Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Ben
By the time I close out the register, stack the last few pint glasses, and run the final rag over the bar, my arms feel like lead and my shoulders ache.
The Wandering Pint is still hopping with low music playing, a handful of regulars lingering over their last drinks.
But I’ve been here since early morning, and my body’s telling me I’ve hit my limit.
I wave to Mark, who’s sliding in behind the bar for the last stretch, and head toward the back door.
The cool night air hits my face, welcome after the muggy heat of the pub.
It smells faintly of grilled meat from the burger joint down the block and the faint tang of rain still lingering from earlier in the afternoon.
My truck is parked where it always is, just beyond the corner, and the sight of it brings that bone-deep relief you get when you’re almost home. I walk a lot of the time, but I had some things to do before opening this morning, so I took the truck. Thank God for that.
The drive is muscle memory along empty streets lit by amber streetlamps.
I should be thinking about inventory orders, the leak in the ice machine, whether the Saturday crowd will be heavier than usual.
Instead, my mind keeps drifting back to Paige. I can see her standing in that dusty bakery space, hand on the counter, eyes bright as she told me the name she’d picked—Sweet Confessions.
I wasn’t lying when I said it fits. But what I really meant was that it fit her. Sweet Confessions describes her to a tee. There’s something oddly innocent about her excitement over the bakery, but underneath that is something sinful. Something I should stay far away from lest it draw me in.
My house is dark when I pull into the driveway, just the faint glow from the porch light spilling over the front steps.
It’s nothing special— but has a covered porch, a covered balcony on the second floor, cedar siding, and a roof I had to replace last year after a storm peeled up half the shingles.
But it’s mine, and I love it. It’s the first real home I’ve ever had, and I won’t ever take it for granted.
Inside, it’s quiet except for the ticking of the old wall clock in the living room. I toe off my boots by the door, drop my keys in the dish on the entry table, and shrug out of my jacket, draping it over the railing of the steps.
The place smells faintly of laundry detergent and the cedar from the beams overhead.
The couch is the same worn leather one I bought years ago, the coffee table scarred with ring marks from pint glasses, and the TV remote is right where I left it, face-down on the arm of the chair. It’s lived-in. Comfortable.
But tonight, the emptiness weighs more heavily than usual. I make my way up the steps to the bedroom and through to the bathroom before stripping on the spot and leaving a pile of clothes on the floor to deal with later.
The shower starts with a squeak of the faucet, steam already beginning to fog the mirror as the pipes groan.
I step under the spray, tilting my head back so the hot water hits full force across my shoulders.
The ache in my neck eases almost instantly, the heat seeping into every sore muscle.
I brace one hand against the cool tile, letting the water drum against my back, washing away the smell of beer, sweat, and fryer oil.
My mind, though, is stubborn. It keeps replaying the afternoon—the way her voice softened when she asked me not to tell Jason, how her smile hit like a sucker punch when she said the name of the bakery, the quick, almost shy way she tucked her hair behind her ear.
She’s different than she used to be, but not in the way people get when time hardens them.
She’s… sharper, maybe. More confident and comfortable in her own skin.
And still, there’s something in her eyes when she’s looking at that space—hope, excitement, determination—that’s rare.
I let the water run hotter, until the steam curls thick around me.
My eyes slip closed, and for a moment, I let myself picture her.
The image comes without effort: her standing in that dusty front room, light spilling over her hair and catching the faint flush in her cheeks when she spoke about the outdoor tables.
My hands slide over the tiles, imagining the feel of her skin, warm and smooth beneath my fingers. I could almost taste her, sweet and heady.
I open my eyes, blinking the water away. My body responds easily, eagerly.
Fuck.
I reach down and adjust myself, my cock thickening against my palm. I don’t want this—not with her. It can only lead to trouble.
But the shower is a dangerous place, and my mind is still a step ahead of me.
Her skin would be soft and pale, her eyes bright as she looked up at me. Her hands would find the planes of my chest.
I give in, closing my hand around my shaft. It swells fully in my grip, the blood rushing there making the sensation electric. The water echoes, the sound like rain. I stroke up, then down, my breath speeding up.
No. No, fuck! Stop!
In my mind, I press her back, her spine hitting the wall with a soft thud. My palm slides over her hip, up the dip of her waist, her body calling to me. I imagine her skin, the feel of it under my tongue as I lick her neck, tasting the salt of her skin and the hint of sweetness that clings to her.
A soft groan leaves me, echoing in the shower, and I grit my teeth, trying to stop it. But it won’t stop.
She lifts her face to mine, her lips parted. My cock throbs. I need her, need to be inside her, need to lose myself in her.
The sound of my own breathing fills the shower. It shouldn't be her. It shouldn’t.
She's Jason's sister.
At that, my eyes pop open.
Jason's sister. She's Jason's fucking sister.
What am I doing?
The fantasy slips away. I release myself, and my cock aches. My whole body is tight, coiled with the need to touch and taste and fuck, and I know there's only one way to take care of it.
I turn and brace both arms against the shower wall, letting the cold tile bring me back.
No. I'm not going to jerk off thinking about Jason's sister.
I cut the water abruptly, stepping out and grabbing a towel to wrap around my hips. The sudden rush of cooler air makes me shiver, and I grab another towel, drying off and running it briskly over my hair.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I say out loud.
My towel is rough against my skin as I drag it over my shoulders, but it’s nothing compared to the friction in my head. I’m still keyed up, pulse racing beneath my skin.
“Jesus, Ben,” I mutter under my breath, rubbing the towel over my hair until it sticks up in every direction.
I’m pacing without even meaning to, one step from the sink to the door and back again, water dripping onto the tile. My reflection in the mirror looks about as unimpressed as I feel—jaw tight, eyes sharp, like I’ve just caught myself in the act of doing something reckless.
Jason’s sister. That’s the part that cuts through everything else.
Not Paige-the-baker. Not Paige-who-used-to-live-here.
Paige Richards. My oldest friend’s little sister.
There’s a whole line I’m not supposed to cross there, and I just spent five minutes in the shower letting my mind wander over it like it was open territory.
I throw the towel on the floor with the rest of my clothes and brace my hands on the counter, leaning in toward the mirror. “Get your head on straight,” I tell myself firmly.
She’s been back in town for what—two minutes? And already I’m looking at her like—
I push the thought away before the thought finishes forming. Doesn’t matter. Won’t matter. I know better. I’ve always known better.
The thing is, knowing and doing aren’t the same thing. She walked into that bakery space today, and for a second, I forgot she wasn’t just some woman I’d met at the pub.
I forgot about Jason, about the history, about every reason this is a bad idea. I just saw her—the way she lit up talking about those outdoor tables, the way her hands moved when she described it all.
I can picture the bakery exactly the way she sees it. Ovens gleaming, trays of bread and pastries cooling on the counters, the smell spilling into the street. I can almost see her behind the counter, flour on her cheek, laughing with someone over coffee.
And for some reason, I’m there too, leaning against the doorway with a drink in my hand, just… watching.
The thought is ridiculous, so I shake it off, dragging a hand over my face. It’s not my life. It’s hers.
Sleep is not going to come easily tonight. I’ve got too much of her voice in my head, too much of that look she gave me when she asked me to keep her secret.
I like being in on a secret with her.
No, stop it. What the fuck is wrong with you? You shouldn’t have any damn secrets with her.
I push away from the sink and stalk back to my bedroom.
I dress in an old pair of sweats and a T-shirt, pad barefoot down to the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of water.
Outside, the night is still. I lean against the counter, sip the water, and catch myself glancing toward the window, like I might see the lights on next door to the pub.
Like maybe she’d still be there, making plans.
I huff out a laugh at myself and shake my head. Yeah. I’m in trouble.
My body’s tired, but my head is still running in circles. I know I should let it go—hell, I have to let it go—but the image of her in that dusty front room, sunlight catching in her hair, keeps pushing its way back in no matter how many times I shove it aside.
Setting the glass on the counter with a snap, I go upstairs and ignore my phone now lit up on the nightstand.
I drop back against the pillows with a groan, covering my eyes with one arm. Tomorrow, I’ll go back to keeping things simple. Professional. Neighborly. Tonight… I just need to get some damn sleep and remember who I am and what lines I don’t cross.