Chapter 6
Elena
H earts & Grinds seems busy this morning, the line stretching nearly to the door. After last night in Jake's truck, bringing him coffee and Dana's famous cinnamon rolls seems like the least I can do. My cheeks warm at the memory of his mouth on me, the way the windows fogged with our breath.
“Two cinnamon rolls and two lattes, please. Those cinnamon rolls are amazing,” I tell Dana as I reach the counter. Ryder's truck - borrowed after Jake texted asking if I wanted to “help” him work this morning - sits in the parking lot.
Dana winks as she boxes up the cinnamon rolls. “I hear you’re partly responsible for Jake showing up at Rachel and Isabella's party. That’s fantastic!”
Before I can respond, I catch snippets of conversation from two women at a nearby table.
“...Jake Foster. Can you believe he's actually seeing someone?”
“That New York girl who came with Rachel? I heard she's just here visiting. No way he'll let anyone get close enough to-”
I tune them out, uncomfortable with hearing gossip about Jake. But something nags at me as I climb into the truck and follow the GPS directions to his place.
The drive to Jake's property zips by, the morning sun painting the mountains gold. He's already outside when I pull up, loading tools into his truck. The sight of him in worn jeans and another tight flannel shirt makes my mouth go dry.
“Told you I'd make it worth your while if you came by early,” he calls out, watching me climb down from Ryder's truck.
“Oh? And here I thought the 'helping' you mentioned involved actual work.” I hold up the paper bag. “I brought sustenance.”
He stalks toward me with a predatory grace that sends heat pooling low in my belly. “Sweetheart, I can think of much better ways to work up an appetite.”
“Can you now?” I back up against Ryder's truck as he cages me in with his arms.
“Mhmm.” He leans down, lips brushing my ear. “Been thinking about last night. About how good you taste.”
The paper bag crinkles as my grip tightens. “The coffee's getting cold.”
“Don't care.” His mouth finds my neck, and I gasp. “Rather have you for breakfast.”
The sound cuts through the morning air - helicopter blades chopping overhead. Jake goes rigid, his whole body tensing. The playful heat vanishes, replaced by something distant and haunted.
“Jake?” I touch his arm gently.
“Don't.” He jerks away, voice sharp. His eyes are fixed skyward, tracking the helicopter as it passes over the property.
I stand frozen, unsure what to do. The sound fades gradually, and with it, the tension in Jake's shoulders. He runs a hand over his face, letting out a shaky breath.
“Sorry,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes. “Not a fan of helicopters.”
There's clearly more to it, but I don't push. “Coffee?”
His smile returns, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Thanks.” He takes the bag and cup, then pulls me close with his free arm. “Come here.”
He kisses me thoroughly, making me forget all about the strange moment that just passed. “Let’s go in. I'll show you exactly what kind of 'helping' I had in mind.”
Inside, Jake places the coffee and pastries on the counter, then turns to me with dark hunger in his eyes. His hands grip my waist, lifting me onto the cool granite of his kitchen island.
“Been dreaming of tasting you again,” he growls against my neck, stepping between my thighs. His fingers trail up my legs, teasing along the seam of my jeans. “Going to make you scream for me this time.”
My breath catches as his teeth graze my pulse point. Every touch sets my skin on fire, and we're still fully clothed. His hands slide under my top, calloused palms warm against my ribs, and I arch into him.
“Jake...” His name comes out half-plea, half-moan.
“These need to come off. Now.” His voice is rough as he works open my jeans. “Lift those hips for me, baby. That's it.”
I obey, letting him slide my jeans and underwear down my legs. The air is cool on my heated skin, but his hands are warm as they stroke back up my thighs, spreading them wider. The look in his eyes makes me tremble - pure hunger mixed with something deeper that makes my heart race.
“Mine,” he growls, his mouth tracing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. “I want to hear every little sound you make.” His teeth graze my skin. “Going to make you fall apart on my tongue.”
Before I can respond, his mouth is on me. My fingers thread through his hair as he works me with slow, deliberate strokes. Every time I get close, he backs off, until I'm practically crying with need.
“Jake, please...”
“Eyes on me,” he commands, and when I meet his gaze, the intensity there steals my breath. “Don't look away. I want you to watch while I make you come.”
He slides two fingers inside me as his mouth returns, and I cry out at the dual sensation. My thighs shake as he curls his fingers just right again, his tongue working me higher and higher. When he hums against me, the vibration sends me over the edge. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me and I scream his name until I'm boneless on his counter.
After I've caught my breath and fixed my clothes, Jake retrieves the massive cinnamon rolls I brought. The smell of butter and cinnamon fills his tiny kitchen as he makes coffee in an old drip machine.
“Sorry about the food getting cold,” he says with a grin that suggests he's not sorry at all.
“Worth it,” I reply, accepting the mug of black coffee he hands me. It's nothing fancy, but somehow it's perfect in this cozy cabin kitchen.
While Jake's back is turned, reaching for plates in the cabinet, his phone lights up on the counter. I catch a glimpse of the screen - something about investment portfolios and a trust disbursement. The number makes me blink twice. Eight figures. A lot of zeros.
My mouth goes dry. That can't be right. Jake's a contractor who lives in a tiny cabin. He drives a beat-up truck and wears worn jeans...
He turns back and catches my expression. “Everything okay?”
“I... your phone...” I stammer, gesturing at the device.
His face changes as he realizes what I must have seen. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That's not... I should probably explain.”
“Explain what?” I ask, though I already know. Him owning so much property makes more sense now.
“I inherited some money a few years back. From a great-aunt with no kids.” He looks uncomfortable for the first time since I've known him. “I don't usually tell people. I like my life the way it is - doing honest work, living simply. The money... it doesn't change who I am.”
I tear a piece off my cinnamon roll, processing this new information. The man who just rocked my world on his kitchen counter is apparently worth millions. And he chooses to live in a cabin and work with his hands.