43. Alexandra
forty-three
We get home late at night, and he lets me go first up the stairs. But soon his hand is between my thighs, and I laugh, until my high heels betray me, and I almost fall down on him.
That’s when he scoops me in his arms and carries me up the stairs.
When we reach his floor, I glance at his room, then look away.
“I don’t want memories of you here. Told you already.”
It’s bittersweet to hear. I’m not sure what to make of it.
I chase away what Grace told me this afternoon—that Christopher loves me. That can’t be true. This is wishful thinking on her part, and I love her for that.
Because, surely, if he did, he’d tell me. He’d want me in his bedroom.
He’d ask me to move to Emerald Creek, instead of asking me to stay for the summer. I chase the thought away.
I trace the stubble lining his square jaw, grate my nail down his neck, slide it to his shoulder flexing lightly under the weight of my legs, then take a full feel of his biceps.
And sigh.
He chuckles. “Good enough for you?”
“God, Christopher, you have no idea.” I wiggle, my panties suddenly itchy.
He sets me on the bed and cups his palm to my middle, and I answer by rocking against him. Wasting no time, he ditches his clothes on the floor and stands in front of me, hunger in his eyes. As I prop myself on my elbows, my eyes naturally fall on his erection, my mouth watering.
“I’m starting a fire,” he says. That fire’s been burning for a long time.
But he means a literal fire, and I get to watch him naked, muscles rolling, as he adds kindle and logs to the hearth while I take my clothes off. Once I’m down to an innocent-looking white demi-cup bra embroidered with blue flowers, matching panties, white garters, and silk stockings, I lie on top of the bed.
“You look like a goddamn bride,” he says, smirking.
“I do?” I laugh. “How many brides have you seen without a dress?”
He laughs. “None.” Then adds so quietly I can barely hear, “yet.” He lies on the bed next to me, slides down to my hip, and nuzzles the garter. “Isn’t the groom supposed to grab the garter with his teeth. That true?”
“Maybe? I’ve heard of that,” I say. An uneasy vision worms itself inside me and sits at the bottom of my stomach—Christopher getting married. Christopher with another woman. Someone beautiful, and solid, who aligns with him in so many ways.
Someone like Emma.
“I’d never do that in front of people. Wouldn’t want to show my wife’s thighs to the whole party. But it is fun, hmm?” he says, his teeth gripping the garter, his stubble teasing my inner thighs as he begins to make his way down one leg.
Yeah, Christopher will make a great husband someday.
Just not mine.
And god that hurts.
He gently rolls the stocking and places it and the garter on the side of the bed, then crawls back up for the second garter. My hips rock in need, meeting his fingers.
My mind drifts back to Christopher having a wife, to Skye finally having a mother.
I try to shake the thoughts that are killing my mood.
“You okay?” he says, the second garter now at my ankle.
I hate what’s happening to me. That eerie music playing in the back of my head, telling me that the perfect movie I’m in? It’s about to take a turn for the worse.
This is not me. I’ve taught myself to enjoy the little moments of sheer bliss that make life bearable.
And this, right now? This is one of those unforgettable moments that will carry me through all the stuff I don’t even know is coming my way.
This is material for memories to make bad days much, much better.
When all this is over and I’m back to a mountain of problems and backstabbers in New York, I’ll have this memory of a man so gently unwrapping me. So tenderly kissing me. So passionately making my body come alive under his kisses.
Still, the thought of no longer being here in a few weeks triggers my panic. I can’t do soft and gentle in this moment. Soft and gentle is for people who have their lifetimes to explore each other. People who have weddings and garters and weird but fun traditions.
He stands naked and brings the garters and stockings to the chest of drawers. We do have the rest of the night. Which tonight, feels like all the time in the world, and I appreciate that he’s not rushing this. That he’s savoring every moment of us being together without needing to be somewhere else in a short time, or without risking any interruptions.
This whole night is truly ours.
Yet, my panic takes over, and I get off the bed, flinging myself to him as he makes his way back to me.
“Hey,” he says, his lips curling up in the most adorable, surprised smile.
Clasping my hands at his nape, I pull him in front of the crackling fire. “I need you to take me,” I murmur as our lips collide.
His brow furrows, and his arms tighten around me. He doesn’t need more explanation. He grabs a condom and loses no time rolling it on. Then our mouths mold to one another, and his tongue takes control of my senses.
With one hand cupping my ass, he hoists me onto his hips, then he lowers me slowly to the carpet.
His arm cushions my back from the hard floor, and my body melts into his as he enters me in one powerful move. Not gentle, not slow.
Claiming.
Yes.
How does he know exactly what I need in this moment?
My eyes lock with his, my begging silent. Fuck me. Fuck the pain out of me.
And he does.
He fills me. His thrusts pin me hard under him, the veins on his pecs bulge and turn blue, our sweaty foreheads clash as our bodies become one.
Then he dips his head and sucks on my nipple, and my orgasm builds, this time coming from somewhere deep. I moan, a raw, deep sound I don’t recognize myself, but I don’t come, yet.
Letting go of my breasts, he pins my hands behind my head and sucks my neck.
Our rhythm picks up.
His brow is furrowed and his breathing hard. Low grunts rise from deep in his belly as he plows deeper and stronger inside me.
With each stroke, my lower back scrapes against the carpet. “Fuck me harder,” I beg, relishing the burn marks forming on my skin from his rough lovemaking. From the way he wants me. Possesses me. I bring his head to my neck. “Suck me.” Then I push his head to my breasts. “Please.” I want him anywhere he’ll kiss and bite and suck. I need to feel more, to get out of my head.
And Christopher gets it.
He fucks the shadows out of my soul, making me scream and writhe and shake from my orgasm for what seems like long minutes.
“Fuck me,” I say again when I come down from it, limbs unresponsive, vision blurred, and he hasn’t come yet.
And he does. Oh how he does.
He fucks me so hard that the vein on his forehead is as thick and blue as the ones on his biceps. So hard he throws his head back when he comes with a loud growl, skin slick with fresh sweat glowing in the dancing light of the fire. So hard his eyes roll back, and he nearly crushes me when he drops his body to mine. Oh but I want that crush. The carpet scraping my back. His heartbeat resonating in my whole body. Our skins clinging and slipping. His shaking breath in the crook of my neck.
Later, he carries me to the bed, lays me on the sheet like precious cargo, spoons against me, and pulls the bed covers above our tangled bodies, his hand gently stroking my bare shoulder.
Rain starts pattering against the window, and it’s the warmest, softest sound.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee wakes me up. I open my eyes to the sight of Christopher wearing just a pair of low-hanging sweatpants, his naked abs and pecs flexing behind a breakfast tray laden with apple cider muffins, cinnamon buns, orange juice, and coffee.
“Oh, wow,” are the first words I can articulate. I stretch my arms above my head and without thinking, I add, “Will you marry me?”
He nearly drops the tray.
Well, that settles it. “Just kidding,” I huff.
He smirks and hands me a cup of coffee, then tears apart small pieces of cinnamon bun that he hand-feeds me.
I close my eyes in delight. Not for the food.
For the moment.
I should immortalize this. I reach over for my phone charging on the nightstand and snap a photo of Christopher sitting on the side of my bed handing me a sticky pastry, the breakfast tray between us, my foot resting on his thigh.
In years to come, I want proof that this was not my imagination.
He gives me his crooked smile when I snap the photo.
“Let’s get some content for your social media,” I say when we’re done with breakfast.
“What does that even mean?” he asks, a puzzled look on his face. Then, catching up, he adds, “Don’t you have a ton of pictures already?”
“I’d like videos of you. On normal days, I’d be in the way. And I’m supposed to be baking, too.”
“Would you like that?”
“I’d love it.” I’m beaming.
“Only because you’d love it, then.”
Before I can stop myself, I wrap my arms around his neck and plant a kiss on his nose.
He smirks. Something clouds his gaze before he breaks into a wide grin and adds, “Anything for you, pancake.”
Once in the bakehouse, he says, “I might as well practice for the competition,” and pulls his ingredients out. I set up the ring lights around his workstation then start the video.
I ask him questions, and most of the time he answers, our back-and-forth easy. Sometimes, he’s so focused he doesn’t answer right away, and I get some great footage. Especially when he looks up at me like he’s just discovering me, a huge grin brightening his features. Then, he remembers the question and launches into an explanation with passion, precision, and care.
Four hours later, my stomach rumbles as his confections come out of the oven. “I can’t believe you made me work on my day off,” he says.
“Right. Like you wouldn’t be working if I weren’t here.”
He grins and kisses me lightly on the lips. “I would be working three times more.”
That worries me. “Are you skimping on your preparation because of me?” I can’t be the one standing between him and the title.
“You’re my good luck charm. I’ll be fine.”
My heart dips at his admission. The competition means a lot to him—to everyone. And, if he loses, he’ll be crushed. I remember Grace’s words—Christopher needs to prove himself.
“Even if you don’t win, you’re the best,” I tell him, happy tears rimming my eyes.
“I’ll win. When I want something bad enough, I get it.”
My heart stutters at his words, and I hide it by scrolling through the videos I took. Surely if he wanted me in his life, he would start by just saying so.
“Show me how this works,” he says, motioning to my phone. His woodsy scent warms me when he leans over as I show him. Then, he takes over the phone and practices by filming me.
“You can also do a selfie,” I say and adjust the phone’s tripod.
“Why would I do that?”
“If you want to talk straight into the camera, like you have an announcement. Or, maybe, down the road, if you want to interact with your customers, you could do a live video.”
He grunts. “I don’t think so.”
“Could come in handy if you’re introducing something new. Or a big order just got canceled and you’re sitting on inventory. You just hop in and say something like, ‘We’ve got awesome whatever-it-is-you-made, and they won’t last long. Come in and get yours!’ and then, you just take a bite of whatever you made, or you show it to the camera.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. Just be genuine. You’re not trying to impress people with your videos. But before you set out to make a video, you need to know what your goal is. More often than not, you’re just trying to get them to come buy your stuff. The thing with live videos is that people get notifications on their screens—so they’re sure to see your video. They don’t have to look for it.”
“You’re right. I didn’t think about that.” He grabs one of the trays he’s been baking and starts the live feed. I get behind the camera to check that he’s in focus and give him a silent thumbs up.
“Hey, guys, I have a nice surprise for you. I’ve been baking some sourdough brown bread today.” He grabs the bread and rips off a piece of it and shows it to the camera. I see people logging in and reacting already. “I also have some brioche hot dog rolls.” Hearts start to trickle up my phone screen. “Since we’re closed on Mondays, I’ll be dropping them off at Justin’s, also known as Lazy’s.”
I round my eyes at him.
He cocks a questioning eyebrow. “And that’s it for today!”
I stop the video and laugh. “Next time, don’t give your product away!”
“I thought that was a marketing technique.” He grins.
“It can be. When done right. Right now, you’re just sending business to Justin.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Of course not, but that’s not what you set out to do. Remember to set a goal.”
“I’ll have to hire you. Because you’ve just witnessed the extent of my social media and marketing abilities.” He draws me against him and closes his arms around me, lifting my chin so my eyes meet his.
“Stay here,” he says, and I freeze, senses alert. Why does he want me to stay? To hire me as his social media person? Is that all I am to him? A poor baker, but a good marketer?
“Wh-what?” my voice betrays my hope that he’ll say he wants me for me, in his life.
That everything I shouldn’t want, he will give me, without me asking. That he wants it.
Only then, maybe, can I take the risk.
His gaze roams my hair, my lips, my face, then settles back on my eyes. “Stay here after your exam. Fuck Red Barn. You don’t owe them anything.”
It’s too early for me to tell him about Red Barn Baking, that I’m about to become the owner of the company. Not until my plan to reform it from the ground up is in motion, and he can accept the secret I kept from him in light of the mission I’m working on.
Nothing is in place yet. I have nothing to show for it. He wouldn’t understand.
He takes a shallow breath. He’s about to speak, and I stay suspended.
“Bet you’d get a lot of business here,” he says, and my stomach drops, disappointment settling in until my toes tingle with the shame of the hopes I held for one weak moment.
I shut my eyes and lay my head against his chest. “I bet I would.”
His heart beats fast and hard in his chest, while mine is faltering.
His words haunt me for the next several days.
Maybe he was just being cautious?
Although his words weren’t strong enough to win me over, I saw the hurt in his eyes when I wouldn’t say yes, and I feel like I’m dying inside.
What’s the right thing to do? “Stay” is vague. Does he want me to be his girlfriend? Does he want more? Where will I live? What will we tell Skye? How will I deal with Red Barn Baking?
I call Barbara to help me figure out the last piece.
“Of course you can do whatever you want, but running the company remotely may not be your best option for a smooth transition.” She sighs and I hear her shift in her chair. “When they sacked me, there were already factions forming. Pro-Alex and… well, not pro-Alex. The openly pro-Alex got a pink slip, and they’re finding other jobs. It’ll be tough to rehire them. You’ll be left with the other charming group.”
Norwood must be leading the anti-Alex group. Whoever else is part of it is anybody’s guess. “But they haven’t met me yet,” I say.
“You might not know them, but they know you. Start building a thick skin, darling.”
Great.