Sweet Obsession Page 2

  As I bend down, securing the leather strap on my shoulder, the binder pinched between my fingers, a car horn sounds and I lift my gaze to the street. Traffic clears. My eyes roam the row of shops on the west side of Fayette, until landing on one I haven’t seen before, or maybe, I just haven’t noticed.

  No, this has to be new. I would’ve noticed this.

  Sandwiched between a florist and a family-owned candle shop, the words Hot Yoga scream against the brick front in burnt-orange lettering. A simple logo swirls in the corner below the ‘a’.

  Yoga?

  “Yoga?”

  I straighten and stare a little longer at the new business, which just so happens to be in direct line-of-sight from the bakery.

  That’s almost laughable. Here, sweat your ass off, then skip across the street and stuff your face. Maybe we could go in with the owner and have some sort of a coupon-deal worked out.

  Five sessions and you get a free cupcake?

  I swallow down a giggle.

  Look at me, all business savvy, trolling for ways to pull in new customers while helping to promote other local enterprises.

  I should seriously run for president.

  The door chimes as I step inside the bakery, the scent of sugar now mingling with the aromatics wafting from the four coffees in my hand. With an exhaustive sigh, I set the cardboard carrier on the glass display case, followed by my bag and the design binder.

  Dylan perks up from behind the counter when she sees the latter.

  “There it is! You know I tore this place apart this weekend looking for that? What the hell, Brooke?”

  I flatten my hands on the glass, then hesitantly nudge the binder. “I, uh, did some reorganizing. I hope that’s okay.”

  Her face remains expressionless. I take in a shallow breath.

  Rule number one of life: Don’t piss off your employer, especially if that employer happens to be Dylan Carroll. She’s been known to go a little slap happy.

  Moving closer, she flips back the cover, then a few more pages, running her finger along the edge of the new font. Silently judging, meticulously studying every alteration I’ve made. She halts at the back where the testimonial section begins.

  I wipe a hand across my brow, relieved when I don’t feel the sweat I fear I’m releasing.

  “Mm.”

  I lean closer, staring at her mouth, the small crinkle in her nose. “Mm?”

  God, why the hell didn’t I ask permission first? Could she fire me over this?

  After what feels like the longest seconds of my life, she looks up at me, narrows her eyes, then smiles. “I love it. Brooke, this is . . . surprisingly thoughtful of you.”

  My mouth falls open. Surprisingly? “Hey, I’m thoughtful! I do stuff for other people all the time. Take last week when Ryan wanted that Elsa dress and Reese was on the brink of losing his ever-loving mind looking for it. Who stepped in and saved the day? Huh? Who almost got arrested at Target? You?”

  She laughs, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear. “I know. I’m just kidding.”

  My spine straightens with pride as I pluck my coffee out of the carrier. “Well, you’re welcome. I’ll take that raise whenever you’re ready.”

  She cocks her head with a glare. I take a step back. Easy, Rocky.

  The door chimes, followed immediately by Joey’s booming morning voice.

  One volume. The man has one volume.

  He hooks his thumb over his cashmere covered shoulder in the direction of the window. “Did you see the yoga studio across the street? What is that mess about?”

  “Not just yoga,” I correct him. “Hot yoga. Lots of sweaty women with camel toe, being forced into ungodly positions.”

  Joey makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. “Sounds like somebody’s high school years.”

  “Yours?” Dylan throws out, resting her hands on her swollen belly. “Didn’t you wear an alarming amount of spandex back then?”

  Joey spins the carrier on the display case, tugging out the cup with his name scrolled on the side. “I’ll ignore that jab, since you’re carrying Joey Jr.”

  “His name isn’t Joey Jr.”

  “What?” Alarmed eyes flick between myself and Dylan. “Okay . . . Joseph? I’m fine with that.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  I smile against my cup. “Excellent. We’ve settled on Brookes then? Suck on that, McDermott.”

  Joey glares at me over the top of his cup. I glare right back, laughing a little.

  Dylan gently sighs. “Sorry. We’re going with Blake. That’s the name we both like.”

  “Who’s we?” Joey squawks, his face suddenly two shades redder. “I don’t remember that name being on the table for discussion. And I definitely don’t remember receiving a phone call, asking my opinion before you started getting shit engraved.”

  “Why do I need to call you? And engraved? Really, Joey? Who got anything engraved?”

  A soft noise comes from the kitchen, followed by the familiar quick tapping of tiny feet on tile.

  Joey sweeps his free hand around the shop. “I’m sure there’s something around here with that name already on it. Is it possible to fill out the birth certificate before the birth? Has Reese figured out how to do that?”

  “Joey.” Dylan exhales exhaustively. “Fucking relax, all right? You haven’t heard the middle name yet.”

  “Momma!”

  Ryan comes barreling into the shop, her dirty blonde hair pulled up into two little sprouts on top of her head. Wearing a polka-dot dress and rainbow tights, she bounces up and down behind the counter, her hands grasping at the air.

  “Momma, wook! Wook at my pwetty dwess.”

  Dylan laughs, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “You look so pretty, baby. Did Daddy let you pick out your clothes?”

  “Uh, huh. Wook. My shoes, Momma. I wove dem.”

  I risk a glance at Joey, catching the quick work of his finger along his cheek, no doubt catching a tear.

  “You okay?” I ask quietly, stepping closer as the tiny voice continues to shout up at her mother.

  He hesitates, then gives me a sly smile, mischief dancing in his crystal blue eyes. “Middle name. Did you hear? Suck on that, Wicks.”

  “Whatever.” I shove against his shoulder, moving him a few inches away.

  Not that it matters much to me. I was only tossing my name into the ring to rile up Joey.

  Success.

  “Aunt Bwooke!”

  I turn around, set my coffee on the glass case and rest my hands on my knees. “Hey, girlfriend. I love your dress.”

  Ryan spins, fanning the material out around her.

  “Daddy says I’m his pwincess. He’s wetting me dwive to Nana’s today.” She dances away, twirling in circles around the shop.

  “Is that so?” Dylan puts her hand on her hip just as Reese steps into the room, diaper bag on his arm, baby carrier in his hand, guilty as shit grin on his face.

  Mm. Busted.

  “What’s that?” he asks, his voice catching. Looking between his two girls, a cooing sound from the carrier draws his attention down. He smiles at Drew, Lord, the man is whipped, then focuses back on Dylan. “I never said that.”

  “Sure you didn’t.” She lifts her head up, welcoming his kiss. “Brooke got your coffee.”

  “Mm. Might not need it. I’m wide awake after that little shower session this morning,” he mumbles all too loudly against her mouth.

  “Good Lord,” Joey says, almost groans, from my right.

  I turn my head, expecting to see him still standing next to me, engaged in this conversation since I’m positive he just reacted to it, but instead I find him staring out the glass window, intently fixated on something.

  “What’s up?” I ask, joining his side, sucking the warm mocha off my lips.

  My eyes follow his across the street, widen, then nearly pop out of my skull and roll around on the floor.

  The door chimes, and I think I hear
Reese’s faint goodbye, Ryan’s more animated one, and something Dylan says, but honestly, a fucking meteor could strike the earth right now and I wouldn’t notice.

  I inhale sharply. Maybe a little too sharp. My hand flattens on the window pane, steadying myself when I start seeing double of the man standing outside the yoga studio. I blink once, then once more, hard, waiting for him to suddenly up and vanish into a cloud of smoke.

  He can’t be real.

  He seriously can’t be real.

  A mirage, that’s what this is. I’m not standing in the bakery, on the verge of licking the window like some mental patient. I’m in the desert, dying of thirst, my throat raw as I struggle to stay alive. I look up and this man, my hallucination in the distance, is beckoning me closer with promises of clean water and wild sex.

  Two resources I’d be a damn fool to pass up. It’s all about survival in these elements.

  I bite my lip through a groan when the man places his hands on the back of his head and gazes up at the yoga sign on the building.

  My God, he’s the owner, he has to be. With that body? He’s practically a walking advertisement for Abercrombie and multiple orgasms.

  My eyes sweep over the length of him, slowly, before settling on the ass to beat all asses. Even from this distance, that thing would stop traffic in Times Square.

  “I, for one, am suddenly very interested in hot yoga,” Joey remarks under his breath.

  I whip my head to my right. “You’re married, and I’m calling dibs.”

  “Dibs? What are you, ten?”

  “What are you two looking at?” Dylan asks from somewhere behind us. “Can one of you lazy asses finish filling the display case, or am I the only person working today?”

  What am I looking at?

  Sex. That’s what I’m looking at.

  I look down, giving a quick once-over of my outfit before I make my move.

  Black v-neck tee, skinny jeans, and . . . fuck!

  Sneakers? Why am I wearing sneakers today? There is nothing sexy about the Nike swoosh. And my thoughtless choice of footwear definitely isn’t doing anything for my legs.

  I spin around and march past Dylan toward the kitchen. “I need to borrow some shoes.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “What?” Joey echoes in the distance, but I’m already halfway up the stairs, too focused on my mission to answer either one of them.

  Pumps. I need pumps. Something with a heel.

  Shoes are flying everywhere as I rummage through Dylan’s small closet. How she manages to fit her and Reese’s clothes in this thing, along with her gorgeous selection of handbags and other accessories is beyond me. They are in serious need of a bigger space, but I get it. She likes living above her bakery, and Reese will do anything to make her happy.

  With this third baby coming though, one of them might have to start sleeping in the bathtub. No way is another crib fitting in this loft.

  “Oh, hello pink.” My hands close around a delicious pair of Steve Maddens. I toe off my sneakers and remove my socks.

  Maneuvering carefully down the stairs, I re-enter the bakery, now three inches taller. Dylan and Joey take notice immediately.

  “Help yourself to my wardrobe, Brooke.”

  Her sarcasm isn’t lost on me.

  “Will do.”

  I grab an empty bakery box and slide the display case open, reaching inside.

  Joey nudges against me. “Do you really think he’s going to be staring at your feet, Miss Cleavage?” His words are muffled by the mouthful of danish he’s devouring.

  “I always feel more confident in heels.”

  “And the cupcakes?”

  “It’s a gesture. Welcome to the neighborhood, now let’s go get naked and eat these off each other.”

  Dylan laughs quietly. “I think it’s sweet. What’s that saying? The fastest way to a man’s cock is through his stomach?”

  “Mm, I don’t think that’s right,” Joey says, laughing. “Although, how many apple turnovers did Reese consume when you two were dating, but not dating, but totally dating?”

  “Shut up.”

  I straighten and close the box, rounding the counter and heading for the door. “Right. I’d say wish me luck, but we all know I don’t need it.”

  Their remarks, if they have any, are lost amongst the traffic from the street as I step outside. I wait not so patiently for a break to cross, shifting on my feet, taking quick bursts of air into my lungs.

  Why am I suddenly nervous?

  Because you’re about to suggest a night of scandalous indecency to a man who looks like the definition of the word ‘orgasm.’

  Ridiculous. He can’t be that hot. I’m sure some of his attractiveness will soften the closer I get.

  Like a mirage. He’ll vanish before I can touch him.

  Steadying the box in my hands, I quickly pad across the street.

  Determined.

  Mildly apprehensive.

  One hundred percent turned-on.

  MASON

  I did it.

  Holy fuck, I actually did it.

  Linking my hands behind my head, I gaze up at the sign I had installed yesterday. The morning sun strikes against the sharp edge of the letters, deepening the richness of the color.

  My chest swells with pride. My stomach flips wildly, reminding me of my nerves and the giant risk I’m taking doing this.

  Contradicting reactions battling for dominance. Equal in strength, I’m the perfect blend of fearless and frozen.

  This is official, scary as hell, and quite possibly the biggest thing I’ll ever do. I’ve dreamed of owning my own studio for years, since I first started instructing. The passion I have for this, the drive, it’s there, but bloody hell, so is the worry I’m in way over my head. Never did I imagine I’d actually get this opportunity. And here I am, starting this new venture in a city completely foreign to me.

  I pinch my eyes shut through a slow inhale.

  This has the potential to be amazing, my greatest accomplishment, maybe the only fucking thing I’ll ever do that’ll mean something.

  I have the potential to completely fuck it all up.

  Right, mate. Way to stay positive.

  “Admiring the view?”

  My arms fall heavy to my sides. My eyes fly open.

  “I gotta say,” the low, velvety voice behind me continues. “I really don’t blame you. I’ve been doing my own fair share of staring this morning.”

  I turn my head, intrigued.

  A woman, obviously, I knew before I turned around I’d be coming face-to-face with a woman. Only not this woman. Never in my wildest imagination could I conjure up this vision as she steps up to join me on the footpath, then stumbles forward the second our eyes lock.

  “Oomph!”

  I reach out, gripping her elbows and taking her weight. Her skin feels electric. “All right there, sweetheart?”

  Steadying herself, she slowly lifts her head, her lips parting as she stares at my mouth with the strangest look. A mixture of intrigue and disbelief.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  I exhale a laugh. “I never quite understood that expression. What exactly does ‘shitting me’ mean? Seems like a bad thing, yeah?”

  “Bad?” She smiles, just the slightest, dangerously slow pull of her lips, as if she’s already planned out this interaction and is ten steps ahead, waiting for me to catch up. “No, not bad, just didn’t think it was possible you could get any hotter. Then, boom, you have to go and open your hot Australian mouth and completely blow my mind. ‘Shitting me,’ in this case, is a very, very good thing.”

  “But, it could also be used negatively.”

  “Of course. If you dropped your shorts and I discovered you were in the process of going through gender reassignment surgery. In that unfortunate scenario, my ‘you’ve got to be shitting me’ would carry a whole new connotation.”

  “Ah, well, I assure you,” I begin, leaning closer. “T
hat wouldn’t be the case.”

  Her eyebrow arches. “Prove it.”

  “You’re serious.”

  She tips her chin up, waiting.

  Jesus Christ. This little thing could destroy me.

  Drop my shorts, right here? No, obviously I wouldn’t, but fuck if I don’t want to maybe pull her inside and shock her a little. Show off my cock to a woman who looks like she’s ready to eat me alive.

  A soft laugh erupts from her. She’s amused. I feel like I’m watching a wolf circle an innocent flock of sheep.

  Eyeing up one very tempted sheep in particular.

  Dimples, possibly the only cute thing about her, draw my attention from one side of her face to the other, and then my eyes can’t seem to stop roaming over her features, drinking her in. Dark, soft curls. Large hazel eyes. Her skin, olive and pink in the cheeks.

  Now I’m the one doing my own fair share of staring. I clear my head and look down, realizing then I still have my hold on her.

  “Sorry.” I let my hands fall away. “I’m Mason, by the way.”

  “Brooke. And no need to apologize. I’d never complain if your hands were on me.”

  I almost step back, if only to keep myself from pulling her into my arms and testing that theory. Groping a woman I just met in broad daylight isn’t normally a desire I find myself battling against.

  But it’s never been this woman challenging me.

  “Is that so?” I ask, smiling. “You’d never complain? No matter what I was doing?”

  “Mm. Only one way to find out.”

  I grip the base of my neck. “Christ. I fear I’ve just met the devil. Figures she’s a woman.”

  “Ah, but does the devil come bearing gifts of delicious treats?” Brooke flips back the lid on the box in her hands. She holds them away from her. “I made them myself.”

  The pride in her voice is unmistakable. A sweet warmth coating her words, giving me a glimpse of the woman behind the shameless exterior. Possibly the real, true version of herself.

  I see you, Brooke.

  I look down at the four cupcakes, sliding my hand over hers so we’re both now holding the box.

  Maybe she needs help holding it.

  Maybe I just want to feel her skin against mine again.

  I stare into her eyes. “If they’re laced with poison, then sure. I imagine not many men being able to resist a beautiful woman with baked goods. The devil is notoriously both dangerous and alluring, is she not?”