“I’m not very patient.”
“I am so getting that from you, believe me. Wait it out. Just a little longer.” She deftly twists her fork minutely from side to side, encouraging more chocolate to run off the top and drizzle down cleanly. I do the same, mirroring her movements. “There, see? If you let it work itself out, it comes out perfectly.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
“You’re a metaphor.”
I grin down at her. “For what?”
Quick as lightening she tips her fork, rocking the cookie away from me and into her hand. It’s only half hardened, the chocolate still dripping. It coats her fingers, trickling down her chin as she unrepentantly takes a bite.
“A bitch who just lost his cookie,” she tells me proudly.
Can you be turned on by chocolate? I can. And I am. By the chocolate and the girl and the lips pink as candy. By that look in her eyes that’s not bitter, that’s all sweet and inviting in a way she hasn’t shown me yet. It’s an opening, one I’m not about to miss.
I lean forward slowly, giving her plenty of time to stop me. She doesn’t. Not even when I part my lips. Not when her eyes go wide with an excited sort of fear. Definitely not when my lips touch her chin just below her mouth, my tongue faintly licking her skin coated in decadent, rich chocolate.
It’s not a kiss, I’m careful not to touch her mouth, but it’s close as shit. So close I’m having trouble resisting the urge to move north and taste her. So close that her breath is held tight inside her body like she’s waiting for me to do it. When I pull away slightly her eyes are fixed on mine; shocked and electrified.
“You taste good,” I tell her deeply.
Lilly releases her breath in a burst that washes over my face still so close to hers. Close enough to move back in to take another taste. Another lick. Steal a kiss.
“Uh, guys?” Sandra calls awkwardly.
Lilly blinks as she falls back a step. Her cheeks flush when she glances at the camera, suddenly remembering we’re not alone. Not by a long shot.
“Hour’s up,” she announces, not looking at me. She grabs a towel off the counter to wipe her hands on, swiping it along her chin, but there’s nothing there. I ate it all. “If you guys need anything else Rona is your girl. Thanks for…” she flounders, not sure who to thank for what. Her eyes flicker to me for a small moment, a polite turn of her lips hitting me hard and hollow. “Thanks for everything.”
I don’t follow her when she bolts out the back of the bakery. I know better. I watch her run away because I’m making downs right now. I’m still stuck behind the fifty yard line, but I’ve got plenty of clock, plenty of time. I’ll take this yard by yard, because that’s all she’s giving up right now. I don’t want to push her. But I can’t walk away either.
She’s so fucking bittersweet I feel sick just thinking about her, and this day has been nothing but a confirmation of what I already knew. What I felt this morning when I woke up thinking about her. What I wondered in the bar watching Sloane and Trey.
I’m into this girl.
And she’s into me too, even if she doesn’t want to be.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LILLY
Colt leaves not long after I bolt. From my hiding place on a bare wooden crate abandoned in the alley I see him walk down the street, checking his very heavy, very expensive looking watch. He grimaces at the time.
He holds a box in his hands, one I assume is full of Oreos, and I feel guilty bailing like I did. He’s doing us a favor by telling people about the bakery. He agreed to be in our episode of Tastetastic for free. He’s still wearing the purple shirt with our logo on it, the emblem stretched slightly out of shape by the pull of his broad chest. And yeah, maybe he did it as an excuse to hang out with me, to bug the shit out of me, but how is that a bad thing? I like him. I can’t deny that. He’s funny and handsome. He’s annoying in a way that I want. How does that make sense?
How does hiding in a dark, dirty alley from a hot guy who’s interested in me make sense?
It doesn’t. None of it does, but as I watch him slide behind the wheel of a painfully red car, the engine roaring to the attention of everyone on the street, I can’t help but sink deeper into the darkness. I pull away, begging to be unseen, because I can’t stomach how seen he is. On TV, billboards, magazines. Pantries. Bakeries. He’s on his way somewhere, someplace big, and I won’t be a sight he saw on his way there. A tourist trap he can easily escape.
I am no one’s Biggest Ball of Twine.
I wait until he’s gone to walk out of the alley onto the street. Ron Jeremy’s mustache is there. He’s sitting on a barren planter box across from our storefront. He raises his stark white coffee cup to me in greeting.
“You missed Colt,” he tells me. “He just left.”
“I saw.”
“He’s a cool guy.”
“Yeah, he’s the best.”
“I think he likes you.”