Page 22 of Savage in the Sweets
“Can we talk about this?” he asks.
“No,” I reply back, knowing that it’s better to make him sweat a bit.
“Then can we text about it?”
I have to keep a line of communication open between us, and what better way than to insert myself into a device that he will have on him morning, noon, and night?
I give an exaggerated eye roll. “Fine.”
We pull out our phones and exchange numbers in the most disgruntled way possible, like two people that have just been in a car accident, each blaming the other.
But as irritated as Mr. Tracksuit is, he’s hardly able to hide his wayward glances directed toward my body.
Though he sure tries.
But he’s not the only one who fails to be sly. My body seems to have taken on a personality of its own, my hips jutting out, my chest pushed forward. While our minds dual, our bodies dance.
Sleeping with the enemy is quite possibly the worst thing I could do, so I make a mental note to work harder to get myself under control, but with almost a year of unwanted celibacy, I’m going to have to resort to extreme tactics. Do I need a fifth vibrator?
He finally moves out of the way so I’m able to leave, but instead of jetting out the door, I give him one last look and notice his cheeks are tinted pink.
“Is getting caught eating a candy bar really peak embarrassment to you?” I cast him a mischievous grin and waggle my brow.
His jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing at me. “I thought you said you didn’t want to talk.”
“I don’t.” I walk over to the door, pushing my body against its bulky frame to open it. “Just thought I’d get in the last word.”
Walking back to my shop, my plan begins to coalesce better than I could have hoped. Mr. Tracksuit has a weakness, one I fully intend to exploit.
And I know exactly how I’m going to do that.
Colin
It isan indisputable truth that my life became significantly more complicated after a certain blonde-haired candy maker entered the picture.
Though, admittedly, that’s not entirely fair as it wasn’t her that entered my life. I entered hers.
And declared war.
But you could hardly blame me with the crap she’s peddling on school grounds.
“Dad!” Michael calls from his bedroom.
I rush upstairs with a glass of water and a book to see him sitting up, his arms angrily crossed over his chest.
I sit on the side of his bed and hand him his water. “It took me a minute to find your book.”
“Did you message Stephanie’s mom yet?”
I exhale in frustration. “Michael, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for you to have a sleepover at their house.”
“Why?”
“Well, you’re a boy, and she’s a girl—”
“Jacob and her have sleepovers!”
It’s times like this that I hate being a single parent. Some situations are damn near impossible for me to navigate, and I have no one to bounce my concerns off of.
