Chapter 9 Cydney
cydney
I stumble my way down to Gobble Me Up at four-fifty a.m. on Monday morning, still riding high on the kind of weekend that left me half-drunk on hormones and one hundred percent ruined for regular life.
The harsh LED over the entrance sputters as I fumble with the lock, muttering a few choice words and praying the security camera doesn’t have a microphone.
I almost chip a nail before the key finally turns, and the door swings open with a hiss of air conditioning and the ghost of cinnamon from yesterday’s madness.
I’m humming. I don’t notice at first, but I’m straight up humming as I stroll inside. Ridiculous. I should be exhausted, but nope, my body is running on pure adrenaline and filthy flashbacks.
I dump my bag on the prep counter and bask in the silence for a hot second before throwing myself into the pre-opening ritual.
First up, I punch the digital display on the main oven and wait for the familiar whoosh of heat. Within seconds, the place goes from meat locker to cozy bakery bliss.
The espresso machine gets a solid glare since it’s been misbehaving for the last few days. If she keeps this up, I’ll have to dig into my savings for a new machine.
While the machine comes to life, I grab my mixing bowls and start the banana-nut muffin batter. You’d think after three years, the recipe would be muscle memory, but I measure anyway.
Scooping the batter into tins, I let my mind wander, which is a dangerous game, because it’s all Oliver, all the time.
I can still feel his hands on me, rough but gentle, pinning me to the mattress like he’d never let go.
The way his voice went low and dark when he whispered that I was his, all his.
How I nearly lost my damn mind every time his mouth found a new place to claim.
My thighs squeeze together just thinking about it.
The only thing hotter than his dirty talk is the way he looks at me after, all soft and possessive and starved.
I slide the first tray of muffins into the oven, the heat whooshing over my face and grounding me for a second. Okay. Focus, I tell myself, but it isn’t easy since I have sore girly bits and two hickeys hidden under my thick sweatshirt—both presents from my weekend with Oliver.
I tuck a rebel strand of hair behind my ear, noting the flush in my cheeks. Not from the ovens. From the memory of how Oliver’s mouth found that exact spot and made me beg for mercy.
By the time the clock says 6:01, I’ve got the front completely ready. Muffins cooling on racks, cinnamon rolls slathered in icing so thick it could double as spackle, and the espresso machine purring like a kitten.
And somehow, somewhere in all this, I find myself replaying the rough brush of his lips behind my ear, the way he whispered “mine” before dragging me under all over again. I mop the counter, head spinning, and nearly miss the sound of a key in the lock.
Tessa is always early, but today she’s Olympic-level punctual.
She slips in, dropping her purse behind the counter and eyeing me with a devious little smirk.
“Wow. It looks like you had a good weekend.” Tessa twists into her apron and shoots me a sideways look. “Are you going to tell me about it?”
I try to play it cool, but my cheeks go nuclear. “What do you mean?” My voice cracks on the last word like I’m a middle-schooler with a crush.
Tessa just laughs, grabbing a hair tie and wrangling her curls into a shaky topknot. “Oh, please. You’re practically skipping around the kitchen. You’re usually a literal zombie in the mornings, yet today? You look like you’re floating on air.”
She slides over to the espresso machine, bumping my hip as she goes. “I want all the details,” she fires, eyebrow arched to the ceiling.
I fumble with a tray of muffins, nearly losing one to the floor. I can’t even deny it. “It’s Monday. Fall air. Magic in the ovens. Take your pick.”
Tessa snorts. “Yeah, okay. Sure, Cyd.” She grabs a mug and leans in, stage-whispering, “Neither the fall air nor magic ovens will put that kind of hickey at the base of your neck.”
Oops. I really thought my mock turtleneck hid that. I try to put my game face on, playing innocent as I set out cinnamon rolls, but I’m a lousy liar.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, but my lips twist up anyway, smile wrecking my poker face.
She’s on it like a bloodhound. “Somebody got lucky this weekend,” she sings. “And I’m gonna find out all the dirty details before we run out of espresso shots.”
I roll my eyes, shoving the pastry trays into place. “You’re impossible.”
Tessa laughs, loops an arm around my shoulder, and gives me a quick squeeze. “You love it. Now, spill the beans while I make myself a much-needed latte.”
She grabs her favorite mug and loads it up with all the good stuff. As she steams the milk, her knowing smirk grows into a full-blown grin. She isn’t going to drop it. Not for a second.
Tessa watches me over the mouth of her mug, eyes gleaming like a cat with a trapped mouse. “So, are you going to give it up, or do I have to interrogate you all day with my patented ‘you know I won’t quit’ technique?”
I try to focus on restocking the pastry case, but all I can think about is Oliver’s hands on my body, the way he pinned me down and ruined me for life.
My thighs press together just thinking about his mouth, the way he made me come so hard I saw actual stars.
Yeah, there’s no hiding anything from Tessa.
I might as well tattoo ‘Wrecked by a Sex God’ on my forehead and call it a day.
I sigh, shoving the cinnamon rolls into perfect rows. “Fine. You want the truth? I spent Saturday night with Oliver. And Sunday morning. And, uh… basically every waking moment since,” I confess, all in one mortifying mouthful. I freeze, bracing for Tessa’s reaction.
She whips around so fast she nearly sloshes espresso down her front. “Holy shit. Are you telling me you let that hottie defile you, and you didn’t text me a single detail? Rude. I demand a full recap.”
I groan, pressing both hands to my cheeks. They’re probably glowing brighter than the neon sign outside. “It just kind of… happened? One second, we were eating pizza, and the next thing I knew, he had me pinned to his couch like some Fifty Shades caveman.”
Tessa leans on the counter, eyes bugging out. “You’d better not leave out a single detail, or I swear I’ll never talk to you again.”
I feed Tessa just enough crumbs to keep her from starving—yes, he's an incredible kisser; yes, his penthouse has floor-to-ceiling windows; no, I will not describe what he looks like naked—but I guard the real treasures like a dragon with gold.
The way Oliver whispered my name against my collarbone at 3 AM.
How he traced my spine with his fingertips like he was memorizing every vertebrae.
The vulnerability in his eyes when he pulled me against his chest afterward.
Those precious, raw moments belong in a vault where only he and I have the combination.
If you want to know what Monday-morning mayhem looks like, just stand behind the counter at Gobble Me Up when the clock hits 7:00. There’s a line by the time we open, and all the customers act like caffeine is the only thing standing between civilization and the apocalypse.
But underneath my well-practiced routine, my insides feel like a champagne bottle about to blow. I keep glancing at the lobby’s giant clock, waiting for Oliver to come in.
At exactly 7:30, the front doors open, and in walks my hottie.
Time. Freaking. Stops.
His navy suit hugs him like it was made for him, shoulders sharp and lines so neat they could have been drawn on with a ruler.
Collar crisp, dark hair styled to within an inch of its life except for one wild silver streak that makes my ovaries do flips.
He scans the shop, finds me instantly, and his whole face changes.
Softens. Ignites. I almost drop a tray of scones on the floor.
For a microsecond, nothing else exists. Oliver’s gaze pins me to the spot with enough force to melt steel. My breath comes up short as my pulse hammers double time. I can feel Tessa watching from the side, probably already composing memes about my hopeless obsession.
He approaches, crowding the counter. For a second, I swear he’s going to haul me over it and devour me in front of everyone, but instead, he gives me his perfect smirk.
“Morning, Cydney.” His voice drops low, all velvet and intent, and I remember a few hours ago when he whispered those exact words while eating me out. His eyes sweep my face, and heat races up my neck.
I grip the counter to keep from wiggling. “Morning, caveman.” I try to keep it sassy, but my voice is breathy as all hell. “What can I get you?”
He leans in, bracing one massive hand on the counter like he owns the whole damn building. “Vanilla bourbon cold brew. And one of your cinnamon rolls. The biggest one you’ve got.”
The way he says “your” sends a zing from my scalp all the way to the soles of my feet. His eyes drag over my throat, pausing right where that hickey is hiding, and his jaw goes tight with satisfaction. I’m pretty sure he wants to lick it in front of everybody.
“Living dangerously this morning?” I manage, snapping up a cup before my hands start visibly shaking. I shoot him my best challenge face, which is probably more dork than diva.
He doesn’t even blink. “Always.”
Every cell in my body goes wobbly. Like, full-on melted-icing-on-a-hot-cinnamon-roll wobbly.
Our fingers brush as I slide the warm cinnamon roll across the case. The jolt is instant, and a tiny electric current zings straight to my core. My hand trembles, so I snatch it back quickly. Smooth.
Nobody says a word, but half the shop is pretending not to watch the entire thing unfold. Only in Worthington Hills.
I’m not even a little bit subtle about the way my pulse slams into overdrive. I hand off Oliver’s coffee, barely trusting my grip, and the heat in his eyes nearly sets my sweatshirt on fire. He doesn’t just look, he claims.
“Careful,” I murmur, voice cracking, “that’s enough caffeine to keep you up all night.”
He smirks, leaning in until his lips are a breath from my ear. “That’s the plan. I doubt we’ll get any more sleep tonight than we did last night.” The words hit me everywhere, my knees actually buckling.
Before he turns to leave, he leans over the counter and kisses me. Right there. In front of everyone.
It’s not a peck, either. It’s a slow, deep, possessive claim—his lips hot, his hand cupping my cheek.
For a second, the bakery goes dead silent, and all I can hear is my own heartbeat.
Well, the word’s out now. Gossip spreads like wildfire in Worthington Hills, so I’m sure everyone in town will know about my new relationship with Oliver by dinner time.
Then he’s gone, just like that, sweeping out the door with a final look that could short-circuit every appliance in the place. My hands fly to my face. I am not okay.
Nope. I’m totally in love with Oliver Burkhardt. And I couldn’t be happier.