Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

S elena

I was late getting home as always.

The truth was, when I wasn't working in the small but pleasant bakery, I tried to pretend as if I had a normal job. Granted, fulfilling my dream had become time consuming.

And not fruitful in the least.

Somehow, I'd wandered the sidewalks of the most fashionable area in the city, paying close attention to the popular eateries and little shops. There were plenty, but from what I could tell, the owners had money to keep them afloat. The economy had been rough for everyone except those considered wealthy beyond their means.

I hated Friday traffic, the idiots on the road making me lose my cool every single week. Then I'd made the mistake of stopping by the grocery store, every single checkout line with a line of twelve.

Thankfully, I'd purchased two bottles of my favorite wine, a delicious steak, a pint of my favorite frozen yogurt, some goodies to indulge in a new cupcake recipe I'd created, and for kicks and giggles, a single Toblerone candy bar from the checkout stand. That at least had kept me from tearing into the checkout girl. She had to be slower than molasses at doing her job.

And I was an expert on the ooey-gooey goodness.

By the time I was settled inside my apartment, the sun was already setting, stunning shades of crimson and tangerine fading into the calm ocean water.

Not that I'd know. While some would call me fortunate, being only three blocks from the beach, my view was blocked entirely by a brand-new high-rise that had only recently gone up. The land had been sanctioned off for a low-rise, I'd been told, but no, the idiots lied.

It was time to find another place to live.

But not right now.

Not when I was trying to live like a pauper. Yet, this girl had dreams. Big dreams. I could see my specialty cupcakes being eaten by every Hollywood star who traveled the distance just to consume one of my pastries.

Maybe I'd become fixated on the wrong thing.

Before I even unpacked the groceries, I swung open one of the exterior doors, the screen preventing the insects but not the lovely sounds of… great, sirens. It was going to be one of those nights. Grousing wasn't going to do me any good. After shoving the frozen and refrigerated foods into their proper locations, I headed into my bedroom, kicking off my shoes into the closet with a perfect aim at hitting the back wall. A grin popped on my face as I grabbed a pair of shorts and my favorite plum tank top.

There was nothing better than the feeling of no longer needing to wear a tailored suit and heels, both of which I loathed. Yes, it was the culture of media productions. I'd needed to look like the ‘it' girl when working alongside my father. He'd even given me an allowance at my age to purchase what he called ‘decent attire.'

I preferred sneakers and summer attire. I also adored being able to put my hair in a ponytail or messy bun for the entire weekend. Sometimes, if I was really in my bad girl mood, I didn't shower on Saturdays.

My mother would be appalled.

She'd done everything in her power to rid herself of the blue-collar ways, now acting as if she was one of those chicks born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

Just like my dad. I did love him, but everything had changed when he'd garnered his first half-million-dollar advertising account for his fledging program. I did what I could to push the past aside. As my mother had always told me, I was the kind of girl who could not only make her bed but design it badly.

Now I was confined to accepting my decision.

The ponytail in place, my feet bare, I returned to the kitchen to crack open a bottle of wine, stopping along the way to turn on my beloved CD player, something people would need to pry from my dead, cold fingers.

Wine in my hand, I was about to leave the kitchen to enjoy what I could see of the sunset when I heard a blip coming from my phone, which I'd yet to remove from my purse. Why did I have a feeling I'd be nagged the entire weekend?

Willow: Did you contact him yet?

Me: It's Friday afternoon

Willow: Correction. Friday night and you're not getting any younger. Bella and I double dare you. Plus, you owe me. I will not allow you to forget. Bitch

Me: Funny. I don't do dares and you're the bitch for pushing me to do this

Willow: We win

Oh, the little bitch knew how I hated to lose.

Me: Fine. I'll text him

Willow: Sure you will

Oh, I sometimes wanted to hate her so much, but how could I?

We would see. I tossed the phone onto the counter, hurrying toward the balcony. As soon as I was able to breathe in the ocean air, I almost felt alive again.

It had been a whirlwind couple of years working with my father. It was only supposed to have been temporary but one month had turned into close to two years taken from my life.

That had pushed my dreams to the backburner. With an MBA in business, minors in marketing as well as computer science, and a love of all things cupcake related, I'd been certain by now my little bakery would be the most sought after in San Diego.

The fact I'd yet to find the right location was a bleak setback that could lead to abandoning my dreams.

No. I refused.

I couldn't go back to working with my father. I'd had little time to explore the business I wanted, the twelve-hour days exhausting. Gee, I wondered why after I'd worked side by side with the merciless man who barked orders, not asking for assistance. He was the devil incarnate. I was shocked my mother had remained married to him for so long. I laughed as I enjoyed the taste of the wine, another indulgence I allowed myself.

I did what I could to save money for my dream, including remaining in the tiny apartment. Scrimping and saving had to mean something at some point. It just had to. My father wanted me to work with him more than almost anything, but I wasn't certain I could tolerate doing so again.

At least not without driving a stake through his heart. He was truly a bloodsucker given what he demanded from his employees. Including his own daughter.

No. I'd made the right decision. I really had.

Maybe.

Disgusted with myself, I headed back inside, grabbing one of the last remaining free paper magazines highlighting both commercial and residential businesses in and out of town. It was one of the few reasons I suffered going to that particular grocery store. I poured another glass of wine, shocked I'd consumed the first one in record time. The thin black and white real estate pamphlet continued to draw my attention. I flipped through the pages, hoping maybe I'd find a diamond in the rough.

I'd tried my best to keep up with market values and rents of commercial locations, but the sticker shock was almost enough to cause a heart attack. Were they fucking kidding me? Even with the money I'd saved so far, if the prices in the small pamphlet were any indication, I couldn't afford a postage stamp in the worst part of town. Maybe I was wasting my time. And sadly, the key to the success of Sinful Treats , the little name I knew would bring in the clients, was all about location. Location.

Freaking location.

Which meant spending the big bucks. And the area I was considering didn't have that many places for rent. That meant I'd need to purchase a portion of a building. God. I would be eighty before I could manage to open my doors.

More wine was needed.

So, I drank.

And ignored the concept of dinner.

And opened the second bottle of wine in no time.

I was on a roll and feeling giddy, dancing around my kitchen even as despair settled in. At least I could continue selling my goodies at bake sales and fairs.

Until the health department police shut me down permanently.

Oh, God. I was pathetic.

I was more than a little tipsy, tired of the same routine.

The screen on my phone lit up and this time, Bella was hassling me.

Bella: Stop being a scaredy cat

Me: I'm not scared of nothin'

It took a full ten seconds before Bella answered.

Bella: Prove it…

The little bitch. Even with blue hair, she could get any hot male she wanted. And had. More than once. And more than one at a time as well.

Stinker.

I sent her every hateful emoji I could find before almost tossing the phone across the counter. Something stopped me from doing so.

After chewing on my lower lip for a few seconds, I rubbed my eyes.

Okay, so I craved the filthy touch of a man more than I did using my trusty vibrator, which was getting old.

A real man.

A big, tall dude made of flesh and blood.

With tattoos and arm veins.

And muscles. Lot of muscles.

He needed to have a cute smile.

Eyes every woman could easily become mesmerized by.

And to exude raw and brutal passion, a true alpha dominant.

Yeah, that's what I needed.

I wondered if Mr. No Name had that in spades. Maybe if he did, I'd come out of hibernation. What the heck? I had nothing to lose by texting him. Right?

My foot almost slipped as I tried to grab the phone. By the time I pulled up the text messages again, I was laughing close to hysterically.

I had to search to find his number, grousing under my breath as I typed it into my contact list under Mr. Mystery Guest for fun. After gulping more wine for courage, I decided to send one hot little text. However, given he didn't know my cellphone number until I gave it to him, the man wouldn't have any clue. But he could call me if he wanted.

Duh.

Wasn't that the ultimate plan?

Me: Hiya, Mr. Sexy. I heard all kinds of deliciously sinful things about you, your gorgeous, sculpted face and killer body. That got me to thinking what your hot, wet kisses would be like. And if you were good under the sheets. Interested?

I had no clue what came over me but before I had a chance to return to my senses, I hit send.

It took all of five more seconds to almost panic. Wasn't there an unsend button for a short period of time? I fumbled. I almost dropped my wineglass. I fretted. I moaned.

And I had no idea what was wrong with me.

Panting, I know I stared at the screen for a solid ten minutes. Ten full minutes of dead air space. No three blips on the screen indicating the party on the other end was replaying. No response like, ‘Hey, stalker. I'm contacting the police.' Just nothing.

"Oh, girl. You are out of your freaking mind."

Which was true enough. I tossed the phone, determined to do everything I could to shove my inappropriate, repulsive actions out of my mind. I grabbed the remaining second bottle and my glass, heading to watch some ridiculous movie to get my mind off my actions.

Yet as I flicked off the light, I couldn't help but pray the text had gone to the wrong person.

Valerio

"Just so you know, Dad stopped by after you left looking for you. He said you were ignoring his calls." Braxton had a lilt in his voice as he announced our combined annoyance.

"Yeah, well, he's going to bug me to embrace my on-paper position as a second vice president and you know how I feel about that. Why two?"

"He also said you were getting to be a slacker. And two are often needed in big companies such as ours."

"He said that shit because I left at four-thirty for a change instead of nine? Really?"

"Yep."

"Go back to your date. I know you're on one." I could hear the loud music in the background. Braxton was a ladies' man through and through, something I used to be but I'd grown weary of the dating game. Yet the article had managed to capture my essence. I had a feeling my father's advertisers were going nuts, considering pulling out. "What's her name, anyway?"

My brother snorted. "I don't know yet. But who needs a name when you're fucking?"

"A crude bastard."

"Hey, I know what I want. I just wanted to warn you."

"Yeah, I got it. Have an amazing time with a Barbie clone." I wasn't into blondes, but both my brothers ate them up like white chocolate.

I couldn't stand plastic, the kind of women who laughed on cue. Ate very little. Drank the most fashionable cocktails and hung on your every word.

Nope. Not for me. I didn't buy the concept of relationships on any level under any circumstances.

Friday night.

Alone.

Why had I been contemplating my life as of late? That wasn't like me. Gage would tell me it was a midlife crisis setting in. That was bullshit.

Yet what had happened to the party boy, the one who enjoyed going out at least four times a week? The guy who could sleep for three hours, get up and head to the weight room, and feel completely refreshed after a glass of orange juice?

I laughed at myself as I stood staring out the wraparound set of windows leading to a massive deck that fronted the most perfect beach in the world. At least that's the way I'd always felt about San Diego.

Until the resorts had both been built on the islands. Only then had I thought differently. Sighing, I took another sip of scotch, trying to remember when I'd had fun going out with my buddies or with my brothers for that matter. Long enough the memories had faded.

Or I hadn't really had a good time.

As I placed my hand on the warm glass, the sound of the ocean floated in through the open doors. I was one lucky man. I had three hefty bank accounts, a yacht, a Learjet for my private use, and enough cars I could have a freaking car show. Plus, my house was over six thousand square feet situated directly on one of the most pristine sections of the city. What more could I want?

Before I allowed my twisted mind to delve into any serious contemplation, my phone buzzed indicating a text. The last thing I needed was to be required to provide an update on my personal life to my father. He had plenty to do.

Sadly, I couldn't ignore it. With the business I was in, and the select number of clients I managed personally, they expected concierge service at all times.

That's why we were paid the big bucks.

As soon as I grabbed the phone, sliding my finger across the screen, I had to admit that the text I'd received wasn't the one I'd thought I'd be getting.

Ever.

Chicks didn't text me. They knew better. I'd had one who had after I'd mistakenly given her my private number. I'd learned the hard way never to do that. I was one sadistic bastard, but the girl had turned out to be an absolute psychopath. I'd changed my number and only my best buddies knew it. They'd been teasing me for almost two years now that I needed to get serious with a girl. My response had always been the same.

No girl could handle the brutal sadist I was. Which for the most part was the truth. I enjoyed everything from kitty and puppy play to primal play. However, finding a woman who surrendered let alone enjoyed had proven impossible.

I had no interest in keeping up appearances or pretending as if I wanted anything more than a sexual tryst for one night. Two, tops. Seeing the sexy near invitation was intriguing.

Even if I had no clue who the person was.

A phone number that I didn't know was listed. The text?

Unknown: Hiya, Mr. Sexy. I heard all kinds of deliciously sinful things about you, your gorgeous, sculpted face and a killer body. That got me to thinking what your hot, wet kisses would be like. And if you were good under the sheets. Interested?

I scratched my jaw, thinking maybe one of my friends was pulling a prank.

Me: Who is this?

Given the person also had an iPhone, I could see when and if it was received, read, and if they were responding. It was delivered alright.

I don't know what came over me, but I stared at the screen for almost a full five minutes and it had yet to be read.

Fuck.

This was stupid. Whichever asshole had pulled a prank would get a punch to the jaw the next time I saw him. I was about ready to toss the phone when the message was read and bubbles popped up indicating whoever was on the other end was about to answer.

Oh, this should be damn good.

Unknown: Just a hot girl looking for some fun. I heard you were quite sexy and available.

Me: Jerry. If this is you, I will hunt you down like the dog you are.

Another pause and I was ready to call and curse him out. Of all my few friends, he was the one who pulled pranks.

Unknown: No. Sorry to disappoint you. Just a girl enjoying a Friday night.

Hmmm… This had to be a fake. One way or the other.

Me: Sorry. I think you have the wrong number.

Unknown: What a pity. I was just thinking we could get to know each other.

I had to admit I was bored to tears. I moved to the couch, flopping down with my drink. Why not play a little? If it was some asshole, I could easily draw him out. If this was Jerry, he was playing this further than usual. Maybe a little bit of faith had entered my dull life. Why the fuck not chat with this… person? What did I have to lose?

Your sanity .

Yeah, well. Who cared at this point?

Me: What do you want to talk about?

Before I realized it almost two hours had gone by and I'd had two more glasses of scotch. I had to admit there wasn't a buddy of mine who could pass off pretending to be a woman like this girl had done. By the time we signed off, we'd talked about movies, food, art, and even touched on politics. The girl had chutzpa.

And I didn't even know her name.

She hadn't asked for mine and I hadn't asked for hers.

But we had acted as if maybe, just maybe we'd talk again.

Another laugh was all I could do as I tossed the phone onto the coffee table, leaning my head back against the leather sofa and staring up at the ceiling fan. It was obvious I needed to get a hobby.

Or get laid.