Page 32 of Cupcake of the Month
“It’s for the school paper.”
“Pulitzer material?”
“One day.” Zach’s focus went back to his laptop. “I’m interviewing Berry tomorrow and need to prepare my questions.”
“Why Berry?”
“He’s weird.” Zach’s eyes lit up. “Ever notice that he seems to know when we come home? I’m investigating why. I think he was in the military and was in charge of keeping his people safe. Or maybe he was a bat in a former life and uses echolocation or something.”
“You figure it out, you let me know.”
Josh’s phone buzzed and a thrill of anticipation went through him. He backed out of Zach’s room to peek. It was a random pop up for one of the games he played. His heart made a quick descent to the floor.
Man, he was already too far gone if even the thought of a text got him excited. Kissing Jordan had knocked him senseless, had stirred the passions he’d buried.
Frustration gnawed at him. Serving and smiling and waiting for judgement on his recipe always made him tense. Not to mention kissing a woman and having her run off afterward. He pulled on his gym clothes and wrapped his hands with athletic tape. The heavy punching bag could take the brunt of his aggravation.
He punched the bag with his left, enjoying the force of thecontact as he snapped his hand back. He did it again, then flowed into a hit from his right. And again. Soon the rhythm and footwork took over his body and freed his mind, which went back to All Things Jordan. He’d kept tabs on her over the years, checking her social media and bringing up the Shoenover Strategic Management website to see her client list growing. He did the right thing by leaving. She never would have been successful if they were together. Being with him would’ve given her credibility issues.
Once his muscles were jelly and his knuckles stung, he peeled the tape off his bruised fingers. He had gone too hard on the bag. Or maybe not, since Jordan was still pervasive in his mind. He hopped into the shower, maneuvering under the thin trickle of water. The warmth finished soothing the aches in his body and swirled the scent of meatballs down the drain. When he was clean, he grabbed a pair of boxers, then smacked his pillow a few times to even out the lumps.
No harm in checking in. Make sure she got home okay. See if she would ignore him.
And dammit, he couldn’t help himself.
Hey, Jay.
There. Short and sweet, polite but not probing. And not a burden on his monthly text allotment. He put the phone on the wood floor and picked upThe Three Musketeers. Before his parents fled, before he became Zach’s guardian, video games and movies and driving his flashy car and going out drinking were his forms of entertainment. After, when money was tight and he had to think about more than his own needs, the library had become his social center. Books were free but filled with riches that didn’t drain his funds.
He was halfway through the chapter when his phone buzzed back.Josh, right?
He cracked a smile. But now that she’d responded, he didn’tknow what to say. He could ask about her enjoyment of the chicken meatball. He could cajole her into sharing what had made her cagey earlier so he could help her decide what to do.
Before he had kissed her and maybe made things worse.
She solved his problem for him by texting first.No extracurricular baking for you tonight?
Ooh, ouch. He didn’t want to confess the truth. Let her think he got his jollies by picking up rich women at catering events, by letting them use his body in exchange for a nightly thrill. It would be easier if she were disgusted with him.I like to go at least 24 hrs between kissing different women.
He could go another eight years between women since tasting Jordan again. There had never been another like her.
When she didn’t answer immediately, he picked up his book again, but reading was a farce. For once, the high-adventure world of Dumas didn’t transport him. He was too busy waiting for a response.
Sorry I ruined your timeline.
He could hear prim and proper in her voice. Ruin was too mild a word. She would have destroyed it, demolished its existence with her mere presence.
His thumbs hovered over the touchscreen. The desire to keep this fragile connection with her kept his mind working to find the right thing to say. Before he could write anything else, the dots on his screen winked at him, indicating she was typing.
It would be rude to interrupt.
The dots stopped their movement, but no text came through, leaving him hanging. He raised his head and slammed it back into the pillow a few times.
When the dots appeared again, euphoria of her participation eased over his body.
Actually, I’m really not.
He sat up so fast the book tumbled to the floor. What didthat mean?
