Chapter 8 Oliver
oliver
It’s the smell of her that gets me. Sugar and skin, vanilla warmth, maybe a hint of last night’s madness woven into the sheets.
I surface from sleep slowly, like I’m dragging myself through honey, and she’s right there—one arm flung across my chest, one silky, perfect thigh tangled between my legs.
Cydney is pressed so close it feels like she’s trying to fuse us into one person.
My first thought is I’m dreaming followed closely by don’t fuck it up.
I don’t move, not at first. I just lie here, soaking her in.
Her hair is wild, a silky dark mess everywhere, splayed across my pillow and sticking to my neck.
Her cheek fits against my chest exactly like it was made for that spot.
Her breath is soft and even, little flutters that match the rhythm of my own pulse.
She’s wearing nothing at all, and neither am I, but it’s not even about the sex right now.
It’s something bigger. Deeper. Like waking up next to her just reset the whole axis of my universe, and I want to wake up just like this every day for the rest of my life.
I drag a hand through her hair, unable to resist. Strands slip through my fingers, silky and warm. She hums in her sleep, snuggling closer, and I swear to God, my heart beats just for her.
She’s really here. In my bed. Wrapped around me like she’s already staked her claim.
I’ve never in my life wanted to hold on to something so badly.
But there’s a knot low in my gut—anxiety, or maybe pure self-sabotage—whispering that it’s all too soon. Maybe I’m bulldozing forward like some desperate idiot? Except, hell, I don’t care. I want her here tomorrow, and the next day, and maybe every goddamn morning after that.
She stirs. Just a tiny shift, bringing her soft curves flush against me. My cock wakes up and hardens. I want to wake her up with my mouth, my hands, every single inch of me, but I force myself to hold still.
Let her sleep, genius. She needs her rest.
I memorize the moment—her, sprawled and content, mouth slightly open, a little line of drool at the corner of her lips. My tough, sassy bakery queen, drooling on my chest and not giving a single fuck who sees. I love it. I want to tease her about it, but not yet.
My pulse slows, matching hers, and for a weird, perfect second, I can almost picture what life would look like if this became a routine. Waking up to sugar and sweat and the scent of her skin, every morning, forever. The thought should terrify me, but it doesn’t. It feels right.
I close my eyes. Just for another minute.
It’s her goddamn phone buzzing that wakes me the fuck up.
She moves slowly, stretching against me like a cat, her entire body arching with pure, unconscious confidence. Her hair fans over my chest, and her leg slides higher, not even close to subtle.
Her lips brush my collarbone, lazy, warm. I groan. Not on purpose. She freezes, then looks up, eyes blinking wide open and perfectly brown, a little blurry with sleep.
“Morning,” she mumbles, voice rough and adorable and instantly the hottest sound I’ve ever heard.
Fuck me. My heart skips.
I tighten my arm around her, like I’m afraid she’ll slip away. “Morning, sweetheart.” My own voice is deeper than usual, softer, which is saying something. “Sleep okay?”
She burrows in, hiding her face against my chest. “Best sleep I’ve had in… maybe ever.” The words come out muffled, shy, but I catch every one. I grin into her wild hair. “I hate having to get up, but I have to work at eight.”
I groan, tightening my grip like I can physically keep her in bed. “Call in sick. You need another hour of sleep after last night. Maybe two.”
She laughs, muffled against my chest, and the sound vibrates straight to my cock. “Tessa will kill me if I let her face the entire Saturday rush alone.”
God help me, I’d burn down Worthington Hills just to keep her here another day. “She’ll survive.”
She tips her head up, eyes all sleep-hazed and mischievous, and slaps my chest with the back of her hand. “I see how you are. Trying to corrupt a hardworking businesswoman. For shame.”
I grin, running my fingers along her back, tracing the line of her spine. “I just have a selfish streak. Especially when it comes to you.” That’s the damn truth.
She makes a little pleased noise and stretches, arching her tits right against my side. Holy hell. I can’t stomach letting her out of my sight. I’m not letting her walk out of here alone. No damn way.
She starts to roll out of bed, all soft curves and sleepy sass, but I catch her around the waist and haul her right back against my chest. “You’re not going anywhere without me,” I growl, nuzzling her neck.
“I’ll walk you down.” She giggles and swats at my hands, but she’s not fooling anybody.
She melts right into me for a second before finally wriggling free.
While she gets dressed, I pull on sweats and grab my laptop. If she’s spending the day hustling at Gobble Me Up, then so am I. I’ll take meetings, bang out reports, whatever the hell it takes—as long as I get to watch her run the show.
The second we hit the bakery, I stake out a table in the corner.
Best seat in the house. Every time she flashes a grin or laughs with a customer, I get a straight shot of adrenaline to the chest. I can’t focus on work for shit.
All I want to do is watch her. Every toss of her hair, every sassy comeback, every time she slides her hands over a tray of pastries and flashes that megawatt smile at the next customer in line.
If anyone even looks at her sideways, my inner caveman threatens to leap over the counter and stake my claim right there in the middle of the bakery.
It’s honestly a miracle I get anything done.
She catches me staring at least a dozen times before noon, and each time, she just grins that slow, dangerous grin like she knows exactly what effect she’s having. Spoiler alert: she totally does.
The Saturday rush is a total circus. Worthington Hills turns out in force for the carbs and caffeine.
Mrs. Jenkins from the sixth floor comes down, then three high school football players annihilate an entire tray of muffins in two minutes flat, and the next customer in line orders two dozen pumpkin muffins.
While Tessa waits on them, Cydney whizzes by and slides fresh ones into the case like she’s playing a rigged game of Whack-a-Mole.
She’s a baking machine. Laughing, hustling, hips swaying, every damn motion sexy as hell. I can’t look away. Not that I’m trying. I clock every guy who even glances at her a second too long. Motherfucker, I see you. Try that again, and I’ll break your jaw with a day-old scone.
There’s almost a brawl at the counter midmorning over the last pumpkin scone, and Cydney just turns up the charm, defusing the situation like a pro.
She catches me staring and winks, sending all the blood in my body straight to my cock.
My erection grows steadily harder, and I have to adjust my sweats so I don’t lose circulation down there.