turn at the counter. Haven’s friend/colleague looks at me, and I know from her grin that she knows exactly who I am. And she knows.

“Was it warm in your car?”

“What?” I ask, in response to her strange question.

“You were sitting in your car when Haven and I arrived this morning. We were going to say hi, but it looked like you were hiding.” She smirks. “You’re no James Bond, though. You know that, right?”

If I could roll my eyes without her seeing, I would. But, whatever.

The friend crosses her arms over her chest. “So, another four of everything? Or are you only here to see Haven?”

Obviously I was going to be getting cinnamon buns, but from the way her eyes narrow at me, I feel like she’s expecting more.

“Just give me what you have,” I mutter, because at least I can throw money at the problem and save face, but her grin widens.

“Haven…you got a visitor,” she yells way louder than she needs to.

Everyone in the bakery turns to look at me, even the ones who were on the way out.

This time I roll my eyes right at the friend. “ Thanks .”

“You got it, pal.”

Grabbing Haven’s arm, she thrusts an empty cake box at her and switches their positions so that she takes over Haven’s job of restocking the shelves and Haven is in front of me. There’s a swipe of icing sugar across her brow, which I refrain from wiping off, and I realize the dick in front of me who took all the cinnamon buns actually did me a favor because now I have an excuse to hang around while more are brought out.

“Hey.” I smile.

Fuck, I like that blush of hers. The rosy pink that spreads across her cheeks like a sunrise. I like it a lot. I wonder if it’s everywhere .

Haven’s green eyes widen in surprise. “Alex…what are you doing here?”

“Told you I’d come in for cinnamon buns,” I reply, and there’s something about the way she flusters that boldens my resolve. “Plus, I wanted to see you. Maybe make a little plan for later, if you’re free.”

“Oh…” She does one of those weird little curtseys again, before her hands fly to her face. “Oh my god, I don’t know why I do that. It’s like the worst nervous tick ever.”

Leaning forward, I lower my voice. “I make you nervous?”

“No…yes. No. No. You don’t.” her mouth is held in a tight line, but only to stop a smile from breaking.

“Good, because I didn’t make you nervous last night.”

Her teeth drag against her bottom lip, and my dick swells.

“No, you didn’t.” She peers up at me under her thick lashes, and she’s remembering exactly how I didn’t make her nervous. “It’s the English thing. I’ve never been to England, so I have it in my head that you’re all related to the king or something. I’ve watched too much Downton Abbey .”

I decline from giving her an explanation of the British peerage system, and telling her that my mother’s side of the family is related to the king. Mostly because I’d sound like a complete twat if I did, but also because it’s boring as fuck. Instead, I just laugh along with her, because her laugh is infectious and I don’t want it to stop.

“I guess it’s the same as me watching too much Yellowstone and pretending I’m Kevin Costner.”

“Yeah.” She grins. There’s a beat before she continues, “Cowboys are hot, though.”

“Are they?” I tilt my head as I look at her. “Do you ride?”

I may as well have double entendre flashing in neon above my head.

She huffs a little laugh, and her cheeks go bright pink. I expect her to look away, but she doesn’t.

“I do…” she replies eventually, and a glint of amusement sparks in her eye. Yeah, she’s definitely as into this as I am. “Though I haven’t in a while.”

I hold her gaze. I haven’t been cold since I stepped into the store, but now I’m on the verge of breaking a sweat. I expect her to blink, but her green eyes widen in challenge, and I’m fairly certain I’m succeeding in organizing a hookup before seven thirty in the morning.

Stick that in your pipe, Miles.

“We should rectify that.”

Her pupils dilate a fraction. “We should .”

Haven’s still holding an empty cake box, and I have no intention of breaking this insane tension between us by asking her to fill it. Instead, one of the chefs does it for us, busting through the swing doors carrying a large tray with a very intricate gingerbread house on it.

“Wow, the chefs are really getting good at those.”

He places it on the shelf behind the counter next to another one, and for the first time I notice how many there are. All different, all bloody good. Most of them have been decorated with all the colored candy and licorice they have in America, but this new one is another level.

Haven shakes her head. “No, they were brought in yesterday. It’s for the competition.”

My brows drop until I’m almost squinting, while my mouth hangs open. I point to the new gingerbread addition. It’s hard to call it a house, because it’s not really a house, it’s more like a gingerbread mansion…no, gingerbread chalet. The tray is covered in cotton wool for snow, and the whole thing looks like a maquette of Aspen Village, with a backdrop of mountains, trees, snowmen, and a ski lift…a fucking ski lift. Made of gingerbread.

It’s not cutesy or covered in candy canes. In fact, there’s so much detail on it, it could take the front page of Architectural Digest .

“ That? Someone made that? How? It’s a thousand times better than the one the chef made yesterday.”

I turn back to the table where the one from yesterday is still sitting, looking bland as fuck. It’s a donkey stable in comparison.

Haven nods.

“ That was made from the same kit we have?” I don’t believe it. There’s no way.

“Yep.” A smile lights her face, and for a second, I forget how flabbergasted I am, because her smile is entirely distracting. “I told you we’re a competitive bunch. That’s the Rivern family’s entry, they come over from New York every winter, and they’ve won the past three years. Entries are only judged on the actual house, but they always like to create a story. Last year they set it in London, and the house was Buckingham Palace.”

Glancing back to the shelf, I decide there’s no way the Rivern family don’t plan six months out. You can’t just make that on a whim, it’s way too professional.

It seems I’ve severely underestimated this gingerbread thing, and there’s work to be done. Yesterday I thought it was a bit of a joke, and now I’m not so sure. I’m no patisserie chef, but there hasn’t been a Burlington in existence who’s not risen to a challenge…and it seems there’s no limit. The Rivern family will need to settle for second place this year.

The queue is still growing, and Haven takes my silent thoughts as an opportunity to pack up some of the fresh cinnamon buns, which were just brought out. But time is now of the essence. I swirl a finger around the box she’s sealing up.

“Okay, leave it at that. But add another eight house kits.”

“Eight?”

“Eight,” I reply with conviction, my chin jerking to the shelf. “We need spares. If that’s the level I’m against, I’m not taking any chances.”

“Okaaaay.”

I can see she thinks I’m nuts. There’s a quiver on her lip that doesn’t drop as she fetches them and rings it all up. But what she doesn’t know is that once I decide I want something, very little will stop me. I want her. And I want to win this competition.

I tap my Amex against the reader. “So, where are we meeting later, once I’ve spent the afternoon decorating gingerbread? You don’t want to help me, do you? Or is that against the rules?”

“Sorry…I’ve got Christmas trees to sell.” She grins. “But I can do a drink later.”

“Sounds perfect. Seven at The Old Saloon?”

She shakes her head. “No, there’s another place called Moonshine. It’s on the next block over, a little farther down in the direction of the river. I’ll meet you there. It’s cozy, and dark.”

“Cozy and dark is good.” I lean in and take the bags from her, stopping short of kissing her like I want to. But I see her breath hitch just the same. “Seven it is.”

I turn around when I reach my car, and through the window, I can still see her smiling.