Page 62 of The Sweetest Risk

I move her hand off my cock because if she continues what she started, I won’t be able to do what I want with her in about ten seconds. “It will never be enough. I’m going to be selfish as hell with you Brooke. I am going to take what is mine any fucking chance I get.” I push her legs open and ease inside of her. Her fingers dig into my back. I lift her legs up and wrap them around me, bringing us even closer to each other.

I definitely have more than a thing for Brooke Beckett.

I am completely in love with her.

28

“You are going to change out of that outfit, right honey?”

I look down at what I am wearing: a smocked, long white dress with pretty pink peonies, a dress that I thought was appropriate for an occasion like my parents’ anniversary party. Evidently, I was wrong. “The only thing I am going to change is this chocolate-covered apron after I am done baking. But otherwise – no, Mother, this is what I am wearing.”

She has her classic look of disapproval and continues her usual critique of me. “You made chocolateandvanilla, right?” My mom steps behind me and peeks over my shoulder as I am trying to ice the third batch of cooled cupcakes.

What does it look like, Mom?“Yes, Mom. I got your order and I am fulfilling your order. Don’t you need to get dressed? Your guests should be here in like thirty minutes.” I just needher out of this kitchen or I am going to explode and I don’t want to do that today…not on her and my dad’s thirtieth wedding anniversary.

“I am just making sure, Brooke. Because I told my guests what we are having so people have expectations of what we are going to be serving them. That’s all.”

I stand upright and blow a tendril out of my face. “I said, I got it!” Okay, I snapped a little, but that was tame compared to what I really want to say to my mother.Back off and let me do my job. Let me show you what I am capable of.It’s always“that’s all”with her.

The oven timer beeps. Finally, the last batch for the party is done. I set down the piping bag and grab a couple pot holders. I turn off the incessant beeping and open the oven door.

Since Daphne Beckett can’t read a damn room, she continues, “Seriously, Brooke, when are you ever going to get your own bakery? You have been talking about this for years and I just feel like you haven’t progressed at all with your plan. I mean, look at Bradley, he started his own charity and that didn’t seem to take him that long to figure it out…”

That’s when I feel it. A searing pain on the inside of my wrist. “Ow! Dammit!”

“Brooke Beckett! Don’t you use that language in my house!”

“I burned my wrist, Mom!” The constant badgering from my mother caused me to lose focus and the potholder slipped and the oven burned the fuck out of my wrist. Tears well up in my eyes. I am too afraid to look at the damage the 350-degree-oven did to my skin.

“Mrs. Beckett, please start running the cold water.”

I suddenly feel a little more at ease hearing Tristan’s voice. He’s here. I’ve been anticipating seeing him all day, and the payoff is so sweet. Although, right now I wish I wasn’t in excruciating pain.

My mom turns on the sink while Tristan grabs the potholder I dropped and finishes taking out the cupcakes. “Are these the last of them?”

“Yes,” I say through my teeth.

Tristan closes the door, shuts the oven off and turns his attention to me.

“Run your wrist under the cold water.” Tristan’s tone is serious and I can tell he is concerned because his eyebrows do that cute thing where they pull together so intensely, there is a deep line that runs down the middle of them.

When I don’t listen right away, he quietly growls, grabs my wrist and puts it under the tap for me. It is the strangest sensation and I honestly don’t remember the last time I burned myself. It was probably in high school when I burned my neck with the curling iron. That was fun, explaining to people that I actually burned myself and it wasn’t a hickey.

My mom stands on the other side of the island and looks at us a little suspiciously. She has never seen Tristan and me actually stand next to each other without arguing like we want to kill each other.

“Do I need to hide the knives before I go upstairs to get ready?” Her eyes dart back and forth between us.

“Go on and get ready, Mrs. Beckett. Not that you really need to – you look great already.”

I roll my eyes. No matter how many times my mom has told him over the years to call her Daphne, he still insists on calling her Mrs. Beckett. It is a respect factor for him. He always has to throw his charm around like it is candy at a fricken parade.

“I think we can bypass trying to kill each other today,” Tristan adds.

“Okay,” my mom says warily. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

Tristan is still holding onto my wrist like I am a freaking four-year-old. “I got it, Tristan, you can let go. I’m not a child.”

He steps behind me and rests his chin on my shoulder. Goosebumps disperse across my body and my core tightens. “Will you just shut up and let me take care of you this time? Just keep your wrist underneath the cold water until I say to stop, Cupcake. I’ll go ask your mom where the first aid kit is.”

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