Still Mine: A Second Chance Romance (The Lasker Brothers)

Chapter One

Bobbi

Every time I tell someone that my dream is to (a) own a bakery, (b) get married and (c) have as many babies as possible, people look at me like I’m sprouting broccoli from my forehead. Apparently, those things simply can’t be what a girl like me wants.

There’s nothing soft on me. My breasts will never look bigger than a B, no matter how much I spend on pushup bras “guaranteed to create cleavage that would make Dolly Parton jealous.” And I’m never going to have the gorgeous flaring hips that so many of my celebrity clients had.

Six feet of mostly sinew and muscle means physicality and strength. I’m those things—I was also a nationally ranked judoka in high school, and worked for a while as a bodyguard for some of Hollywood’s more famous faces.

Still, that doesn’t mean I can’t dream of the softer things in life. And work to get them. “Live your life to the fullest” were my mother’s final words to me, and I’m going to honor her wish, even if we didn’t have the best relationship.

Now one goal is about to become a reality—Bobbi’s Sweet Things. Up to now I’ve only done relatively small items like birthday and wedding cakes without an actual physical store to sell them from. But tomorrow, the very first location is going to open in downtown L.A., complete with a ceremony and after-party to celebrate.

The timer dings over the sound of my favorite Latin playlist. “Oh, yeah…” I go to pull golden croissants out of the oven. A heavenly smell fills my kitchen, and I close my eyes to appreciate it fully. Then I visualize what everything is going to be like tomorrow:

A bakery full of delicious fresh bread and pastries and cakes. Cupcakes with colorful frosting, each one with unique and interesting decorations. I don’t just want my creations to be tasty; I want the kind of creations that my customers will loathe to eat because they’re just that pretty—the ultimate sensory experience.

Excitement fizzes through me like soda from a freshly popped can.

“You never change.”

I open my eyes. That damn velvety voice. Never thought I’d hear it in my kitchen again.

I turn around. Noah is standing there, butt propped against the sink. Dark eyebrows slanted at the most perfect angle; eyes brilliant in the bright light of my kitchen. They seem to change color depending on what he’s wearing, the weather and maybe other random factors—right now, they’re polished silver. A gray shirt made of some silken material fits his wide shoulders and flows over his perfect torso. I’ve felt that body more than a few times, up close and very personal, and always marveled at how powerful and tireless it was. Hard to believe he’s a wildlife photographer. I joked once that he got his stamina from running away from hungry lions, and he laughed, then kissed me like he couldn’t stop himself from showering me with affection.

His gaze softens, and he smiles, his beautiful mouth curving into the slanted grin that never fails to make my heart hop and spin.

“How did you get in?” I ask in my coolest voice, not wanting him to know how his presence affects me.

“You gave me a key, remember?”

He sounds playful, which is both painful and a relief. He forgot about coming to pick me up when I was discharged from the hospital after getting shot in the belly. Same story with having drinks together after I’d had a particularly nasty incident involving a client’s ex—one who’d decided to run both me and the client over. Both times he had to be out of the country to film cheetahs. But at least Noah hasn’t lost the key I gave him. So that means he must care about what we had…at least a little bit, right?

“The cheetahs couldn’t keep you in…wherever…?” I wave my hand vaguely, hiding all the old doubts and disappointments behind a light tone.

“Cheetahs wait for no one, but…” His boyish smile is charming enough to sell sand in the Sahara.

I do my best to fix a matching smile to my face. “And me?” I don’t mean to sound needy and desperate, like I’ve been emotionally clinging to him, but the chiding question rolls out of my mouth anyway.

A hint of guilt cracks the light, winsome mask on his gorgeous face, revealing raw affection underneath. It gives me hope that I haven’t imagined this connection between us. Some men are forgetful, but that doesn’t mean they don’t care.

“Bobbi,” he whispers, then “Adiós Amor” plays from the speakers. I go still as sweet memories of when we first met in Mexico flow through me. I was trying to sort myself out after my father’s death, and having a hard time since I didn’t know how to feel about the loss of a man who was more stranger than family. How Noah made me laugh, made me feel special. Somebody had a party on the beach, and this song played, and we danced to it—our first—under a night sky brilliant with stars and beside an ocean whose waves were limned with the light of a thousand tiny sea creatures.

Noah reaches out, takes me tenderly in his arms like he did on that wet, silky sand, and we sway to the music. He feels so good, all warmth and strength, even though I can’t rely on any of it. But that doesn’t mean being wrapped up in him won’t soothe the searing, jagged edges of my heart, so gingerly I place my arms around him, too. With a shuddering sigh, he drops his head, resting his face in the crook of my neck. I’m tall, but he’s taller, even when I’m in heels. I’ve always loved that about him. There aren’t many men who can physically overwhelm me, but he qualifies.

“My light,” he whispers. Whenever he calls me that, my insides turn to mush. He has an inexplicable power to make me believe I’m as important to him as light itself. His breath feathers over my neck, and my whole body goes tingly. His lips brush my jaw, then my cheek and finally my mouth. I sigh softly with longing—realizing how much I miss him and this connection we have, even though part of me grieves that I’m the only one feeling and yearning for it. His tongue glides into my mouth, and I taste him, shivers spreading over me. Our mouths fuse as if we’ve never been apart, and he holds me like I’m the most precious treasure in his life. I can almost believe it as we sway to the music and share our breath and heat and presence.

Then his arms tighten around me, and his erection rubs against my belly, over the scar from my bullet wound. A small groan tears from his throat, and I want to cling to him.

Come on, girl. He’s just here for your body,the cold logical voice in my head points out, with a disapproving tut-tut.

The possibility hits me like a bucket of ice water, and the dreamy mental cocoon shatters. I pull away. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

He blinks a few times, a picture of innocent confusion. But I’m not buying it. Not after so many broken promises.

Thankfully “Adiós Amor” ends, and another, more upbeat, song comes on. Something like awareness and surprise fleets over his gorgeous face, and he shakes his head with a rueful laugh. “You think I’m here for sex?”

“Part of you sure seems to be.”

“She says, stiffly,” he responds. He shakes his head. “I was dancing with you in my arms. Of course I got hard. That doesn’t mean I’m here for sex, especially if you don’t want it.” He adds the last part like it pains him. But I’m probably imagining that—I’ve been wanting a genuine emotion from him for a long time. And sure enough, he smiles. “I love you, you know.”

It hits me like a rabbit punch, even though he’s said it many times before. Always lightly and brightly, without any weight. But when I heard it the first time, I didn’t know any better than to believe it, to dream of a beautiful future together—him and me creating a family with children at some point.

It didn’t take too long before I realized his idea of “love” was nothing like mine. If he really loved me, he wouldn’t have let me down over and over again.

“You need to go.” My tone is brisk to hide the achiness in my heart. “I have to get some sleep. Early start tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I heard about your bakery opening. I’m really proud of you for making your dream a reality.”

“You know about that?” I’ve done some advertising, but why would he notice? And it isn’t like he’s been around for me to tell him. Noah can be surprisingly perceptive, but also totally oblivious at times. During our first few months, I thought he was the former, but as time went on I began to realize with an increasingly excruciating sting to my heart that the latter was more common…

At least with me.I was an open book with him—kind of embarrassing, but my fault for letting my guard down.

He plucks a croissant from the pan and takes a bite. “Jesus. This is like crack. I”ve missed your baking so much. I’d sell my soul for this stuff.”

My insides flutter, and my mind wants to interpret his comment to mean he missed me so much, too. It’s irritating as hell because I should know better.

“If the stuff at your bakery is half as good as this, you’re gonna make a killing,” he says with a grin.

“Thanks,” I say gruffly. Do not let his compliment warm your foolish heart.

“I’ll be there to congratulate you.”

“Wait… You’re coming?”

“Of course! I want to be the first person to congratulate you. And bring you your favorite flowers.”

“My favorites, huh? Do you know what they are?” I cock an eyebrow.

“White calla lilies,” he says promptly with an I-know-everything-about-you smile. His eyes darken with profound affection as he looks at me, and the wall inside me weakens. This man knows how to lay siege to my emotions.

Still, hope swells. We’ve never talked about what flowers I like, so for him to know that means he must’ve been observing and thinking about me.

Maybe this time will be different, and hewill be there.

* * *

The next morning, colorful flowers are everywhere inside my new store. But none of them are white calla lilies.

My friend Yuna comes with her husband, Declan. She’s a Korean chaebol heiress, and one of the biggest champions of my dream. As usual, she’s dressed to the nines in a gorgeous designer ensemble that fits her slim body beautifully, a cute wide-brimmed hat completing the outfit. A pair of stylish heels encase her small feet—but then I’ve never seen her in flats. She hugs me with a small excited squeal. “This is incredible! I’m so happy for you!”

Declan nods and smiles, lifting a half-eaten éclair and looking like some kind of advertisement for the pastry. But then he used to be an underwear model before he turned to acting. “This is amazing. The best I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you.” I smile brightly, even though it’s hard to focus on what’s going on.

Where is Noah?

When Yuna and her husband chat with some other guests, I check my phone to see if Noah texted to let me know he’d be late. Nothing.

My belly pinches. It’s been two hours since the party started. If he was going to come, he’d be here by now, so that he could be one of the people who congratulated me, if not the first like he said.

The door chimes as it opens, and my eyes dart to it, my heart trembling with uncertain hope again, only to deflate fast. It’s Ivy—another good friend—coming back in after taking a call outside.

He’s not coming.

The buoyant sensation I had earlier this morning has ebbed away. Every time the door opens and it isn’t him, bitter disappointment slices another sliver off my heart.

When the party ends, my friends and guests begin to leave, giving me hugs, wishing me well. I say goodbye with a smile so professionally frozen it actually hurts my cheeks. If anybody notices, they don’t say anything. They probably just figure I’m nervous.

Customers come in all day. As soon as they take a bite of the samples, their eyes widen, then they grab whatever is calling their name the loudest. When the last person finally leaves, I lock the front door and stand in the empty store, my legs sore from being on my feet for hours without a break. I’m going to have to get busy tomorrow to restock. Everything sold out, even the crusty multi-wheat bread, which was a pleasant surprise. But instead of feeling like a million bucks, I tighten my jaw and tap my fingers on the cool countertop for I don’t know how long as thoughts churn through my head.

He didn’t come. No text. No flowers.

The special mini-cake I baked for the two of us—to share later, in private—mocks me from its silver tray. The dancing modeling chocolate couple seems like a monument to my ludicrous hope that this time would be different. But how was I supposed to know? He said he’d come yesterday. He knew my favorite flower. And he was so sincere.

But then when was he evernot sincere?

Sudden rage erupts, incinerating what feelings I still have. I dump the cake in the trashcan. It breaks into ugly pieces, the couple upside down with chocolate frosting splattering the girl’s face, like she’s been made the butt of a joke.

Who am I kidding? Nobody made me the butt of a joke. I let myself be one.

I let out a shuddering breath as I struggle to swallow my tears. One of the most important moments in my life, and it basically meant nothing to him. Waiting is hard, but waiting for someone who never comes is just wretched. I gave a man who doesn’t care the power to ruin what should’ve been an amazing celebration.

Never again.

Impatiently, I wipe the tears streaming down my face. It’s well past time I cut Noah loose. Forever.