Chapter 18 Lexie
I’ve never been inside Lavendar & Frost. As one of New York’s most coveted high-end bakeries, it was never a place I could justify splurging on.
The display cases are filled with the most beautiful items I’ve ever seen—fruit-shaped confections glazed to a mirror shine, delicate edible roses perched atop gold-crusted macaroons, cupcakes meticulously decorated and stuffed with hazelnut chocolate mousse.
I’m pretty sure this is heaven.
I arrive extra early, giving myself time to prepare for my next encounter with Theo—and to ensure he doesn’t get under my skin. When he shows up, punctual as ever, I introduce him to the pastry chef handling today’s cake tasting.
For once, Theo keeps his distance, behaving exactly as a client should—listening intently to the introduction, then following along as we’re led to a small table tucked into the back of the café. It’s perfectly normal.
With him, though, it feels weird.
“I’ve prepared a sampling that pairs well with most things.
As you taste, don’t just focus on the visual appeal, but really pay attention to the texture.
Is it softer than you expected? Lighter?
Denser? Does it crumble on your tongue…” The chef continues talking about flavor profiles, but I’m barely listening.
Because I’m at freaking Lavendar & Frost. Besides, I’ve done enough tastings to know that for amateurs like us, it boils down to one thing: does it taste good or not?
Then the doors swing open and his assistant enters with a tray of impossibly intricate desserts. I have to swallow back a moan at how delicious they look.
Theo eyes the chef. “Did I read that you’re self-taught in your craft?”
He nods and clasps his hands in front of himself. “Yes, that’s right.”
There’s a subtle shift in his tone—apprehension, maybe, or the faint tension of someone bracing to defend his credentials. He knows this wedding is for the Barlowe family. No matter how established he is, nerves are inevitable.
“Teaching yourself an art takes a rare kind of discipline and determination. Seeing this—and the care you put into every detail—it’s obvious how much heart you pour into your work. I’m impressed.”
At Theo’s praise, the chef’s cheeks redden and he bows in thanks.
As much as I cling to the devil I know Theo is, it’s moments like this that are the most lethal—the ones that suggest there might be something human buried inside the monster.
Last week when Theo and I were texting about wedding colors, my heart fluttered more than it should have at the attention he was giving me, and I forced myself to cut off communication. Clearly my heart is sabotaging my better judgment.
I thought no contact would fix this, but it hasn’t. I still notice the way he looks today in jeans and a sharp black button-down.
Once the chef steps away, I snap a few photos of the desserts while Theo dives straight in without hesitation—patience is clearly not his virtue.
“So many options,” he says, scanning the plates.
“I don’t even know where to start. But I’m glad none of these are vanilla-flavored. I’ve never been one for just vanilla.”
I lift the corner of my brow. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
Oh, God. The look he flashes me would make my knees weak if I was standing up. There’s no denying this man radiates danger and sex from every pore—nothing about him suggests he’d ever be satisfied with anything plain.
But, of course, he would infer this from my response and not the fact that he has wealth, a mansion, and private chefs. The way he grew up surrounded by excess, with a palate refined far beyond most people’s. Of course vanilla’s not enough for him.
As we sample the cakes, silence settles between us except the faint noise of a buzzing phone that sounds from my bag.
Each vibration needles my focus, my agitation building as I resist the urge to check whether it’s urgent.
Across the table, I can feel something dark radiating off Theo, a coiled displeasure at the interruption, at my attention straying from him.
“For God’s sake, just answer your phone.” All softness evaporates. “And tell whoever the fuck it is to stop calling.”
I don’t appreciate the tone, but I step away from the table and take the call, ending it as quickly as I can. When I return and slide back into the chair, I offer a tight smile. “Sorry about that. Vendors just do not take no for an answer sometimes, huh?”
Theo doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile back. Doesn’t even blink.
The air thins. My skin heats under his unyielding stare and I shift in my seat.
“From now on,” he says quietly, “when you’re with me, you don’t answer your phone.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
“When you’re with me,” he repeats, slower now, sharper, “you’re with me. Understood?”
“You can’t be serious?” God help me—my body reacts anyway. A traitorous warmth gathers low, my thighs pressing together beneath the table as I wonder what other lines he thinks he gets to cross.
Something is very wrong with me.
“Now,” he says, leaning back, crossing his arms, all commanding presence and contained threat, “are you expecting any other calls? Are you working with other clients?”
I shake my head. “You’re my only client. Sydney wants all my attention on you.”
I want all my attention on you.
Because, eventually, Theo will slip. He has to. And when it happens, I’ll be right here collecting every bit of evidence to show Annabelle.
He seems satisfied by my answer and as if the past few minutes didn’t happen, he picks up a fork again and resumes eating. “Okay, let’s try the raspberry one now,” he says.
I bite my tongue and let it slide, reminding myself of the end goal.
I pick up my fork, cut a neat corner from the cake, and slip it into my mouth.
“Mmmm…” Tart raspberry, smooth soft filling, a salted kiss from the almond frosting melts onto my tongue.
“This right here, is a ten out of ten.” Like the lady I was raised to be, I dive in for one more heaping scoop. “God, that’s delicious.”
The corner of Theo’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “It must be. I think the whole city heard your moan.”
I clap my hand over my mouth. “Stop. That’s so embarrassing.”
“Never be embarrassed to be loud about the things that give you pleasure.” Why does he keep saying things like that? “Like delicious raspberry cake,” he adds, breaking the spell—thank Christ—and takes another bite.
The words still land, though. Because the men I’ve been with have always found fault in me—in how loud I am, how much space I take up, how easily I say the wrong thing.
The last guy I dated told me to be quiet while we were having sex.
Quiet. Not as part of anything playful or intentional, like recklessly sneaking a quickie in a public place while making sure we don’t get caught.
We were alone, in the privacy of my own home—mine, not even his—and he wanted me to tone myself down.
Maybe someday I’ll find someone who’ll embrace and celebrate every part of me.
“I’ve been told I can be… too loud… sometimes,” I say, hesitantly, “so, thank you.”
He pauses for a split-second, then resumes eating, reaching over to refill my wine as if nothing’s changed. But the seconds stretch, and heat crawls up my spine as mortification settles in. Why did I tell him that? It’s wildly unprofessional. Reckless. I’ve never spoken to a client like this.
And yet, Theo is disarmingly easy to talk to when he’s not being a dick. Which makes no sense, given our history.
I down a healthy glug of wine, pretending I’m not painfully aware of how awkward this suddenly feels.
“No one should make you feel small, ever,” he says quietly.
The leather chair squeaks under his large frame as he reaches over and lays his hand on mine.
The touch is charged and electric and the palm cocooning my hand sends ripples roaring through me.
God, those hands. They could clasp around my neck, limit my air, give me that mouthwatering, intoxicating asphyxiation that I want to experience so fucking bad with someone who knows what they’re doing.
Someone who understands bodies, and can read me, and my pulse and knows how much pressure is enough, but not too much.
What would they feel like, everywhere? My tits, my ass, my pussy?
My nipples tighten as I picture those hands landing a hard smack on my ass.
I swallow back the heat in my throat and focus on the cake and wine. These thoughts are intrusive, dangerous and deeply unethical. I would never, ever act on this, but even thinking this way is wrong.
He removes his hand, but not his gaze. “From where I stand,” he continues, voice low and deliberate, “there’s nothing more beautiful than a woman who has a voice—and isn’t afraid to use it.”
My face flushes. I force my breathing to stay even while pretending this is a casual conversation and that I’m not feeling something dangerously stir low in my belly.
“That’s funny,” I say lightly. “Doesn’t that go against the whole I’m the one in control image you like to project?”
One dark brow arches, amused. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he says. “Including how a woman’s pleasure is always my number one priority.”
“Oh, please.”
“You don’t believe me?”
I fall silent, realizing too late I’ve backed myself into a corner and don’t know how to get out of it.
“Well, if you were my woman,” he says, causing a flare of heat in my chest, “I’d start at your ankles, brushing my hands up the backs of your legs, cupping behind your knees, slowly opening them inch by inch.
” I clamp my legs together, fighting the temptation to respond to his words.
“Then, I’d glide my palms up between your silky thighs, higher and higher, until I meet your beautiful, quivering pussy, your panties doing their best to protect you from me.
But they wouldn’t stop me. I’d slide them aside and take you in.
” His voice drops. “Beauty like this must be cherished, not rushed. So, I’d trace the pads of my fingers just outside those sensitive places until your body grows so wet with need it soaks my hand.
” He pauses, and I barely manage to hold back the moan threatening to break free.
“By then, you’d be begging for my touch.
And how could I ignore a woman in need?” His smile is pure promise.
“I’d move down your body, spreading your legs as I go, breathing you in.
My tongue would flutter over you—slow, reverent, worshipping—licking and sucking while you beg me to fuck you.
” His eyes darken. “But I won’t. Instead, I’ll slide in one finger, then another, stretching you until your breath hitches and your moans fill the room.
Then I’ll curl my fingers just right, finding that perfect spot, while my tongue teases your clit… ”
He smirks before adding in a low whisper, “… until you’re screaming my name.”
Jesus fucking Christ. His words, combined with the stifling air, make the heat feel almost unbearable.
He clears this throat, before following up with, “And then I’d make you pancakes.” As if we’re just having a normal conversation at the table.
My throat rolls with a hard swallow, and I want to speak, but if I do, my voice will crack and I can’t fucking have that. I grab my wine and take another hefty gulp. I hate that he’s making me feel this way. I hate that he said what he said, and I hate myself for losing myself in this fantasy.
I set my glass back down and sharpen my gaze. “Wow,” I say as flatly and nonchalant as I can muster. “Annabelle’s a lucky woman, isn’t she?”