Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
My heart sprints. I touch up my lipstick—I hate dry lips—then set the tube down on the counter as Wes strolls into the kitchen at eight a.m.
“I’m never up this early,” he says, yawning as he scrubs a hand across his scruffy jaw. He’s wearing gray sweats and a blue T-shirt that hugs his pecs and reveals those steely biceps I want to curl my hands around. But I won’t. We’re here for…dessert. That’s all.
“It’ll be worth it,” I say, tying my apron tighter. It’s covered in tiny illustrations of cake.
“It better be, woman,” he says, then waggles his phone at me. “Okay if I play music?”
“Not a record?” I ask.
“I have a playlist I like. Some new tunes.”
“Do it,” I say, and he sets it on the counter into a phone holder, then sends the music to his speakers. It’s something upbeat and not too screechy. A folksy guy voice, full of longing. I think it’s that Ben Rogers he’s been listening to lately, and I like it. Wesley grabs the apron with lipstick marks all over it and ties it on.
“You wear that well,” I say.
He tugs at the bib, giving me a pointed look. “Another thing you did for me.”
I roll my eyes. “Please.”
He grabs my hand, shakes his head. “Nope. You did do this, and I like it.”
There’s that tone again. Commanding. Certain. Like he was in bed. But like he is in the kitchen, the car, and the street when he wants to drive home a point.
“Well, I figured we should make a—” I cut myself off before I say date of it, course correcting to, “Some fun of it. Eating dessert for breakfast is one of the simplest things on the list.”
“Sometimes the simple things are the best things,” he says, sounding like a saying on a kitchen towel, but a true one nonetheless.
“I’ve been thinking about this item. Why it’s on there. Maybe because it’s easy. But also because it was something my aunt and I used to do together,” I say, opening up and sharing more of my time with her. To remember her. To celebrate the days we spent together.
“Maybe she wanted you to keep doing it.” He stops, then adds, “With a friend.”
“Maybe? Most of the other things are new,” I say as we mix together sugar and spices in a small bowl. “But this one?” I gesture with the wooden spoon to the bowls on the black counter. “This was our thing. We made cakes and pies. Cupcakes and cinnamon rolls. We made chocolate croissants, which is dessert just masquerading as a breakfast food.”
Wesley goes thoughtful. Humming even.
“What’s that for?”
He shrugs. “Crazy idea. But maybe she knew all along—somehow, some way—that you were going to do this list with another person. So maybe number four was never meant to be a solo thing. Maybe none of it was.”
My chest glows at the thought. My whole body feels warm, like I’m looking at the past through rose-colored glasses but it’s a past that earned those glasses, a past that deserves the fond filter. “You might be right,” I say.
“I’m definitely right,” he says, with a cocky smile I want to kiss off.
And even though we came temptingly close yesterday, we’re not going to today. This is friendship. He’s said as much before.
But when Wes slides in closer to me, his shoulder bumping mine, there’s nothing easy about this moment. There’s nothing simple about how much I want him to shove the ingredients off the counter and kiss me ruthlessly.
We mix for another minute until he moves to the other side of the counter to brush melted butter along the pastry strips I prepped earlier. “You remember how much I wanted the ice cream the night we met?”
That night flashes before me in technicolor and fire. “I remember.”
“So when you think I’m all disciplined, just remember I like to…bend the rules,” he says, and those words slide down my spine like a brush of his fingers. The innuendo curls through me too, settling between my thighs, a fresh new ache.
“I’m learning that about you,” I say as I layer the cinnamon sugar mixture on top of the butter.
“And you like it?” he retorts.
Reasonable question. I tug at my apron. That oven is warmer than I’d thought. “You think so?”
“Sure do. I think you like getting me to break,” he muses.
My throat is dry as I try to make the treat—try but fail because I can’t focus. “Why do you say that?”
His gaze drifts down to his apron. “The apron.”
“How exactly is the apron getting you to break?”
He’s quiet for a while. For several seconds, maybe more. Clearly contemplating. He breathes out hard, his forehead pinched. I watch him, searching for the answer as to why he thinks the apron is my way of getting him to break.