Chapter Twenty-One
Bobbi
I have the empty cake and pie containers under one arm as I unlock the house after returning from TJ’s place. All of a sudden, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, sending a chill down my spine. I stop and look around. It’s late in the evening, and the streetlights are on, creating little halos of orange. Nobody’s around. People are either in for the night or out partying and clubbing if that’s the plan. Nothing seems amiss on the street; nobody’s having people over.
Still, something feels off.
Weird. Am I just getting rusty after leaving the personal protection biz? My senses were always on alert during my years as a bodyguard. But I quit being so jumpy after I became a baker.
If this were a rougher neighborhood, I might assume I was about to get mugged. But it isn’t.
Maybe it’s talking about Noah and Reggie that’s left me feeling unsettled. I turn the doorknob and step inside. The chilly sensation intensifies.
Somebody’s in the house.
I put the boxes on the tall stand by the door where I drop my keys and mail. Whistling softly, I flip the light switch by the foyer, flooding the entryway with light.
“Se?or Mittens, where are you?” My voice is casual as I start toward the kitchen to grab the Glock.
A brush of something warm against my bare arm. I react without thinking, twist and grab the intruder’s shirt and use the momentum of my motion to throw him. A strong grip around my shirt—shit—and as his big body goes down, he pulls me down too, his leg swiping at my ankle.
I aim an elbow at his chest, ready to crack his sternum, but he blocks it as we land in a heap with me on top. I’m not a waif, so the impact should knock the air out of him, but it doesn’t. We roll a bit and I end up on the living room floor on my back.
“What a welcome.”
“Noah?” I scowl up at him. “You couldn’t have just said ‘Hi Bobbi?’”
“Yeah, but then we wouldn’t be lying here together in your dimly lit living room.”
“Ack.” I struggle to get up but he won’t let me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“What the hell are you doing in a man’s shirt?” He sniffs. “You smell like him too.” His voice is low and seething with something dangerous.
Instead of backing off or explaining that the T-shirt belongs to my cousin, I laugh. “So? Nobody’s stopping you from putting on a woman’s blouse and smelling like her.”
“Oh baby, the only woman I want to smell like is you.” He rubs himself against me like a cat—that’s the only way to describe how he’s moving over me. “The only woman I want to taste is you.”
“Shut up.”
Desire flares in his eyes. Too late I remember what happened the last time I told him to shut up. His mouth swoops down and claims mine ruthlessly. There’s no finesse or tenderness, just raw need and possessiveness as his tongue thrusts into my mouth like he’s starving for me.
I shouldn’t take anything he does at face value, but part of me starts to melt a little. His mouth feels so good. It’s unfair how well he remembers what I like. The exact pressure I love, the teasing strokes I crave, and the dominating caresses I can’t get enough of.
And the fact that I still crave him—and remembering that I’ve never felt the urge to sleep with another man after Noah—results in a surge of annoyance and embarrassment. I should never let him control me with sex. I deserve more.
I open my eyes, just a little, and see his face in the shadows. The long lashes over his high cheekbones, the heat of his body and the hardness of him nestled between my legs. If I had amnesia, I’d probably think he was my devoted husband and crazy about me. Maybe that’s why I keep falling for his charms.
Well, no more.
I arch abruptly, shoving him off and bringing my knee up sharply so he can’t continue to use his body to hold me down. It connects, but not the way I want; he grunts and rolls away.
He stares, eyes glazed with unfulfilled lust—which is rapidly dissipating. “Hey, watch the knee. I thought you wanted babies.”
“Not yours.” I sit up.
“You aren’t having his.” He points at my shirt.
“Really? Why not? You planning to get me pregnant and then not show up when my water breaks?” I loop my index finger around the chain and pull it from under the shirt, so Noah can see the blue diamond ring. “I deserve what this represents—a good, reliable man who doesn’t lie to me. I deserve to be my husband’s number one priority, to feel loved and respected. Cherished.”
“Bobbi, I—”
“Do you remember the time I baked you a birthday cake and you said it made you feel glad you were born? In Mexico?”
“You made me feel glad I was born.” His voice is rough with emotion. It begs me to lower the shield around my heart, but I won’t.
“I want to be with a man who makes me feel glad I was born, Noah. I can’t settle for anything less than that. My future shouldn’t be less than that. I don’t know why you’re back in my life and what you’re hoping to accomplish, but let’s not…” I shrug, struggling to put my messy thoughts into words. “We can be friends.”
“I don’t want to be your friend, Bobbi. I want to be more.”
“That’s the divide between us. And I’m not negotiating.”
A beat of silence. “You said you’d give me a chance if your cat liked me.”
“So? It won’t do you any good.”
“We”ll see about that. Yes or no?”
I stare at him and then sigh. “Yes. But it won’t change anything.” Se?or Mittens is antihuman. And Noah doesn’t have the patience to woo my cat.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” he says, putting a hand out.
I laugh despite myself. “It isn’t going to work.”
“Just give him a minute.”
I cross my arms. “Yeah sure. Take your time, but you need to go after an hour.”
“Have a little faith,” he says mildly. “Here, kitty! Oh, Se?or Mittens~!”
I prop an elbow against the couch and rest my temple against my knuckles. Noah seems ridiculously confident as he holds his hand out. But then his self-assurance is one of the sexiest things about him. He must’ve never failed at anything, which is why he’s so sure he can win my cat over—and me.
Personally, I need a vision board, meditation and a lot of friend-support to help shake off doubts and negative beliefs about myself, what I want and my success. The objects help remind me of what I deserve—what I should strive for.
Se?or Mittens slowly emerges from the kitchen, looking bored. If he could speak, he’d say, What lowly animal is calling my name?
Still, the fact that he’s come out at all is a miracle. I stare at Noah in shock. He might as well have parted the Red Sea.
He grins.
Okay, time to end this. “Se?or Mittens,” I say in my sweetest voice. “Come here, baby.”
“Come here, kitty,” says Noah. He makes a little kissy sound with his lips.
My cat gives me a glance, then trots over to Noah and rubs his head against his hand. Not only that, he purrs.
I gasp, sitting up straight. “Traitor!”
“Not a traitor. He just loves me.”
“How?”
I stare at my cat, wondering if Noah somehow swapped him with a different animal. I reach over and pull him into my arms and check his paw. He’s missing the toe. But even if he weren’t, I’d know that disdainful expression and those slitted eyes when he’s pleased. I hold him for a moment longer, then put him down and gaze at Noah, who’s looking on with a lopsided grin.
“What have you done to my cat?”