Page 16 of Off Limits

But it’s the kind of response that’s more about acknowledgment than encouragement, so I just nod. While Simon doesn’t seem bothered by the silence, my nerves about being in a small space with him and his overwhelming hotness make it so I can’t just sit and keep my mouth shut. The problem is, I don’t know what to talk about that wouldn’t drive Simon crazy. And the only thing we obviously have in common is my brother, and somehow I don’t think filling the silence with inappropriate stories about my brother is the best choice. I’m sure Simon would find them entertaining, but that would make Cal want to commit fratricide. Wait. Is it still fratricide if I’m his sister?

Pulling out my phone, I quickly look up the word, and sure enough, Google kindly tells me that fratricide is the killing of one’s brotherorsister.

I digress.

“Anything interesting?” Simon asks.

“Oh, uh … not really.” My cheeks heat again, dammit. I give him my best smile, but I’m not sure I don’t look deranged.

All he does is chuckle, and I don’t want to acknowledge the things that chuckle does to my lady parts, slipping over my skin smooth and easy like a fresh brush pen on high quality paper.

Color and shapes start to surround those words—smooth and easy—as I stare at Simon for longer than is probably appropriate.

Blinking, I force my gaze out the windshield and realize we’re pulling into the parking lot of the bakery. “Ooh, we’re in luck. They haven’t closed yet.” As soon as Simon parks, I unbuckle my seatbelt and scramble out of his truck as quick as I can. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, I suck in a deep breath, grateful for the small amount of time and space between his truck and the door to compose myself. I just need a few breaths of oxygen that isn’t tinged with the spicy, musky scent of Simon. That truck cab is the smallest space we’ve ever occupied together, and being surrounded by him like that makes it easy to read more into this than is possibly here. The fresh air clears my head and reminds me of reality.

Simon catches up to me at the door to the bakery. “Was that a possibility?”

It takes me a second to realize he’s referencing my statement before getting out of the truck.Get your head on straight, I tell myself, reciting one of my dad’s favorite sayings.

I point at the sign that says they open at six am and close when they run out of food. “Always.”

“Should we come back another day?” he asks, his face troubled. “If they’re picked over, you might not be able to get the cookies that you like.”

I throw him a smile over my shoulder, my heart squeezing at the idea of him being so concerned about me getting my favorite cookies. He’s so big, and I have to crane my neck back so I’m not smiling at his nipples. Though, I mean … his pecs are gorgeous, and his nipples are these perfect little brown dots that definitely deserve a smile. But he’s wearing a shirt today—we’re in public, after all, though I suppose there are guys for whom that makes no difference—and even if he weren’t, I feel like it would be weird for me to just smile at his nipples. I’d find it weird if the situation were reversed. And I like smiling at his face too.

“I like all their cookies,” I inform him. Besides, free cookies. I’m not going to turn them down when they’re a sure thing now. Even if he promised to bring me another time when there were more cookies, what are the odds it would actually happen? He’s busy, he’s friends with my brother, our paths don’t exactly cross often, and again, there’s the whole fratricide issue to consider. Even if I don’t tell embarrassing stories about my brother, I’m well aware Cal doesn’t want me within a fifty foot radius of any of his friends any more than absolutely necessary. And I’m quite sure that he wouldn’t consider this necessary, but what Cal doesn’t know can’t hurt him. I’m sure as hell not going to tell him, and if Simon does, well … I’ll let him handle Cal’s hissy fit.

“Oh, look,” Simon says, his arm appearing over my shoulder as he points at the display case. “They have sandwiches and quiches too. You should get one of those.”

He’s standing right behind me, and my eyes fall closed involuntarily, his heat surrounding me. He’s so close I could just lean back an inch or two and melt against that solid wall of warm muscle.

But I can’t do that. That would definitely be weird. This isn’t a date. We’re not friends—much less more than friends—so leaning against him isn’t an acceptable thing to do.

Clearing my throat, I open my eyes and inch closer to the case and take a half step sideways toward the cash register to put a little bit of distance between us. I need it so I don’t do or say something stupid. “Right. Yeah, they do. I’ve never gotten one. Autumn and I always get desserts here, so I forgot they have savory options as well.”

I make a show of looking over the display sandwiches as well as reading the hand-chalked menu board on the wall. The lettering is different today, not quite as good as usual, like whoever did it was in a hurry and didn’t take time with all the flourishes and embellishments they usually do. Maybe they got someone new? Maybe I should ask who to contact about doing their lettering for them … Maybe my dad would be less of an ogre about spending money to send me to college if I’m making some of my own money …

Ha.

Who am I kidding? A lettering gig for a bakery isn’t going to pay my tuition for me. And his biggest gripe is that he’s paying tuition when I haven’t declared a major yet. But I know he wouldn’t like it if I declared any kind of art major, which is what I want. He’s dead set on me doing something “appropriate.” As a doctor, he’s pushing me hard toward anything in the medical field—since I said no to pre-med like Cal, he’s pushing for nursing. Mom’s convinced him that there are other options. Elementary education has her vote. “You could even become an art teacher,” she likes to say, thinking that’s supportive.

But that’s not what I want.

What I want is to do something fun and fulfilling, and right now that’s all art related. But apparently that’s impractical, and while they’re fine with me drawing and designing as some kind of hobby, I’m supposed to get “serious” and pick something “appropriate.”

“Having trouble deciding?” Simon’s deep voice startles me out of my contemplation of hand lettering and my parents’ expectations.

“Oh, um, kinda.” I know he’s only talking about food, but it feels like he can tell I’m undecided about so many other things. I shake off how fitting that question is for all of my thoughts and focus on food. “I think I’ll go with the bacon and egg croissant sandwich, though.” I raise my head to find the hot barista with the man bun and the lumbersexual vibe from the last time Autumn and I were here waiting to take our order. His brown eyes light up when he sees me, and I give him a warm smile. “Is that still available?”

He nods. “Sure thing. Anything else? Your usual coffee?”

I glance back at Simon, who’s currently frowning, though I don’t know why. Does he think it’s bad to drink coffee at dinnertime? Or is he frowning over another unplanned expense? Because I can buy my own coffee if it’s an issue. Dismissing my frowny companion, I nod and give the barista another smile. “Yes, please.”

“Pick out your cookies,” Simon commands gruffly, and I turn wide eyes on him, taking in his crossed arms, puffed out chest, and the way that muscle in his jaw ticks in an inconsistent rhythm. He’s all frowny and sexy and whaaaat is going on right now?

“Right,” my voice comes out hoarse, a mixture of surprise and horniness, because something about him acting like a grumpy bear really does things to me that I’d rather not contemplate too closely right now. “Right,” I repeat, firming up my voice and perusing the available cookies. The chocolate caramel swirl ones are all sold out, but there are still a few peanut butter cup ones left, plus there’s the ever-present assortment of frosted sugar cookies and some pumpkin spice ones they’ve added now that we’re well into September and pumpkin spice season.

I pick out a half dozen cookies that the barista—Will, according to his name tag—picks up with a white paper square and places in a box. I make note of Will’s name, because there’s the possibility I’ll see him outside of the bakery if he and Autumn get together, and I don’t want to be that bitch who acts like she thinks people who work service jobs are beneath her. I’m not that bitch, and I don’t want to be mistaken for her.

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