Chapter Six
Bobbi
I want to be the first person to congratulate you on achieving your dream. And bring you your favorite flowers.
I have to consciously relax my hand on the steering wheel as I drive through the pre-rush hour traffic. Noah’s broken promise—the one I’ve tried so hard to forget—is back, buzzing around in my head like the world’s most annoying gnat. He never apologized or explained himself.
The gall he had to walk into my bakery and want to buy my croissants! Like I’d serve him. Ha! I really wanted him to stay and be a nuisance so I could call 911. It would’ve been hilarious to have him hauled away. That would’ve proven I’m not letting him ruin my life with his toxicity and mind games. Not anymore.
So why am I still thinking about him?
Ugh.I need to find a way to permanently evict him from my mind. The fact that a year apart hasn’t made me immune pisses me off to no end. He lives in Malibu. He could’ve come by any time and apologized, but didn’t. That says so much about where I rank in his priorities.
I don’t want to beg for crumbs of affection from people who don’t care. That only brings pain.
Just look at my dad. I park my Tacoma in front of the house he left me. He died in some third-world country, doing God knows what for the State Department. He never told me anything about his work—everything was supposedly classified and above my pay grade—and he never, ever had time for me. I’m sure the only reason the house became mine is that I’m his only surviving family member. He certainly didn’t bother with a will. The life insurance money I got is what the federal government provides to its employees. He just never found it urgent to opt out, probably because the premium was so low. At least his neglect worked in my favor that one time—the payout became my seed money for the bakery.
Still, I would’ve preferred it if he’d shown he cared about me, rather than leaving me that life insurance and the house. Spending a few years in L.A. with TJ’s family when I was in high school showed me what a family could be. They were always laughing and cheering each other on. And hugs. So many hugs. I was hugged more in a month with them than my whole life with my parents. TJ’s family was always so secure in their belief that they weren’t alone—that the family had their back. I was never certain. Mom was inconsistent in her love, showering me with it one day then unable to bear the sight of me the next. Dad always had something more important to attend to.
If the house wasn’t located so conveniently in a nice neighborhood, I’d sell it and move in a heartbeat.
I kill the engine and climb out of the truck with the bag of the last four croissants. As I unlock and enter the house, Se?or Mittens, so named because the hair around his paws is dark orange, comes over with a soft meow. He’s a stray I took in after discovering him crying in a park, his left forepaw bleeding. The vet told me he’d lost a toe, and the little cat tugged at my heart. He was so scrawny, I could almost see the ribs through his dingy white fur, and I couldn’t let a toeless kitty out on the streets. The world might not want him, but I did.
Now, he’s plump, his pelt shiny. And he walks around like the missing toe doesn’t bother him at all.
I should be able to function like that, too. Like cutting Noah out of my life doesn’t bother me at all. He should mean as little as Se?or Mittens’s missing toe.
Actually less. Toes don’t lie to you—
The sound of the dryer tumbling comes from the laundry room. I scan the kitchen island. The dirty glass I left on the counter this morning is now in the sink.
Okay.Se?or Mittens is a great cat, but he doesn’t do domestic chores.
Quietly, I put the bag of croissants on the island, open the left drawer and pull out the Glock. I creep toward the laundry room—which is empty except for the dryer with something that looks like a bedsheet tumbling inside.
Weird. I don’t have a housekeeper. And a burglar wouldn’t be doing my laundry.
Is TJ messing with me?
Nah. If it were my cousin, he would’ve made his presence known. He knows I have guns.
Then I hear a muffled noise, like somebody trying to scream against a pillow, coming from my bedroom. Se?or Mittens dashes past my legs and in through the partially open door.
Shit.
I kick the door fully open, aiming the Glock. What I see overloads my brain. It’s like the world is ending and I only have two bullets, but there are five zombies after me.
Some guy is hogtied with a rope, a big piece of duct tape over his mouth. That explains the muzzled screams. Meanwhile, Noah is sitting on the floor with his long, muscled legs stretched out, ankles crossed, scarfing down half an apple pie on a blue Disney Cinderella plate, which means he grabbed it from my kitchen.
And that pie must be the one I made last night and was saving for the weekend.
Noah smiles. “Hi, Bobbi.” His gray eyes crinkle, like he couldn’t be happier to see me.
I hate it that he’s still heartbreakingly beautiful. And I loathe it that my hormones are perking up, and something inside me wants me to preen.
Hell, no. Have some self-respect!
Se?or Mittens hisses at Noah. Even my cat has more dignity than me. Of course, he doesn’t like any of my friends, either.
I lower the gun. “If this were Texas, I’d’ve shot you.”
“Thank God we’re in civilized California.” Noah’s smile widens, annoyingly charming.
Maybe I should just shoot him and claim self-defense—he tried to attack me with his fork, officer!
“This is a great pie. You’re an even better cook now.”
His compliment only pours gasoline on my temper. “You think you’re so fucking clever, don’t you?” I say, shoving the gun into my waistband.
“Don’t just think it. I know it.” He gazes at me softly. “I love you, my light.”
I inhale sharply at the easy way he says “I love you.” The fact that I want him to mean it makes me feel pathetic and even more furious. How is it that he can still manipulate my emotions? He has a unique ability to make me feel so good and so bad at the same time.
“I even nabbed this guy for you. He says he knows you, but he was trying to break in through a window.”
“And you helped him inside?”
“Well…yeah. But afterward I tied him up. As a peace offering. You might know him. Lorcan Duncan?” Noah’s tone is sweet and understanding. I knew you were slumming while I was away. I get it. I’m here to save you from your own poor judgment.
I glare at the piece of shit on the floor. He’s trying to get free of the ropes, but not having much success. I should’ve known it was a bad idea to try to date some random dude named Lorcan Duncan of all things, even if the dating app did swear that it could match me up with the other half of my soul.
Unfortunately, the app didn’t promise the guy would have a brain. I’m convinced Lorcan doesn’t because I’ve never met a dumber guy.
But God gave him plenty of perseverance. Not only does he not understand the meaning of “no,” he apparently doesn’t give up. Noah witnessing my date-shame only makes me want to scream. I’d bet my bakery he’s been with some hot chicks in the last twelve months. Women are always eye-fucking him. My arms around him didn’t stop them before, and without that, forget it. They would’ve been rubbing themselves all over him like cats in heat.
“Leave. Now. And take out the trash when you go.”
Noah doesn’t point out that Lorcan is my trash. “Okay.”
His tone is agreeable. But I know the truth. He’s just playing with me. When he’s done, he always leaves without a backward glance, then after a while, he checks up on me, like a child remembering a toy he discarded in a corner of his room. I didn’t realize that when we first met because I was in a weird headspace after my dad’s death. Then Noah came back only after I got shot, thanks to an idiot client who was trying to stage an attack against herself for social media cred.
And now he’s back again, when Lorcan was trying to break into my house. Un-fucking-believable!
“You’re bad news. Don’t ever come back,” I say. “And stop eating my pie!”
“Come on. Don’t be so hard on me.” He stands up.
I glare at him. “Not even my cat likes you.”
“So if he likes me, will you give me a chance?”
“Ha! He’d eat raw broccoli first.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” he says, all sweet and charming.
I’m not falling for you, buster. “Yes,” I snap, knowing he’s more likely to get struck by lightning. Se?or Mittens will never love Noah, or anyone other than me. He doesn’t even love my friend Yuna, who fed him premium cream. There’s nothing Noah can do.
“Deal.” He smiles.
My foolish heart does a funny thing that feels like a little pirouette of joy. It better not start dictating to me because I’m not listening. When it comes to Noah, I’m only relying on my head. And my head says it’s unfair that I don’t have the superpower to make him spontaneously regurgitate the apple pie he already ate.
He hefts the hogtied Lorcan with one hand and carries him out like an oversized toolbox, banging him a couple of times against the doorjamb and a corner of the hallway. More muffled screams. I remain in the bedroom with the cat. I don’t want to do anything stupid to let Noah know he can still affect me, especially not when my heart is still doing that ecstatic spin.
The front door shuts. I wait a few minutes, then go to the kitchen and put away my Glock.
Se?or Mittens hops onto the island.
“Hey, get off there. You know better than that.”
He meows, pawing the smooth marble surface.
“I’m going to feed you, don’t worry.” I rub the spot behind his ears which should settle him down.
He smacks the counter harder. If he could talk, he’d call me an idiot.
“What’s the deal?” I look at my annoyed cat, unsure what to do to soothe his temper, then realize what’s wrong.
That son of a bitch stole my bag of croissants.