Chapter 1 #2
He makes a low sound, almost like agreement, and shakes his head. “You’re better off without him.”
The words hit me in the chest. Simple. Firm. No pity, just certainty.
I shrug one shoulder, pretending my eyes aren’t stinging. “Tell that to the part of me that wasted ten years on a guy who thought ‘foreplay’ was two minutes of awkward groping and sloppy kisses.”
His brows pull together, and something protective flares in his expression. “He cheated on you.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.
“For a year,” I confirm. “With some ditzy girl from the mall.” I huff a humorless laugh. “So, yeah. He deserves a chocolate dick with a side of ghost peppers.”
The man’s lips curve slowly. And, wow, that smile should be illegal. “Ghost peppers, huh?”
“If possible,” I say primly. “I want him to feel it, to feel the burn he deserves.”
He lets out a low, appreciative chuckle, then straightens, rubbing his palms together like we’re planning a heist. “Okay then. I’ve got some ideas.”
He reaches behind the counter, grabs a small notepad, and clicks a pen. The movement pulls his jacket tight over his chest, and I am once again betrayed by my eyeballs.
His voice cuts into my mental detour. “Tell me something.”
I jerk my gaze up to meet his. “Yeah?”
He studies me, his head tilted and his pen resting loosely in his fingers. “You really want him to choke on it?”
A slow smile tugs at my lips. “I want him to open the box, see that thing, and question every life choice he’s ever made.”
My new coconspirator grins, big and full and devastating. A second dimple appears on the other side of his face, and now I’m sure I’ve seen them before. I just can’t place where.
“I can make that happen,” he says. “But it’ll take a day or two. I don’t keep… dicks in stock.”
“Understandable,” I say, trying to sound professional about ordering a confectionary dildo.
“If Saturday works, you can pick it up then.” He scribbles something on the notepad, then looks up. “Noon?”
“That’s perfect.” Saturday gives me time to draft the perfect petty note. Maybe something like: Hope you choke on my dick this Valentine’s Day. Too much? Probably. But I’m doing it anyway.
“How much do I owe you?” I ask, reaching into my purse for my wallet.
He shakes his head. “It’s on the house.”
I blink. “No, that’s… that’s not necessary. This is custom. And anatomically… ambitious.”
He chuckles, his eyes crinkling. “I know. Still on the house.”
“Why?” My suspicion kicks in. “You don’t even know me.”
His gaze darkens, turning more intent. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jenna.”
A chill skates down my spine. “How do you know my name?”
He arches a brow. “You don’t remember me?”
My brain scrambles. Do I know this man? I would absolutely remember a six-foot-one walking chocolate fantasy with dimples and tattooed arms. Wouldn’t I?
“Should I?” I ask slowly.
He leans forward, his forearms braced on the glassy surface. The pose brings us closer, and I catch a whiff of his scent, something spicy and woodsy with a hint of cocoa and vanilla. It’s subtle but potent, and incredibly addictive.
“That’s a little disappointing,” he murmurs. “All those years, and you forgot all about me.”
Years? My brows knit together while my brain processes this information. “Did we go to school together?” Maple Ridge High wasn’t that big. Maybe he was in a different graduating class or something.
He just smiles, lazy and secretive. “Don’t worry about it.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “No, now I am worried about it. Do you have any idea how creepy that is? You know my name, but I have no clue who you are.”
His gaze flicks down my body and back up, slower this time, like he’s giving me a once-over I can feel.
“Trust me, sweetheart,” he says, his voice dipping, “if I wanted to be creepy, you’d know.”
My cheeks flame. “That’s not—”
He straightens, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the seriousness. “Anyway.” He scribbles something else down, then rips the slip off the pad and slides it across the counter. “Order ticket for Saturday. Just give me your number in case I need to confirm any, uh, measurements.”
Oh my God.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I mutter as I write my number on the slip. My hands are slightly shaky, and not just from embarrassment. Being near this man feels like standing too close to the sun, hot and very dangerous.
“At least I’m honest about it,” he says.
I slide the ticket back to him. “So you’re seriously not going to tell me who you are?”
He tucks the paper under the counter and rests his forearms on the marble again. Up close, I can see the faint white marks of old acne scars along his jaw, mostly hidden by stubble. It makes him look real. Human. Like he hasn’t always been this jaw-dropping, fully-formed Greek god of cocoa.
“Nah,” he says finally. “This is more fun.”
“Fun for who?”
He tips his head, considering. Then he gives me a slow grin that makes my toes curl in my sensible heels. “Me.”
I squint at him, studying his face again. There’s something familiar in the curve of his mouth when he smirks, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and those delicious dimples.
I’ve seen them somewhere before, damn it. I know it!
In a yearbook photo, maybe. Or across a classroom. Or from the bleachers at a basketball game. Come on, brain. Work for once.
Nothing.
“Fine.” I exhale, shaking my head. “Keep your secrets, Willy Wonka.”
He chokes out a laugh. “Did you just call me Willy Wonka?”
“If the shoe fits.” I gesture around at the chocolate. “Do you have Oompa-Loompas in the back?”
“Just me, today,” he says easily. “But I’ve got the whole operation under control.”
Of course he does.
I glance at the display case, mostly because I need to look at something that isn’t a mountain of tattooed muscle. Delicate truffles, glossy chocolate shells brushed with metallic shimmer. Bonbons marbled with pink and white, heart-shaped caramels sprinkled with sea salt.
“I should probably get back to work,” I say reluctantly. Standing here and bantering with him is dangerously distracting.
He nods. “I’ll see you Saturday, Jenna.”
The way he says my name sends a little shiver down my spine.
I take a step toward the door, then pause and glance back over my shoulder. “Hey.”
“Yeah?” He looks up from where he’s jotting something down.
“Thank you. For doing this for me. And for saying what you said. About me being better off.”
He watches me for a long beat, his gaze softening. The teasing drops away, leaving something deeper in its place.
“You are better off,” he says quietly. “You deserve more than some asshole who doesn’t know what he has.”
I swallow. “You talk like you know what I deserve.”
His eyes hold mine. “Maybe I do.”
My pulse skitters. I force a wobbly smile, my fingers tightening around my purse strap. “I’ll see you Saturday then.”
He gives me one last slow, devastating look. “Count on it, Princess.”
Princess.
The new nickname wraps around me like a cozy blanket. I’m still mentally clutching it to my chest as I step back out onto Main Street, the bell chiming softly behind me.
As the door closes, I catch one last glimpse of him leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed over his broad chest, one ankle hooked over the other, and those damn dimples on full display.
My heart does a ridiculous little flip. I don’t know who he is, but I’m very interested in finding out.