CHAPTER 12 Ford Bradley
Honey and Fig
It’s back to practice on Wednesday, and it feels good to be back on the field with my teammates. A lot has happened in the last seventy-two hours since my cleats last hit the turf when we won on Sunday, and getting back on the field is the best way to clear my mind. Sometimes it’s the only way.
And by the time I’ve finished blocking drills, I feel confident I’m doing the right thing.
It’s an investment, plain and simple. In real estate.
Does it help that it’s with someone I’ve known for years? Sure. Of course.
But my feelings for her aren’t part of the equation.
I say that over a few times to try to believe it, but it’s pretty useless.
Of course my feelings play into it. It’s a thread holding us together. It’s just for us. My brother has nothing to do with it. It gives her a reason to come back to town, a reason for her to trust me. It’s setting us up to continue our friendship beyond whatever happened with her and my brother.
How could I say no to that?
I couldn’t.
Just like I can’t say no when she invites me to an after-hours cake tasting on Wednesday.
“It’s one of the busiest, best bakeries in the area, and I had to try them.
So I told them you might be coming with me to the tasting, and they offered a private slot after closing so you wouldn’t be mobbed by your loyal fan base.
Don’t be mad,” she says, and she folds her hands and holds them up under her chin.
It’s a pose that’s so goddamn adorable that I can’t find it in me to say no.
Tatum plus free cake? Count me in.
“I could never be mad at you,” I say softly.
“I’m sure I’ll find a way,” she teases, and then we head to the parking deck so I can drive us to the bakery.
“I forgot to tell you, I have a wedding in Vegas the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and then my garden party for Archer is the next weekend, so I’ll need to head back there soon,” she says.
“I was hoping you’d stay for Thanksgiving,” I murmur. “It’s fine if you can’t. It’s just—the team offers a meal for players who don’t have anyone local. It inevitably ends with someone crying into their turkey about how much they miss their families.”
“That’s sad,” she says.
“For the record, it’s almost never me that’s crying,” I say dryly.
She giggles. “Almost never?”
“I’m joking. It’s never once been me. I sort of prefer living out here on my own, you know? But it’s been nice having a familiar face hanging around, so if you can stay for turkey…”
She tilts her head and thinks for a minute. “You sure you don’t mind having me here?”
“I enjoy having you here. All this space to myself gets lonely.” I’m worried I might start crossing lines with these confessions.
“Would it be okay if I invited my parents and my brother here, too? I’ve always wanted to attempt a big Thanksgiving meal, but my mom always made the turkey, and Arch and I always went there. Might be nice to pay her back and let her relax for once.”
I chuckle as I picture Tatum in an apron, flour dusting her cheeks as she prepares a huge meal for her parents, her brother and his family, and me as we host her family for the holiday.
It sounds…
Well, it sounds too good to be true, for one thing. But it also sounds like a lot of fun. Her brother was in my class in high school, and we played football together back in the day. He didn’t go on to play in college, and we lost touch, but we were good friends in high school.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Invite everyone. I’m happy to help with the cooking. You know, by ordering food prepared in someone else’s kitchen.”
“God,” she mutters, and I’m afraid I’ve offended her for a beat until she adds more. “You’re just so easy to get along with. If I ever asked Archer if I could invite my whole family over, he’d eventually give in, but he’d gripe and moan about it.”
I don’t picture Archer as a griper or a moaner, but I’ve also never invited Tatum’s entire family to my home before. If they’re anything like Tatum, multiplying them could get interesting, I suppose.
“I aim to please,” I say.
We arrive at Calla’s Crumbs, the bakery Tatum is so excited about, to find the door locked, but we can see workers milling about behind the counter. A moment later, a woman who looks to be in her thirties appears at the door and opens it. “Welcome in,” she says. “I’m Calla.”
“Tatum,” she says, sticking her hand out. “And this is Ford.”
“Mr. Bradley,” Calla says, clearly sizing me up. “We’re big fans here at Calla’s Crumbs.”
“I appreciate it,” I say. “And I’m a big fan of cake.”
She laughs a little too heartily at a weak segue into why we’re here. “Come on back to our tasting room and we’ll get started.”
She leads us through the quaint front of her shop and into a room on the side where a small table and chairs are set up. “Would either of you like champagne or some water to begin?” she asks.
“Champagne would be perfection,” Tatum says, and I nod. I’m just along for the ride.
She snaps her fingers, and a moment later, someone appears with a tray and some glasses on it. Calla hands us the glasses, and we each hold them up.
“To cake,” Tatum says, and I chuckle as I repeat her toast, tap my glass to hers, and take a sip.
We set our glasses down, and Calla begins her spiel.
“Typically our planner tasting tours are much busier, but as you are VIP clients, we’ve curated our most popular flavors for you to try today. I understand you’re planning another football player’s wedding, is that correct?” Calla asks, directing the question at Tatum.
She nods. “I’m in the process of purchasing a local venue for weddings, and I’m compiling a small list of the vendors my clients will be able to choose from. My first client here in the area is a teammate of Ford’s.”
“Which is why you’re here today? Or you’re a couple and she dragged you along?” Calla asks, clearly investigating whether Tatum and I are an item or not.
I offer a curt nod. “She asked, and I came.”
“How lovely.”
A moment later another woman appears with a tray, and she sets it on the table in front of us.
“We have our orange blossom with vanilla bean, lemon with lavender, raspberry with almond cream, and honey with fig for you to sample today,” Calla says, pointing at each piece of cake that’s also labeled on the tray.
Two small tasting forks sit in each sample, so we don’t mix the flavors on our forks.
I really want to ask where the normal flavors are. You know, yellow cake with chocolate frosting or chocolate cake with buttercream.
I don’t think the question would go over well in this atmosphere.
“Let’s start with the orange blossom,” Tatum suggests, moving from left to right across the tray.
We each take the fork and try it, and it’s fine.
A little flowery for me, to be honest. We try the lemon and lavender next, and then the raspberry with almond cream.
They’re all fine, but nothing as good as a nice slice of chocolate cake with a layer of that raspberry jelly shit in between.
Or that Nutella cake Tatum mentioned once before.
“Finally, we have the honey and fig, two flavors often considered aphrodisiacs,” Calla says.
I catch Tatum’s eyes with mine, and I swear that a heated moment passes between us as we each pick up the fork with a bit of the cake on it. Rather than lifting the fork to her own mouth, though, Tatum’s fork moves toward my mouth.
I’m not sure why she’s feeding me the aphrodisiac-inspired cake, but as the sweet honey and caramelized fig touch my tongue, the way it melts in my mouth is unexpected and absolutely delicious.
I bring the other fork up to her lips, and her eyes are on mine as she opens her mouth, takes the fork, and closes her mouth over it.
I pull it out, and it’s clean. My dick wakes all the way up at the sensual way she did that.
I watch as she closes her eyes and leans her head back with a moan at how fucking delicious the cake tastes, and I nearly come in my pants.
Fuck.
I need to pull myself together.
“It feels like it just got about a million degrees hotter in here,” Calla says, interrupting the moment as she fans herself.
“See? It’s why it’s labeled as an aphrodisiac and also why it’s one of our top-selling flavors.
” Tatum’s eyes haven’t left mine despite Calla’s interruption.
“I’ll give you two a moment to discuss.”
She leaves the room—I think. I’m guessing. I hear a door click shut, but I haven’t ripped my eyes away from Tatum’s.
There’s something here between us, and it’s not just me.
What I do next is stupid, probably. Emotionally suicidal, maybe.
But I do it anyway.
As her eyes hold mine, I lean in toward her. I drop the fork, and my hand comes up to cup her jawline. She leans into my touch a little, and I brush a crumb of cake away that escaped to her lip. Her eyes flick down to my lips, too, and I get the sense that she wants me to kiss her.
God, do I want to kiss her.
And so I do.
I lean closer and closer until I can smell her, the sweet honey the pervading scent, but then, she always smells like honey, and maybe that’s what is doing this to me. Smelling her, tasting her. Needing her.
Our lips connect, and it’s the sweetest, softest brush of a kiss.
I want to dive in deeper, but I don’t want to scare her off, either.
It’s everything I’ve dreamed of since the day I realized I’m in love with her. Since the day I realized she deserved better than my brother. Since the day I met her, maybe, and definitely since the day I last kissed her.
She leans in, too, moving so one of her hands is gripping my bicep, the other sliding along my jawline. I let her take the lead, and she opens her mouth first, her tongue moving tentatively at first until she finds mine, and we dance.
The dance turns urgent, desperate, as I push everything I have into this kiss, as if I can make her fall in love with me through one single kiss filled with delusions.
I fucking love her, and kissing her like this is only going to ruin me.
Well, fucking ruin me, then. It’ll be well worth it just to have lived in these seconds that are far too short.
The door opens again, and Calla’s voice says, “Oh! So sorry.”
The door closes, but it’s too late.
Tatum realizes what we were doing, and she pulls back.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “We shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have. Um, you know. We can’t.”
Can’t we? I want to ask her why, even though I already know why. We can’t ruin this friendship with feelings.
Especially not now that we agreed to become business partners by co-purchasing a wedding venue.
It’s too messy. Too hard. Too wrong.
But that one single kiss told me everything I needed to know—or confirmed everything I already knew.
I’m hopelessly in love with Tatum Barker, and I’m pretty damn sure there won’t ever be anyone else who could possibly measure up to her.