Fuck.
“I’m elbow deep in icing, honey!” I shouted toward my front door, bending back over the cake with my pastry bag. “Let yourself in, it’s open!” I finished as I continued to dot every third fluffy, white, buttercream frosting star with a point of pale yellow icing.
The door opened and I spun the cake around to get to more stars.
I was standing at the island in my kitchen, my head bent to the cake when I felt her presence hit the room but stop in the doorway.
“I’m running a bit late,” I told the cake. “Get yourself a pop or something. In fact, get me one. Cherryade. Crushed ice,” I ordered, dotting more stars at the top border of the cake then moving down to the bottom.
Martha didn’t move.
My eyes lifted to her and my mouth opened to say something but the words and my breath got clogged in my throat when I saw Jake Knox, arms crossed over his wide chest, one broad shoulder resting against the doorjamb, lean hips hitched to the side, motorcycle boot clad feet crossed at the ankles.
I said not a word and didn’t move as I took in all that was him.
Ratty-assed, faded black t-shirt with the peeling words “Charlie Daniel’s Band” over an equally peeling American flag fitting just right over his torso, a pair of mirrored shades shoved in the collar by an arm and dangling down. Jeans so faded they were their own unique shade of blue with frayed bits around the pockets and delicious worn patches at his crotch, the length of them fitting loose or snug in all the right places on his slim hips and long legs.
Unruly, dark hair about an inch longer than I remembered so it was curling low on his neck and around his ears. Below his sharp cheekbones, along his strong jaw and chin and down the column of his corded throat was, from my experience, at least three days worth of stubble.
Silvery-gray eyes pointed right at me.
Fuck.
I straightened, filled pastry bag in my hands and stared at him.
He stared back.
He did it better.
So I blinked and when I was about to say something, do something, maybe even yell something, he got there before me.
“You ready to talk now?”
I blinked again.
Then I whispered, “Sorry?”
“Talk, Tess.” His deep voice rumbled across the kitchen at me. “You promised we’d talk. I wanna know if you’re ready to do it now.”
I dropped my pastry bag filled hands to the counter and kept staring at him.
Then I asked, “Have you lost your mind?”
He ignored my question and told me, “Name’s Brock Lucas.”
I closed my eyes and dropped my head as that knowledge filtered through me, knowledge I laid awake at night wondering about, knowledge that had been kept from me as I fell in love with an imposter.
“Tess, babe, eyes,” he growled. “Now.”
My eyes opened and my head came up as I felt a shaft of steel rip down my spine.
Then my eyes narrowed on his hard face as the electric feel of his mood in the room finally made it through the cocoon of surprise shrouding me and sparked against my skin.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Are you angry with me?”
“No,” he bit off. “I was angry with you, seein’ as I fucked my woman for the first fuckin’
time, she made me a promise when my cum was still inside her and then just hours later she reneged on that promise. Now I’m here ‘cause there’s a goddamned for sale sign planted in your front lawn and I walk in here and see you lookin’ like this so, gotta say, babe, I’m not angry. I’m fuckin’ pissed. ”
Did he…?
Did he…?
Did he just fucking say what I thought he just fucking said?
“Sorry?” I whispered again but this whisper was different.
He didn’t repeat himself. Instead he asked, “Where are your glasses?”
“What?”
“Your glasses, Tess. Where the fuck are your glasses? You never decorate a goddamned cake without your glasses.”
“I got contacts,” I snapped.
His head tipped back and he clipped to the ceiling, “Jesus,” before I saw his jaw get hard.
Why in the hell were we talking about my glasses?
I didn’t care. Nope. I didn’t.
I only cared about one thing.
“Get out,” I ordered, his chin tipped down and his eyes locked with mine.
“No.”
I felt my eyebrows go up. “No?”
“Yeah, Tess, no.”
“You have,” I told him. “You have lost your mind.”
He ignored me again and asked, “What the fuck are you wearing?”
“What am I wearing?”
“Yeah, babe, what the fuck are you wearing?”
I looked down at my t-shirt and jeans then I looked back at him.
“T-shirt and jeans…” I hesitated then spat, “Brock. ”