Page 59 of Take A Number
“That sounds dirty.” I giggle, and then a thought hits me. “Did you say you take care of your mom?”
“Yes, I take care of her, but I feel like I’ve been doing a lot of talking, Norah. It’s your turn.” Dean straightens his glasses as he peers pointedly at me. “When did you realize you wanted to be a baker for the rest of your life?”
I reach for my beer and take a sip before I reply. “I suppose it was when I was a teenager and sold my first dozen cookies for twenty bucks.” I laugh, and a fondness creeps up in my chest when I recall the moment. “I sold them to my dad, but I guess that was all it took. I got the itch to start my own cookie business as a teenager, and the moment I realized I could make real money doing something I loved, I was hooked. After that, it was culinary school or bust.”
“And was owning your own bakery and expanding into a franchise what you were hoping for back then?”
“The franchise thing never occurred to me in the early days,” I reply honestly. “I thought having my own bakery was a big enough deal, but once national food critics arrived, I thought…man, I’ve made something that could be bigger than me. It motivated me not to just bake but to also have a brand and a concept…that’s when the take-a-number machine idea came in. Everything needs a gimmick, you know? I mean, I’m no Starbucks, but what I’m doing is working. My baked goods can be appreciated by more than just my parents now.”
Dean shoots me a knowing smirk. “Your parents really aren’t that bad, you know.”
“I know,” I groan and run my hand through my long bob. “Their hearts are in the right place. They are just so traditional, and it’s hard for them to wrap their minds around me wanting a different life than what they have.”
Dean reaches out and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “There’s nothing wrong with knowing what you want.”
I shiver beneath his touch, and the room goes eerily quiet as his words hang in the air. When it comes to business, I’ve always known what I wanted. First, it was to simply bake and eventually own my own bakery. After that, it was to perfect my croinut recipe and open a franchise for them. Now I’m gearing up to open a second location. Business goals have always been easy for me to make. Personal life goals, on the other hand, have taken the back burner.
But not now.
Right now, I’m here in a fake relationship with an attractive man I can have casual sex with, just what I need. So, what the hell am I waiting for?
I lift my eyes, and the heated look Dean’s throwing at me indicates we’re on the same page. I lean into his touch and stare at his lips as I voice the words that have been on the tip of my tongue since he opened the door tonight. “Right now, I want you.”
My body tenses at the obvious need in her voice. It’s sensual and raw, and it takes everything in me not to slide my fingers into her short wavy hair and grip it at the roots before devouring her mouth with mine. I press my elbow on the counter and lean in to whisper against her lips, “You want me to fuck you, sugar?”
“Yes,” she replies breathily and licks her plump upper lip as her eyes hood in a way that makes my cock press snugly against the back of my zipper. She inhales sharply, and adds, “But only after we clean your kitchen because sitting among this mess is slowly killing me inside.”
I pull back, completely ripped out of my sexual trance as laughter breaks free from my chest. “I’m actually impressed you held out this long.”
She shakes her head knowingly. “I knew you did this to torture me.” Narrowing flirty eyes on me, she stands and saunters into the kitchen with our bowls. I follow with the rest of the dishes and can’t help but chuckle silently to myself because she is spot-on.
I get a thrill out of pushing this woman’s buttons. When things aren’t perfect, she gets all twitchy and red because she loves to control things. Making lists, checking things off that list one by one. It’s fucking adorable, and it makes the minutes when she’s laughing and completely in the moment all that much sweeter. Too sweet actually.
So much for avoiding Norah today. I was all set to listen to my mind over my cock, but then she had to go and surprise me by making the first move and it was impossible for me to say no to her.
Big problem.
But this is casual. Our terms are clear. This is going to be fine. Maybe the more I have her, the less I’ll want her. That’s how it usually goes for me with women, and Norah will be no different.
“You need to hand wash Teflon pans,” she says as she begins filling the sink with soapy water while I toss the garbage and load the other dishes in the dishwasher.
“I’m not really a fan of high-maintenance dishes. If it doesn’t live through the dishwasher, we just weren’t meant to be.”
“Typical guy.” She shakes her head as she plunges her hands into the soapy water and starts scrubbing.
I finish wiping off the countertops and stand beside her, towering a solid foot over her when we’re both barefoot. “I can’t believe you brought a dessert tonight. I had really fancy Jell-O and Reddi-wip all ready to go in the fridge.”
Norah hunches over the sink and shakes with laughter. “Jell-O is not a dessert.”
“It is with Cool Whip on top,” I state, turning around to press my ass to the counter and crossing my arms to pin her with a glare. “Is what you brought really that much better?”
I reach over and grab the round container and pry the top off. My lips part when I see she’s brought a gorgeous round cake that is so perfect, it belongs in a cookbook. It has alternating layers of white cake, strawberries, and pink cream. The top is a thick mound of white whipped topping that I’m certain didn’t come from a can. And dead center is a spray of artfully sliced strawberries arranged into the shape of a flower.
“Okay, you win.” I groan appreciatively and swipe my finger along the edge to taste the cream. “You seriously win.”
“I should hope so.” Norah laughs and then sets the final pan in the sink to dry. She dries off her hands and turns to face me with a teasing look on her face. “I mean…it’s no tater tot casserole, but I was short on time.”
I hit her with a silent look of warning. “Norah Donahue, are you mocking my casserole?”
