Riverrat69: That picture just about killed me this morning. Do you have any idea how hard it is to finish a business meeting when a beautiful woman sends you a picture of her ass?
Tink24: Sorrynotsorry?
Riverrat69: You’re the whole package. Brains, body, humor. You make me . . .
Tink24: What?
Riverrat69: You make me believe there could be more. You make me want something more.
Tink24: You’ve always been clear on the score.
I hesitate for a minute, and then type.
Tink24: What if we know each other? I mean, outside of Something Real.
I hold my breath as I wait for his response. Either the oxygen deprivation makes time slow to a crawl or it takes longer than usual for him to reply.
Riverrat69: New Hope is a small place. It’s possible we do.
I start to type Do you live in New Hope now? but I erase it before I can send it. The question would break our unspoken agreement to keep this anonymous. And, if I’m honest, there’s part of me that likes the anonymity. Almost as if knowing his name makes him real, and once he’s real I have to let him go to make room for the real relationship I promised myself I’d find.
I roll to my stomach and, settling the laptop in front of me, reposition the screen so the camera is aimed right at my exposed cleavage. I attach the pic to a new message and send it, my way of reminding myself exactly what this is and what it isn’t.
Riverrat69: Jesus. You’re killing me.
Tink24: I like thinking of you looking at me. Even if only one tiny piece at a time.
Riverrat69: This morning, when you sent that picture, all I could think about was taking those panties off you. My dick was so hard, I could hardly focus at my meeting.
Tink24: Tell me what you were focusing on.
Riverrat69: How I want to tie you to the bed and undress you while you watch. I want to taste every inch of you—starting at your neck and working my way down. I’d kiss your breasts and your belly, and when I finally reached your legs, I’d spread them wide so I could look at you before I pressed my face between your thighs.
Something feels off for a minute—the coldness of the black words on the white screen—but then I close my eyes and imagine Sam whispering those words in my ear, and I have to squeeze my legs together to shut out the ache there. The movement only makes it worse. This is torture. I need to stop or I need more—to meet him, to know his name, to take him up on all the suggestions he’s made over the last few weeks.
Riverrat69: Sleep well, sexy. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
I watch the little green light by his screen name change to gray and then stare dumbly at the screen for a few moments. I close my computer, bury my face into my pillow, and scream.
* * *
A girl could gain five pounds just by walking into this bakery, and I would gladly grow a gut and a couple of extra chins if it meant that I got to continue this early-morning tradition for the rest of my life.
The bell rings as I push through the glass doors and into my twin sister’s bakery, Coffee, Cakes, and Confections. Our oldest sister, Krystal, is working behind the counter this morning, organizing the coffee filters or something. She came in last Christmas and started managing the place for Hanna while Hanna had to be on pregnancy bed rest. When Hanna came back after the twins were born, she kept Krystal so she could focus on the baking and take more time off. And, honestly, Krystal’s good at running this place—better at it than I was, not that Hanna ever complained.
“Good morning, Liz,” Krystal says. “Coffee?”
“Please. And could you dump, like, half a cup of that caramel sauce into it?”
Krystal, ever the health-conscious one, raises an eyebrow but does as I ask. I help myself to a chocolate croissant. Life is too short to not eat Hanna’s chocolate croissants. Seriously.
“I heard you had another date last night,” Krystal says, handing me my coffee.
“Where did you hear that?” I ask around a bite of chocolate and pastry dough. Jesus, this crap is good.
“New Hope Tattler,” she informs me.
I scowl. “Why do they care about my love life? Is there seriously nothing more interesting happening in this town?”
“There was a full spread about Hanna’s wedding too,” Krystal says. She shrugs. “It’s New Hope. What’s there to say?”
“Is the bride-to-be in the back?”
“Elbow deep in fondant,” Krystal says.
“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Hanna calls from the kitchen.
Grinning, I take my coffee and croissant and follow the sound of her voice. “Isn’t there a rule about how brides shouldn’t make their own wedding cakes?” I ask when I spot her rolling a thin sheet of fondant icing. I used to hate the crap, but that was because I’d never tried Hanna’s.