Full Package(62)

This blend the two of us have going on is pretty damn good. I like life better when we’re together.

Right now there’s something I’d like even more, and that's all of her.

I break the kiss and glance around the shop. “How many health codes would we break if we got it on at this place?”

She smiles. “Come to my office.”

I wiggle my eyebrows as she locks the front door. “I like the sound of that.”

Taking my hand, she guides me to a cubicle in the back. She perches on the edge of a desk that’s covered in papers and envelopes, presumably invoices and bills. She pulls me close, and I slam my mouth to hers, kissing her hard and rough, the kind of kiss that leads to only one thing.

Soon, I lift her skirt, tug down her panties, and slide inside.

Her name is a dirty growl on my lips. “Josie. I fucking love you.”

She draws me impossibly closer and whispers in my ear, “I fucking love you, too. And, yes, it was always that way for me, too.”

We’re fast, and we’re frenzied, and soon we’re both over the edge.

After, I help her close the bakery for the night and we head for the door. “Wait.” I stop at the table. “I have a gift for you, too.”

I hand her the flowers. “You might be thinking, ‘He’s not very creative, since he gave me these before.’ But last time I gave you flowers, you said they’d make our place cheery. This time I got them for you because I want to live with you again. In a new place. Just for us. One you can make cheery with these flowers.” Her eyes seem to sparkle as she waits for me to say more. “Would you like to live with me again? As my girlfriend?”

She takes my hand. “I would love to.”





Epilogue





Five months later



* * *



The apartment hunt didn’t last long this time.

Nothing was cursed. No one was crazy. I didn’t have to sell a spleen or a kidney, either.

As it turns out, all I had to do was remove a piece of a chandelier from a guy’s forehead and then stitch it up without a trace.

Kevin hooked me up. Who knew that one day Aquaman would stumble into my ER with a three-inch shard of glass in his forehead, and a beautiful bond would form. I’d fix his face and send him on the path to safer sexcapades. He would wind up engaged and return the favor by connecting me with some of his real estate contacts. One of his real estate guys found a one-bedroom for us in Chelsea that costs an arm and a leg. But somehow we’re making it all work, doing our best every day.

Josie’s bakery is thriving. Her afternoon specials have lured in many new customers, and they’re loving her mini cinnamon buns, the chocolate peanut butter brownies, the candy sushi, and even the grapefruit macarons. Nothing with raisins, though. Thank the Lord.

But tonight, she’s not cooking.

I am.

Not gonna lie. Cooking has never been my forte. But learning has. I tracked down some recipes, watched a few videos, practiced a couple of times, and now I’m making her dinner.

I whip up the pasta primavera I’ve planned for the menu. It’s a simple dish, but it’s her favorite, and seeing as she treats me like a king in the kitchen, I want to treat her like a queen.

When she walks in the door to our home, she lifts her nose high and inhales. “Mmm,” she says in a sexy purr. “Smells good. Somebody’s getting lucky tonight.”

I leave the kitchen, wrap an arm around her waist, and kiss her. “Had I only known cooking dinner was the way to get in your pants, I’d have done it sooner.”

She laughs and drops another kiss on my lips. “Can you imagine? You’d be getting it three times a day instead of once or twice.”

Yeah, we’re regulars.

Every night. Sometimes every morning, too, even though we rarely get out of bed at the same time. But that doesn’t hinder the pursuit of orgasms, since synchronized wake-up calls aren’t necessary for sleepy morning sex, and that’s a habit we both enjoy.

After she sets down her purse and washes her hands, we eat the dinner I made. When we’re done, I clear my throat. “Josie, there’s something I want to tell you.”

Her eyes widen. “Yes?”

I clasp my hand over hers, then frown. “It’s about dessert. I have bad news.”

She goes along with my trumped-up concern. “You baked a cake and it fell? You used too much salt in the brownies? Wait. No. Don’t tell me you made something with raisins.”

I shudder. “Never. But I want to be truthful with you.” I inhale deeply, piling it on. “The crème br?lée on the menu? I didn’t make it with a crème br?lée torch. In fact, crème br?lée is really fucking hard to make. Confession—I bought it.”

She cracks up and runs her hand through my hair. “I forgive you, and I won’t even throat-punch you.”

I gesture to the kitchen. “Any chance I can trouble you to grab it, though? I just need to gather up the plates.”

“Of course.” She rises and heads to the kitchen, and with lightning speed, I race to the couch, grab a board from underneath it, and carry it ever-so-carefully with my steady hands to the table.

When I set it down, every tile I laid out earlier is still in place.