The Sweet Addiction Series Collection: Sweet Addiction, Sweet Possession & Sweet Obsession (107 page)

Her head lifts. She winces at the memory. “Christ, that hangover was epic. I thought I was dying.”

We share a brief, quiet laugh. Hers more fleeting than mine. She’s still too anxious to soften for me.

I slide my fingers lower and gently squeeze her hand. “I know I ask a lot of you. I know I have since the beginning, but I think you rather enjoy yourself when you stop thinking so much about what this is and just fucking be with me. Stop thinking, Brooke.”

“I can’t,” she whispers, tugging her hand away, her gaze drifting to the table. “I can’t stop thinking. Trust me, I’m trying, okay? But it’s not happening. Not today.” She bites at her lip and slouches against the back of her stool. “I just need . . .”

“A minute?” I suggest, drawing her eyes back to my face. I faintly smile.

I hear you, baby.

She stares at me, frowning. “Yeah,” she replies through a small nod, her voice incredibly quiet. “A minute.”

I push at her cup, sliding it closer.

An offer of coffee and company, minus the conversation. Somehow I think this is a better option for Brooke rather than what I’ve been working around to this entire time.

Talking until she understands how ridiculous her worries are. How she doesn’t need to label us if she doesn’t want to yet, just as long as she acknowledges and admits to everyone in this bloody coffee shop that she is mine as much as I am hers. Once she’s done that, we can take her announcement to the street, let the general population know. Venture out to neighboring cities and alert the media . . .

Okay, maybe that last part is a bit of a pipe dream. I’ll be fucking ecstatic with one broad declaration to the masses.

Or to me. Hearing her tell
me
will be enough.

Brooke regards the coffee, her expression soft and timid. Finally reaching out with both hands, she brings it to her mouth and takes a long sip. I do the same with mine, watching her, wanting to be closer so I can smell her hair and that vanilla cupcake body lotion she slathers on herself.

She turns her head and reveals the long slope of her neck. Her pale throat.

Desire hums in my blood.

Fuck, I love kissing her there.

I swallow a heaping gulp of coffee.

She needs a minute? I need a bloody minute.

Clearing all indecency from my thoughts and willing my cock not to react, I watch her dimple cave in with her next sip.

Time passes. We embrace the silence between us, only it’s not contented or easy like it’s always been. I can practically hear her mind analyzing and overanalyzing, considering labels and then dismissing them with dishonest perception.

I have to bite my tongue to keep from speaking. I know how easily I can shoot this nonsense down. How concluding my argument is.

I’m in love with you. We’re damn near perfect together, and you know it. Stop fighting this and come home with me.

Brooke taps on the side of her cup and stares between the window and the phone she places in front of her, every few minutes or so noting the time.

I finish my coffee and debate on getting another. I have a feeling my afternoon classes will be demanding and unusually difficult to focus on. Maybe a massive caffeine boost will help. My attention already wanders absentmindedly to thoughts of Brooke when I’m supposed to be instructing.

The curve of her hips. Her cute laugh. The way her tongue always tastes of sugar.

Knowing she’s across the street questioning us might be enough to distract me entirely.

Might be? Who am I kidding? I’m tempted to clear out my schedule and spend the rest of the day convincing her. Erase all doubt from her mind as my hands roam her body, as I press the most vulgar words I can think of into the flush of her skin.

That sounds like a brilliant plan.

Licking the mocha off her lips, Brooke checks the time again, abruptly standing and palming her device. She grabs her nearly empty coffee. “I need to get back before I lose my job. Dylan already has cause to fire me. I accidentally yelled at her earlier.” She looks away, muttering, “I’m yelling at everyone.”

I touch her wrist. She quickly jerks her hand up and adjusts her pony.

A subtle, yet not so subtle move to keep me from touching her? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just becoming paranoid.

“All right then.” I stand and toss my cup into a nearby rubbish bin. Following her to the door, I hold it open and allow her to walk out ahead of me.

She steps onto the footpath. When she glances in my direction, I gesture down the street.

“I’m just down there. Where did you park? I’ll walk you.”

“Um.” She looks up at me, her eyes careful. Both of her hands holding her cup. “Maybe you don’t?” she quietly suggests.

Maybe I don’t?

I feel my eyebrows raise in surprise, my lips slowly part, though I’m not sure why. I should be expecting this.

She said so in the coffee shop. In so many words, with her stiff, averse body language, she needs me to back off a bit. Give her some time.
Her minute.
Honestly, it’s the last thing I want to do, but what choice do I have here? I want Brooke to acknowledge on her own what this is for her.

What I am to her.

I need her to say it. I won’t force the words I’ve been waiting for out of Brooke. I won’t push her when she’s obviously struggling more than ever with this right now.

I won’t push her like I did this past weekend. Never again.

I have to rely on what I feel, how bloody sure I am of us. That’s the only way I’m going to be able to step off and leave her be while she takes her minute, which apparently begins right fucking now.

She wants time? I can give her time, if it’ll help move this along.

I’ll give her whatever she wants.

I push a rough hand through my hair. My fingers slide down to my neck where I grip harshly at the skin. “Right. I almost forgot. I can’t do our breakfast tomorrow.”

Our breakfast.

Jesus Christ. I’m bailing on this again. I can’t catch a break with this fucking day.

Brooke studies me, lowering her coffee after taking a sip. Her mouth pulls into a frown.

She looks . . . disappointed?

No. That can’t be. Why would she look disappointed? Taking a bloody minute involves distance. I’m giving her that.

I drop my hand and continue with my lie.
This fucking sucks.
“Since I canceled classes on Saturday while we were away camping, I decided to add on a few early ones this week to make up for it. I didn’t want to lose any potential clients. It would’ve been bad business not to offer.”

In my mind, I try and remember the names of some of my attendees who requested classes before sunrise. There was at least a handful of them, business women who work long hours in the city and have difficulty getting home at a decent time. Weekends are usually spent with family, so they inquired about something before work. I told them I would consider it.

Maybe I could quickly throw something together for tomorrow so I don’t feel so terrible about making this up.

I rub at my jaw.

Come on, mate. She wants a breather. Look at her. Look how she’s acting. She would’ve canceled on you anyway.

“That’s really early. People are insane wanting to workout instead of sleep.” Brooke looks down the footpath, her gaze possibly following the couple who just strolled past, hand in hand. Making it look simple.

We can have that. Be that.

All too quickly, she lowers her eyes back to her cup.

“Mm.” I look away and observe the world around us.

Cars go zipping down the street and a few bicyclists zoom past in a blur. The sun peers out from behind a cloud. Warmth spreads across my neck and down my forearms.

It’s a gorgeous day, but I’m too tense now to enjoy it. My shoulders are tight and my back aches. Hopefully my next four classes will help with that.

“Well.” Brooke turns her head, her pony flopping against her shoulder. She lifts her cup and weakly smiles up at me. “Thanks for the coffee. I should go.”

Instinctively, and just because I really fucking want to, I move to lean in and kiss her, but catch myself before she seems to notice my intentions. Straightening and shoving my hands in my pockets, I give her a quick nod. “I’ll see you around then.”

I think I see something, maybe a glint of a distaste for my bullshit impersonal goodbye. Whatever it is, it’s gone before I can analyze it, and so is Brooke.

She turns without saying another word. Without giving me another glance.

I watch the soft sway of her hips until she disappears around a corner. I saunter in the direction of my car, my hands curling in my pockets. Tensing, releasing, and tensing again. I think about how else I could’ve responded to Brooke’s irresolution just now. How I could’ve reacted differently, and if it would’ve mattered.

I think about it all afternoon.

Through four classes, while I struggle to keep my attention off the studio window and the bakery across the street, I picture Brooke’s face on the footpath when I first found her out there.

Those big, rolling tears wetting her cheeks. Her quivering lip. The way she startled when I approached her.

I remember the feel of her hands on my chest as she shoved me off, yelling about how she doesn’t know men like me.

Good, I recall thinking. I want to be the only one.
Her
only one.

Seven o’clock rolls around. Stragglers from the last class finally gather their towels and water bottles and exit the studio. I shut and lock the door, allowing myself one glance across the street.

One more glance.

The lights are off in the bakery. Brooke’s probably home by now. Or out, erasing me from her memory. Replacing me . . .

The thought makes me nauseous. I take a long, hot shower and heat up some soup for dinner.

Sitting at my kitchen table with my bowl in front of me, my laptop opened, I update my website and send out a newsletter via email, informing subscribers of the additional class tomorrow morning.

Maybe I’ll at least have one person show. That’s enough to transform this lie into a truth.

I swirl my spoon around the bottom of the bowl, stirring up the vegetables. Just as I’m about to close out of my email, a new message shows up in my inbox. The sender,
[email protected]
, heightens my intrigue.

The small bookstore down the street.

I move the mouse and open up the message, quickly scanning the short paragraph.

Trish, the owner I met a few weeks back, has mentioned my class to her daughter, who in turn informed her roommates. Excitement is brewing. They are all interested in attending and are hoping for something this week. Maybe something permanent, if they all enjoy it.

My first smile in hours stretches across my mouth. A lightness moves through me.

I type out my response, my suggestion of a day and time. I allude to my enthusiasm as well, and welcome any parents or siblings, offering my standard ‘first class on me’ discount. I send the email and grab my phone to shoot out a quick text to my sister, Ellie, as I pad toward my bed.

She’ll be so excited about this.

I sit on the edge of the mattress with my phone in my hand. Instead of opening up a new text, my thumb hovers over the last message from Brooke. I hesitate, then press on the screen to enlarge it.

Brooke: I’m a genius. Let’s camp out in your loft! That way I can enjoy the tent (and you) and I won’t even have to be outside. FANFUCKINGTASTIC idea, yeah? ;)

Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my legs and stare at the screen. I read the message two more times. I breathe deeply, evenly as I picture Brooke admiring the tent pitched in the corner of my room.

By the window, obviously. I’d like her to see the stars.

She climbs in excitedly and tugs on my hand. We tumble down together onto the soft, billowy sleeping bag and clutch at each other. Clothes are stripped. I taste her skin, nuzzling my mouth between her legs. My hands fit to her curves, squeezing her hips, her breasts. She explores my body with her eyes and wild touch, dragging her nails across my back, arching off the floor and writhing against my tongue.

Our wanting is vigorous. Our desire frenzied.

I fall back onto the bed, closing my eyes and reliving that moment as if it were real.

As if it still could be real.

BROOKE

After my emotional collapse in the middle of the city, I leave Mason on the sidewalk and hurry to my car.

I just want to keep to myself the rest of the day. I need space to think, to get a hold on things. Calm the fuck down and breathe a little.

If I had any sick leave left, which I don’t, thanks to my bout of pneumonia this past winter, I would fake an illness and head home instead of back to the bakery.

I don’t want to talk . . . to anyone.

I’m expecting Joey and Dylan to bombard me with questions and clever little comments when I step through the door, but surprisingly, they leave me alone. I don’t have to ask. It’s strange. Maybe they can hear my tangle of thoughts. Maybe they received a call from Vince and he’s filled them in on my enormously unprofessional outburst, or maybe I just look two seconds away from needing a straitjacket.