Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
I try to focus on restocking the pastry case, but all I can think about is Oliver’s hands on my body, the way he pinned me down and ruined me for life. My thighs press together just thinking about his mouth, the way he made me come so hard I saw actual stars. Yeah, there’s no hiding anything from Tessa. I might as well tattoo ‘Wrecked by a Sex God’ on my forehead and call it a day.
I sigh, shoving the cinnamon rolls into perfect rows. “Fine. You want the truth? I spent Saturday night with Oliver. And Sunday morning. And, uh… basically every waking moment since,” I confess, all in one mortifying mouthful. I freeze, bracing for Tessa’s reaction.
She whips around so fast she nearly sloshes espresso down her front. “Holy shit. Are you telling me you let that hottie defile you, and you didn’t text me a single detail? Rude. I demand a full recap.”
I groan, pressing both hands to my cheeks. They’re probably glowing brighter than the neon sign outside. “It just kind of… happened? One second, we were eating pizza, and the next thing I knew, he had me pinned to his couch like some Fifty Shades caveman.”
Tessa leans on the counter, eyes bugging out. “You’d better not leave out a single detail, or I swear I’ll never talk to you again.”
I feed Tessa just enough crumbs to keep her from starving—yes, he's an incredible kisser; yes, his penthouse has floor-to-ceiling windows; no, I will not describe what he looks like naked—but I guard the real treasures like a dragon with gold. The way Oliver whispered my name against my collarbone at 3 AM. How he traced my spine with his fingertips like he was memorizing every vertebrae. The vulnerability in his eyes when he pulled me against his chest afterward. Those precious, raw moments belong in a vault where only he and I have the combination.
If you want to know what Monday-morning mayhem looks like, just stand behind the counter at Gobble Me Up when the clock hits 7:00. There’s a line by the time we open, and all the customers act like caffeine is the only thing standing between civilization and the apocalypse.
But underneath my well-practiced routine, my insides feel like a champagne bottle about to blow. I keep glancing at the lobby’s giant clock, waiting for Oliver to come in.
At exactly 7:30, the front doors open, and in walks my hottie.
Time. Freaking. Stops.
His navy suit hugs him like it was made for him, shoulders sharp and lines so neat they could have been drawn on with a ruler. Collar crisp, dark hair styled to within an inch of its life except for one wild silver streak that makes my ovaries do flips. He scans the shop, finds me instantly, and his whole face changes. Softens. Ignites. I almost drop a tray of scones on the floor.
For a microsecond, nothing else exists. Oliver’s gaze pins me to the spot with enough force to melt steel. My breath comes up short as my pulse hammers double time. I can feel Tessa watching from the side, probably already composing memes about my hopeless obsession.
He approaches, crowding the counter. For a second, I swear he’s going to haul me over it and devour me in front of everyone, but instead, he gives me his perfect smirk.
“Morning, Cydney.” His voice drops low, all velvet and intent, and I remember a few hours ago when he whispered those exact words while eating me out. His eyes sweep my face, and heat races up my neck.
I grip the counter to keep from wiggling. “Morning, caveman.” I try to keep it sassy, but my voice is breathy as all hell. “What can I get you?”
He leans in, bracing one massive hand on the counter like he owns the whole damn building. “Vanilla bourbon cold brew. And one of your cinnamon rolls. The biggest one you’ve got.”
The way he says “your” sends a zing from my scalp all the way to the soles of my feet. His eyes drag over my throat, pausing right where that hickey is hiding, and his jaw goes tight with satisfaction. I’m pretty sure he wants to lick it in front of everybody.
“Living dangerously this morning?” I manage, snapping up a cup before my hands start visibly shaking. I shoot him my best challenge face, which is probably more dork than diva.
He doesn’t even blink. “Always.”
Every cell in my body goes wobbly. Like, full-on melted-icing-on-a-hot-cinnamon-roll wobbly.
Our fingers brush as I slide the warm cinnamon roll across the case. The jolt is instant, and a tiny electric current zings straight to my core. My hand trembles, so I snatch it back quickly. Smooth.
Nobody says a word, but half the shop is pretending not to watch the entire thing unfold. Only in Worthington Hills.