Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“You’ve got this,” Corbin whispers encouragingly as Ronnie prowls the set, pacing in front of the open-faced kitchen that leads into the living room where the couples sit.
“You’re right, Sapphire,” Ronnie crows. “They’ll both serve it. What a comeback—last time Mabel baked in public, it didn’t go well, but she’s holding her own now.”
Tension spikes in my chest, but Corbin shoots me a look that says: ignore them.
Drama feeds reality TV. I’m not feeding it back.
Sapphire glides over to Dax on the couch, who’s busy petting his girlfriend’s leg. “So, Dax,” the show hostess says sweetly, “how is it watching your ex become a popular baker? You didn’t say very nice things about her.”
Oh, they’re baiting Dax.
But Corbin skates to the puck first. “You sure didn’t,” Corbin says, his voice smooth as ice.
It’s protective and sexy. And I won’t let Dax distract me either. I focus on smoothing the icing. No mistakes. Not this time.
Dax gives a lazy shrug. “Well, let’s see if she messes it up again.”
And—seriously?—he starts walking over.
Corbin’s hand lands gently on my back. “We’ve got this,” he murmurs.
“It’s hard to turn your life around,” Dax says, all faux sympathy.
What did I ever see in him? Oh, right—bad choices. Everyone makes them.
“It is hard to change, Dax. You’re a case in point,” I say sweetly. “But I changed because I owned up to my mistakes—like dating you.”
Sapphire’s gasp is delightfully dramatic.
Corbin grins, puffing out his chest. “She found someone better.”
Dax snorts. “Yeah, well, let’s see how this cake is,” he says, taking another swaggering step.
That’s when Corbin subtly stretches his leg under the table. The toe of his shoe nudges something long and narrow. The hockey stick slides forward and right into Dax’s path.
Dax doesn’t look down. He’s fixated on me, swagger in his step, but his foot catches on the hockey stick. For a second he teeters, arms windmilling like a cartoon, then gravity wins.
He belly-flops into the heart-shaped cake, pink frosting and vanilla cake smearing across his chin and chest.
The sound guy snorts. A producer shouts, “Keep rolling.” Someone else barks out, “Get a close-up.”
Sapphire gasps. Ronnie’s jaw drops.
But Corbin’s the picture of calm. Giving Dax a chin nod, he says dryly, “Watch out, buddy. Those hockey sticks can trip you up.”
Dax glares at him, but with his chin smeared in pink icing, it’s hard to take him seriously.
“Enjoy the smash cake,” I say sweetly. Maybe I’m a little petty. But also prepared.
I turn to Ronnie. “Good thing I baked a backup.”
A little later, once Dax has been toweled off, Corbin brings out the second cake, and we serve perfect slices to all the couples.
As I set the last plate down, I flash a fast on my feet smile at the camera. “And you can all get your very own smash cake at Afternoon Delight.”
Dax doesn’t touch his, but I don’t care. When this episode airs, he’ll be the meme—and I’ll be the woman who got her act together.
Thanks in no small part to the man who believed in me.
41
FUCK MORNINGS
CORBIN
I can barely keep my hands off her. The house is mine alone, so we go back to my place, and the second I shut the door, my fingers are in her hair.
“I want you to spend the night here. For the first time,” I say. The first of many.
“Do you now?” she teases.
“I really do, Mabel. Everything’s better when you’re with me—falling asleep next to you, waking up next to you, seeing you as often as I can. Working with you. Playing with you. Talking to you.” God, I sound like a sap. But I don’t care.
She slides a hand up my chest and curls her fingers around my collar. “Same,” she whispers, sounding more vulnerable than I’ve ever heard her.
Maybe soon I’ll tell her how I feel.
But right now, she brings her mouth to mine and kisses me ravenously—harder than she ever has before, more desperate. She’s all need and fire, and that trumps everything else.
We grab at each other’s clothes, kick off shoes, and stumble toward the staircase in a flurry of hands, teeth, and heat. At the bottom of the steps, I hoist her up, toss her over my shoulder, and carry her upstairs.
“It’s faster this way,” I say.
“Is it, or do you just like being all…protective?”
“How is this protective?”
“I’m sorry—possessive,” she corrects playfully as we reach the top.
I set her down, look her in the eyes. “Want me to show you how possessive I am while I fuck you?”
She trembles and nods.
Soon she’s flat on her back on my bed, shiny hair spilling across my pillow, moonlight streaming over her pale skin, her head tipped back, her throat exposed as I thrust into her—her wrists pinned above her head.
She moans beautifully.
Writhes.
Arches.
“This is how possessive I am,” I rasp.
“How?” she pants.
Letting go of her wrists, I lower myself closer, still moving inside her. “Mine. You’re mine. You’re all mine.”