5. Alexandra
five
My room under the eaves is so comfy and the town is so quiet (literally, not a noise all night), that I sleep like a log until my alarm rings. I stretch, turn the alarm off, and sit on my bed.
Thank god Christopher gave me the day off to settle in. I don’t know how I’m going to be working with him, for him, for months without jumping his bones. I could hear him toss and turn in his bedroom when I went to bed, and my imagination filled in all the blanks with unusual creativity. If I hadn’t been so tired, it would have distracted me enough to stay awake.
Dinner was emotionally intense for me. I’m not used to deep conversations, unless I’ve had one too many drinks with Sarah. Or if life just got too heavy and I give myself a pep talk and head back to my therapist.
Something stirred inside me last night. Sure, there’s that man. Tall, dark, and handsome. A puddle for his daughter. Serving me his home cooked meal and pouring me wine. Those sexy vibes after dinner. I’m not going to discard that.
But there was more. A feeling of being home. Since Mom died, I haven’t had that. Even if Barbara did everything she could to give me the kindness Rita didn’t, it was never like that. Simple. Truthful.
Last night, sitting in this homey, unpretentious kitchen, Skye and Christopher both opened their hearts, their insecurities to me, a perfect stranger. As if to say, Here’s who we are. How about you?
And this morning, I’m not sure who I am anymore. And that’s frigging scary, because this girl needs to keep her eye on the ball and become a baker.
So she can sit in an office and…
I know, I know. Dammit. I’ll need to dig deeper into how Red Barn makes their bread and treats all of their employees, not just those at headquarters. It’ll be my responsibility soon, and that’s something I know nothing about on the grand scale. My position in marketing didn’t prepare me for that. I’ll need more info.
Christopher seems to be the kind of person, the kind of friend I would need to help me navigate the situation I’m in. I can tell he’s had his share of troubles—he told me so himself—and he seems to have found his way. He’s someone who would be precious to brainstorm ideas and solutions with.
But I can’t tell him who I really am in relation to Red Barn. He made it clear he despises the company. He’s definitely not going to help its next owner. The minute he knows I’m really here to guarantee my position at the top of Red Barn Baking, I’ll be out the door.
Which means I’ll have lost everything.
Not just a job, not just a future.
I’ll have lost the only family I can claim.
Yet I’m torn. Forget the physical attraction. He’s a great guy. I want him to like me. I’ve never had that depth of connection with someone I barely know.
And it’s not just Christopher; Skye was an open book to me, and even Sophie, the sweet librarian, was so genuinely welcoming in her own way. How do you open up to people while keeping a big part of your life a secret?
It’s not something I can solve right now. I’ll have to navigate this at is comes.
Right now, I just need to get in the shower.
Then, I’ll finish unpacking.
Little things. Focus on the little things, Alex.
I turn the faucet on, and with no warning, it explodes, water spurting horizontally in icy gushes, soaking me head to toe. I shriek, and shriek louder when I reach into the shower to cut the water off.
My tank top is soaked, my bare legs dripping water. Before I can grab a towel, the door flies open, and Christopher barges in.
“You okay?” he asks, out of breath. “What the hell?” he says, looking around the room, then at my half-naked, dripping self. His breathing hitches, and his eyes drop the length of me. He averts his gaze. “You got the order wrong, Pierce. First, take your clothes off. Then, get in the shower.”
I grab a towel and bend over to wipe my legs, but from the look he gives me, I stop and wrap myself in it.
“Seriously, what happened? You scared the shit out of me and Skye.”
Skye is standing outside my bathroom door, wide-eyed.
“The shower’s not working,” I say.
Before I can explain, he’s reaching in and turning the faucet on.
“No!” I gasp. Water gushes over the two of us.
“Shit,” he hisses and turns the faucet off, but too late. “Damn, it’s cold,” he says, still leaning inside the shower.
Skye is giggling. I start laughing too.
Then, Christopher turns from the shower, and my legs weaken. His T-shirt clings to his torso, molding his impressive pecs. He shakes the water from his hair, then his eyes fall on me. He’s hot as sin, towering over me in the small bathroom. I can’t keep my eyes off him, all of him.
“Skye!” A feminine voice sounds from downstairs. “Time for school! Where are you?”
Christopher glances at his daughter. “Go get ready with Aunt Grace, honey. I’ll be right down.”
He grabs one of my towels and buries his face in it, then rubs his hair. The V-shape of his torso leads my gaze down to his midsection. He dabs his shirt then swears, folds the towel on the sink, and pulls his shirt above his head.
For the moments that he’s stuck with his arms above his head, fighting to get out of the wet fabric, I feast on the sight of his chiseled abs, wondering how they’d feel under my hands. Under my lips. Over my belly.
His dark hair forms a happy trail, leading my gaze to his jeans hanging low over his hips.
I’m all warmed up now, cold water forgotten, and the wetness between my legs has nothing to do with a broken shower.
“It’s freezing,” he groans as he emerges from his shirt.
Judging from the bulge in his pants, not everything in him is cold.
He grabs his shirt and steps out of the bathroom. I treat myself to the sight of his large shoulders, his muscular back, his narrow hips.
I’ve never throbbed for a man until now.
His back still to me, he plants his fists on his hips. “I’ll have your shower fixed today, but you can use my bathroom this morning,” he says. “Be ready to leave with Grace in about half an hour. She’ll give you the lay of the land.” He’s talking as if we aren’t both half naked. As if this is a totally natural situation.
He pauses. Looks at the room. Grunts at the sight of my unmade bed. “Need to get a different bed,” he mumbles. Then, his gaze drops to my suitcase, open on the floor. Clothes are spilling out from it, as well as my journal, and the weathered manila envelope I carry around wherever I go.
And Sarah’s gift, propped atop its wrapping paper. I opened it just minutes ago and had a good laugh. And grateful appreciation.
Now? My cheeks are burning. I rush to the suitcase to snatch it, but too late.
Christopher stoops over and grabs it. Pointing to the wrapping paper and with his back still turned to me, he says, “Goodbye gift?”
I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. That a problem?”
He spins around and pins me in place with his intent gaze. “Not at all. From your boyfriend?” His gaze searches me.
We’re so close, his heat radiates into my core, and his scent inebriates me. “From my best friend. I don’t have a boyfriend,” I breathe. Suddenly that detail seems very important to point out, and I chastise myself for it. For all the not-so-hidden meaning behind that tidbit of information. As if to back up my poor judgment, my gaze goes from the vein beating in his neck, to the stubble on his chin, to his lips so temptingly close, and finally lands on his dark eyes.
“Why not,” he grumbles.
“S-Sorry?”
His pecs expand with each of his breaths. “Why doesn’t a girl like you have a boyfriend.”
Why do the words a girl like you make me throb? “I don’t do boyfriends,” I say.
He cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “Okay,” he says, tossing the vibrator on the bed as he leaves my bedroom.