The Reunion(58)

I want this kiss.

I want this more than anything.

I wet my lips. “I don’t think I can leave your apartment without knowing what your lips taste like . . .”





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO





NORA


The rain is like a constant sheet of water drenching the streets just outside my shop, pounding against the window and racing down the gutters. Thunder rattles the walls as flashes of lightning brighten the dark night sky.

Yeah, I won’t be leaving anytime soon.

I take a seat behind the counter and pull out my iPad, where I open up my brick-breaking game. The cakes have been baked and stored, the buttercreams are prepared for tomorrow, and the kitchen has been cleaned. Since I have to walk home, I prefer not to endure a torrential downpour. I might as well wait for the storm to pass.

Lightning lights up the shop just as a boom of thunder shakes me to my core. I glance up toward the street, and another bolt of lightning strikes the sky, illuminating a dark figure at the door.

“Ahhh!” I scream as the figure walks into my shop, hood draped over its head, soaking wet. I pull a pen from my pen cup, click it, and point at the dark figure. “I don’t carry cash—don’t even ask for it.”

The figure removes its hood, and I’m met with jet-black hair and silvery-gray eyes.

“Cooper.” I exhale sharply. “Good God, you made me wet myself.”

He moves his hand over his face, shedding water onto the floor. “Sorry. I texted you that I was coming over.”

“My phone is in the back.” I calm my racing heart. “I thought you were going to murder me.”

“Why’s your door unlocked?”

“Why are you walking around in the rain?”

He takes his jacket off and sets it by the door. His shirt underneath isn’t wet, but it sure knows how to cling to his rock-hard chest.

Cooper is like fine wine: ages well. Especially since his divorce, he’s turned into this ruggedly handsome, physically fit, and sarcastic man that I can’t seem to stop thinking about.

“I got your text about the cake,” Cooper says as my eyes wander over his chest and then back up to his piercing eyes.

“Oh, yeah, you mean the Sleeping Beauty cake?”

He walks over to the counter and takes a seat across from me, a confused look on his face. “Sleeping Beauty cake? What the hell is that?”

“You know . . . blue, pink, blue, pink, how her dress keeps changing color, just like this cake keeps changing flavor.”

“I wish that wasn’t the case, but my sister seems to have other ideas.”

I lean across the counter. “Lavender is a romantic flavor.”

“And my parents will hate it. Stick with the butterscotch.”

“You know, that’s something you could have just texted me. You didn’t have to come all the way down here to say that.”

“I wanted you to know how serious I was,” he replies, turning toward me.

“Isn’t that why GIFs were created, to express emotions through text better?”

“I’m not a fancy texter—you’re lucky if you get an emoji out of me.”

“I’ve noticed,” I say as my eyes float down to his lips for a brief second and then back up to his eyes. Get it together, Nora. He’s not here for a make-out session, even though the thought of that happening sends a thrill through me.

“What are you playing?” he asks, looking at my iPad.

“It’s like Tetris, but not. You can’t rotate the blocks, but you have to try to eliminate lines. It’s mindless and keeps me busy when I’m waiting for things to bake or cool down or I just need a break. You should download it—clear your mind when you’re not editing. How’s that book coming along, by the way?”

“Fifty pages left. Fifty pages of pure torture.”

I shake my head. “I don’t get it—why are you an editor if you don’t enjoy it?”

“I don’t enjoy nonfiction. I like fiction, but I’ve been roped into the driest, most tedious nonfiction—despite hating it, I’m good at it.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Very.”

“So then . . . find something you do like.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Really? Seems easy to me,” I say. “Figure out what you like and then go for it.”

“Yeah, I tried that,” he says softly, looking away.

“And what happened?”

“My brother told me no.”

“You wanted to work with Ford?” I ask, confused.

“Yeah.” He runs his hand through his hair. “He’s rebranding the store, and I wanted to help. I had some good ideas, have been drawing things out.”

“You draw?” I ask, shocked.

Dealia and Cooper were married for five years before they divorced, but despite being Dealia’s best friend and maid of honor, I really didn’t get to know Cooper well at all. I had a few beers with him and some friends in that time, but it didn’t extend past that. We may have been intimate later on, but I still don’t know much about him other than what Dealia has told me.

And from what she’s told me, I know he can be closed off and unwilling to look outside his little radius. He turned down an opportunity to work abroad that Dealia was excited about, but he didn’t want to leave Seattle. And that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It drove Dealia crazy that he wouldn’t go anywhere, wouldn’t do anything. She wanted more, and he said he wanted more, but when push came to shove, he never followed through.