CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Gizmo
I push open the back door of the bakery and lean against the frame, watching Hendrix work. Flour dusts her apron, and she’s focused, piping delicate designs onto cookies. It’s late—too late for her to still be here.
Guess I screwed her—and myself—with this whole contest thing. That’s why when my surprises show up at any minute, she’ll be happy.
“Can I help?”
She startles, nearly smearing the icing, but corrects herself. “You scared me.”
“You’re busy.”
“Somebody created a contest that has made things a tad hectic. I wonder why?” she asks. I’m relieved to hear the amusement in her voice.
I move toward the cookie rack, snatch day-old ones off the rack, and take a bite. So damn good. I groan dramatically. “You’re going to make me fat.”
“Stop eating my cookies.” She slaps at my hand but her smile says she’s happy to see me. That makes two of us.
“Hello to you too.” I grin as I stop beside her and without thinking, wipe off a smudge of icing on her cheek. She stills, her breath catching slightly, but she doesn’t pull away. I take the opportunity to brush my lips against hers.
I mean, if she’s going to give it, I’m going to take it.
Sighs come from the other side of the counter. Hendrix jumps back and looks past me. “Hi. I’m sorry, but we’re closed.”
“They know,” I say. “I had Sammy let them in.”
She looks at me confused. “What do you mean, they know?”
I grin. “They’re reinforcements.”
“Jase...” There’s hesitancy in her voice but relief in her eyes. “You don’t even know what I’m looking—”
“They’re graduates of the local pastry school, both with experience in cookie designs.” I introduce the two ladies who stare at the both of us eagerly. Hendrix shakes their hands and asks them questions about their experience. “They’re here to fill your orders. To copy the pattern you’ve already set... while you rest.”
Hendrix crosses her arms. “Jase—”
I press a finger to her lips. “Shh. No arguing.”
She glares but doesn’t push me away.
“We’ll go upstairs to your apartment. Stay here tonight. That way if they have questions on anything, you’re close by.”
“I don’t give up control that easily,” she murmurs to me. But she catches the amusement in my eyes, the notion of how easily she gives up control to me in the bedroom. “Not the same, Gizmodo.”
I bark out a laugh. “Then give them the rundown. Tell them what they need to know. And then they’ll take it from there.”
Over the next hour, I watch Hendrix go over details and procedures and computer ordering systems with her new employees. There is a quick leaf through of her design binder. A demonstration on how to use the ovens and industrial mixers, although by the faces of the two helpers, they already know how to use them. Hendrix explains the ordering system and emphasizes the attention to detail and perfection she requires. Then she moves to where they dry, how they’re labeled, and where to find the prepped boxes.
It’s impressive to watch her in her element. Yeah, I’ve watched her create and decorate, but to see her know her business inside and out is not only incredible, it’s also sexy as hell.
The woman is simply incredible in so many facets of the word.
“I’ll stay down here with them,” she says when she finally finishes. “You can go upstairs and sleep.”
“Hendrix. My love,” I say with dramatic flair. “I brought them in here to give you a break. To help you. If you stay here much longer, you’re going to be icing your feet and creating a subpar product. Trust that they know what you’ve shown them as well as the skills they already bring into the bakery.”
“I know but—”
“No buts.” I press a chaste kiss to her lips and can practically feel the exhaustion seeping out of her. “We’re going upstairs. They know where to find us. They are capable and talented and you’ve given them thorough instructions.”
She hesitates, but I can see her wavering. The sigh tells me I might have finally won out. “Fine. But if they mess up my cookies—”
“They won’t,” I assure her. But it takes another thirty minutes and a whole lot more convincing on my part to actually have her on the stairs and heading up to her apartment.
Her steps are hesitant but I keep talking the whole time to distract her. I explain how Nathaniel took care of all the paperwork and payroll for me. How these ladies come seriously vetted with numerous references.
The Type A in her struggles with the notion of giving up control, but I don’t let her have an option. This is the way it’s going to be.
The apartment is small but cute—it’s her in every sense. The muted colors, the warm tones, the tidiness. I can picture her here and the notion makes me both happy and sad to think about her here all alone.
“You have icing in your hair,” I murmur as I press a kiss to the back of her neck. “Come on, let me wash it out for you.”
“You’re going to wash my hair?” She laughs like she doesn’t believe it.
“I am. Yes.” I reach down and pull her shirt over her head.
Another unexpected first for me.
“Jase...” Her voice is thick, drowsy with exhaustion.
“Shh,” I murmur as I unclasp her bra and let it fall to the ground. “This is about you.”
I rub the muscles of her neck, then move farther down as I knead down her back.
“Step out of your pants for me.”
She does as she’s told, like a woman who’s so exhausted that she can’t fight me. There’s a part of me that expected to be turned on by this, the undressing her, the having her at my mercy, and while of course, the sight of her naked would turn any man on, I feel something more.
Like I want to protect her.
Take care of her.
Let her know how appreciated she is.
And I don’t know how I feel about that as I turn the water on and wait for it to heat up. It’s like my head and heart are in a constant battle of opening up and shutting down. Of letting her in and then guarding it back up.
Yet time and again, I let her in when I’ve never let anyone other than the guys in. That says something, doesn’t it?
She blinks up at me, a little dazed, as I help her into the bathtub. She moans softly as she settles.
I go in search for a cup to help wash her hair and at first when I return, I think she’s fallen asleep. But I don’t stare at her like I want to, I don’t take advantage of the trust she’s given me either.
She sighs when I pour the warm water over her scalp. She tilts her head back as I work the shampoo into a lather and begin massaging it into her scalp in painfully detailed circles. I rub my fingers into her temples and then to the back of her neck.
This is such a new experience for me, taking care of someone.
Then again, is it? The thought startles me. I took care of my mom for a long time, and maybe I subconsciously stopped wanting to take care of anyone because of that.
Until now.
Until Hendrix.
What does that mean?
“The other day, the day of the gala,” she says quietly, her eyes still closed.
“What about it?”
“You were at the homeless shelter. I saw a picture on a gossip site. You were in the food line helping out.”
I digest her words as slowly as I respond. “And?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that’s where you went? Is that where whatever happened, happened?”
I exhale, running my fingers through her wet strands. “I don’t tell anyone when I go.” It’s not a lie, it’s just not the full truth. “It’s my way of giving back and it’s not for public fodder or good press. I never want it to be.”
She tilts her head back, eyes barely parting as if the dim light is too much even now. “I’d like to go with you sometime. I mean, if you ever want company. I’d love to help.”
Fuck. My chest tightens. No one’s ever said that before. No one’s ever wanted to be part of that side of my life.
Not that she has any clue how close it hits to home for me.
I nod. “Yeah. Maybe.” I’d like that .
I finish washing her hair in silence, afraid that any conversation might lead to more questions I’m not ready to answer.
When her hair is done, when she’s dressed in a fluffy robe, lying on her bed, I assure her the cookies downstairs are coming along just fine.
And then I crawl into bed beside her, tuck her against my chest, and let her steady breathing and warm body calm my mind.
I should be asleep.
It doesn’t come though, because my head is no longer quiet. In fact, it’s screaming.
“I’d like to go with you sometime. I mean, if you ever want company. I’d love to help.”
How does she keep on giving? Yes, I’ve helped her financially, but I’ve uprooted her life, asked her not to crowd mine, and yet, she keeps offering so much to me. Her kindness, her smiles, her light... her body.
“Need me. Take me. Want me. Use me.” And I have. I do. Repeatedly. Uncontrollably.
And then Vince’s words roll through my head... again.
“I remember what it was like to say shit like that— her —when it came to Bristol. Like you want to pretend that fucking ache in your chest isn’t there but you can’t fucking ignore it.”
I’ve never fallen for anyone before.
But if this is what it feels like, then... fuck.