The Reunion(22)

I push my hand through my hair again, and I catch her gaze landing on my biceps for a few brief seconds before they snap back to my eyes. Ignoring her perusal, I say, “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

“Are you fragile right now?”

“No,” I answer, brow creased.

She smirks. “Then I can be a smart-ass.”

Groaning, I cut to the chase. “What cake did she order?”

All too happy with herself, Nora flips through a stack of orders and pulls a single sheet out. Holding it up, she clears her throat. “Your sister ordered, and I quote, a ‘rosemary and lavender infused sponge with a blackberry compote generously spread in the middle and covered in a barely iced lavender buttercream. Five tiers, stacked one on top of the other, and decorated simply with a sprig of rosemary on the top.’” She sets the paper down and smiles at me.

“Fuck that. Why do you even have a rosemary lavender cake on the menu?”

“I don’t. It was a special request.”

“You should have told her no.”

Nora gasps. “Tell Palmer Chance no? I would never.”

“You did this on purpose.” My eyes narrow on her.

“Did what?” she chuckles.

“You enjoy this, don’t you? Seeing my life in disarray and taking advantage of it?”

“I hardly see how a cake order could put your life in disarray.”

“You clearly don’t know my family well enough.”

“You fail to realize just how well I do know your family, which is why I’m getting so much joy out of these cake orders.” The knowing smirk not only irritates me, but it also makes me want to lunge across the counter and wipe it off with my own mouth.

Hell, I can still remember just how soft her lips are. I can feel them imprinted on the side of my neck, on my collarbone, and the way they traveled down my stomach.

Clearing my throat—and the thoughts out of my head—I say, “I’m the cake orderer—”

“Is that an official title? Does the cake orderer get to wear a crown of any sort . . . ?”

“Remember what happened the last time you were a smart-ass to me?” I ask, snapping and addressing the elephant in the room.

She doesn’t even blink. “Yes, you gave me a spanking.”

Jesus.

“Is that what’s going to happen here?” she continues. “If so, I do need to point out there’s a row of windows behind you for possible voyeurs, and the kind of spanking you enjoy does go against health-code regulations.”

“I didn’t spank you,” I say, my face heating up.

“Oh, you did. I felt it. I heard the snap.”

I might have spanked her.

“We’re getting off topic.”

“You were the one who brought it up. I was fine not talking about the fact that we’ve seen each other naked, touched each other’s private parts, and then you ignored me for over a year until you needed a cake for your parents’ anniversary party.”

Why are all the women I know mouthy?

Do I give off some kind of vibe that begs snarky females to bring me to my knees?

Because . . . fuck.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Nora asks, laughter in her voice.

“Is it that obvious?” I drag my hand down my face.

“Only a little, but I’m having fun.”

“Glad someone is,” I mutter and then take a deep breath. “Listen, no lavender rosemary cake. That shit sounds gross. Stick with the butterscotch—I know my parents will like it.”

“Hmm, funny, Palmer said the same exact thing, but about her cake.”

“Palmer thinks she knows everything about food, but she doesn’t. Trust me, the butterscotch is what they’ll like. And if she tries to switch it, let me know immediately.”

“Okay, and how would I need to inform you? Should I send out a smoke signal? A bird with a note? A barbershop quartet to your office?”

“Text me,” I deadpan.

“Oh, so you do have a phone.” She taps her chin. “See, I thought since I never heard from you—”

“You’re such a fucking smart-ass.”

Smiling, she leans on the counter, and for a brief second, because I’m a man, my eyes float down to her cleavage and then back up. Her eyes fire up, and hell, the air grows thick as we both stare each other down. I’ve done some pretty idiotic things in my lifetime, but not calling Nora after the night we spent together, that’s at the top of the list. Which only means one thing—I should ask her out. Make up for past mistakes. I take a deep breath, gathering my courage . . .

The door opens behind me, breaking the palpable attraction between us. Slowly, I tear my eyes off Nora and glance over my shoulder toward the new customer. My spine goes rigid.

“Dealia,” I say breathlessly while putting some distance between Nora and me. “What, uh . . . what are you doing here?”

My equally confused ex-wife takes in the scene and nervously grips her take-out bag. “I thought I would bring my best friend lunch.” Her bewildered eyes scan me up and down. “What are you doing here, Cooper?”

Ah hell.

Not calling Nora back was a huge mistake, but even bigger than that? Sleeping with my ex-wife’s best friend.