Page 2 of Sweet Hate
Massive muscular arms lift me up and toss me over a broad shoulder, carrying me toward the front of the bakery, entirely unbothered by my shocked scream.
Trying to contain my upchuck reflex, I suck in short, quick breaths while ignoring the pain radiating down my arm. You’d think this would be more than enough for me to be computing, but his big, warm hand wrapped around the inside of my thigh short-circuits my brain, flooding it with visuals of those thick fingers slipping a little further up.
Bloody hell Haven, this isn’t a porno. He’s not about to maul you against the firetruck. Thank fuck he can’t read your mind.
The fire alarm finally shuts off as we walk through the smoke-filled storefront, leaving Alexa now belting out Prodigy’s “Firestarter.”
That bitch is definitely laughing at my expense.
The morning sun blinds me as we walk out of the bakery. A sense of crushing relief takes hold as I suck in fresh air. But that relief is short-lived when I remember I need to figure out how I’m going to tell Grams that instead of prepping to open the bakery, I somehow flambéed her kitchen.
This can’t be my life right now. Please let this be a hallucination or weird crazy dream.
Maybe those mozzarella sticks I ate before bed screwed me over? I pinch my arm, but nope, still here, hanging upside down.
Dammit.
My breaths quicken and my heart races, but before I can spiral into an anxiety attack, I’m off the fireman’s shoulder. I clearly need my head examined because I get a little thrill as I slide down a broad, strong chest before my feet touch the ground.
Totally not thinking about sliding down a fireman's pole.
Nope.
Absolutely no more Chicago Fire for you, you thirsty cow.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I suck in a deep breath to calm my racing heart. You know, because I almost died in a fire, and not at all because I’ve clearly turned into a sex starved shrew who gets off on rubbing up against muscular strangers.
Okay, fine. Maybe it’s a mix of both.
I have issues.
His hands grip my shoulders, making sure I’m steady before he steps away, and instantly I shiver from the loss of his body heat. My nipples pebble beneath my wet tank and I look down in mortification to discover a grave error.
The white tank top I threw on over my thin lace bra this morning is now tinged pink from my hair dye and almostentirely see through, leaving zero—and I meanzero—to the imagination.
Fuck my absolute life.
This day cannot possibly get any worse.
“Shit, I’m so sorry!!” I squint at him, my soot covered glasses preventing me from making out his features.
He’s silent for a beat before growling out, “Hurricane Haven, leaving your usual trail of destruction, I see.”
I freeze like I’ve been dunked into an ice bath—and hell, after the sprinkler shower I just had, that’s not far off.
Holy shit, it can’t be. There is no way.
Why the hell did I have to tempt fate?
I whip off my glasses, scrubbing at the lenses with my tank, and stare into familiar, piercing blue eyes. Eyes belonging to my ex-best friend. Eyes that snap down to focus on my soggy see-through top, more specifically my saluting nipples.
Wonderful. Today might have to go down as the single most mortifying day of my life so far.
Note to self: buy a padded bra.
Scrambling to cover my chest by crossing my arms, I let my eyes trail up toward his hairline, and sure enough, there’s the familiar white streak of hair visible on his forehead through the mask.
It’s definitely Axel.
