Wild Man (Dream Man #2)(26)

Then she enveloped me in her arms and forced me to promise never, and I mean never, to hold something like that to myself again.

“It’s always been you for me, Tess, and I can’t bear thinking it isn’t me for you,” she whispered. “I’m done backing off, hoping you’ll sort your head on your own, honey. You gotta let me be there for you and from now on, I sense something’s wrong, I’m gonna make you let me be there for you.”

I held her close and I gave her that promise.

Seriously, what else could I do?

Needless to say, salad did not really go with confessions of the soul so Martha ate four of the dozen cupcakes I brought home for Brock.

But learning this news had not put Martha off her game and when Brock showed, she watched him like a hawk waiting for him to f**k up in some way so she could pounce and she did this with eyes constantly narrowed so much I feared she’d give herself a migraine.

Brock, however, was who he always was (even when I called him Jake). He was Brock.

Sensing he was not going to fall at the first hurdle and expose the screaming dickhead he was hiding within, Martha finally gave up and left.

Which led me to now.

I closed the door, locked it and turned to my living room.

I lucked out. Four years ago, after the bakery caught on and life started to get a lot less scary, I went house hunting and the second house I looked at was this one.

The couple who bought it spent years fixing it up and getting it to exactly what they wanted it to be. Then the husband received the word he was being transferred just weeks before the finishing touches were put on the last of the loving care (and scads of cash) they’d put into their house – a brand new kitchen.

They were devastated at having to leave.

I was elated (though I didn’t share this).

The dark wood floors had all been redone. The walls had all been reskimmed. The bathrooms were updated and fabulous. The basement had been finished into a huge family room where I kept my TV. Also down there was a powder room, laundry room and a guest room that had its own bath. The furnace had been replaced. The roof reshingled. The yard landscaped. And a swamp cooler had been installed.

But it was the kitchen that did it for me. The kitchen was phenomenal. An abundance of white cabinets, the wall ones all glass fronted, quirky ones handcrafted to set in corners and spots that were tough to fill. Slate floors. Fabulous black and white tiled splashbacks. An enormous island in the middle. Shiny marble countertops. Restaurant quality, stainless steel appliances including narrow but fabulous wine fridge. Inlaid cookbook holder. Built-in microwave and double oven, one fan assisted.

A baker’s dream.

My dream.

It was fifty thousand dollars over budget but I bought it because I thought it was worth it.

Since then, even though the first year it was rough going, I never regretted it.

As I walked through the front living room off which were two bedrooms and a bath to the double doorway that led to the kitchen, I thought the same thing.

And when I hit the kitchen and saw Brock resting faded jeans-clad h*ps against the back counter, teeth sinking into a cupcake, half of a mountainous swirl of silver-dusted, pale lilac frosting, sprinkled with pastel, candy confetti disappearing behind his full lips, I made the instant decision I was going to go through my paperwork, find out the day I signed on the dotted line that made that house my home and celebrate it with a huge, honking party every f**king year.

“She’s gone,” I informed him, stopping on the other side of the island and putting my hands on it.

I watched with admittedly captivated attention as he licked frosting from his lips after he swallowed and then he asked, “How long’s it take her to get home?”

“Twenty minutes,” I answered.

His eyes locked with mine and he said quietly, “You need to call her in twenty-five minutes, babe.”

My gaze held his as more warm gushiness hit my belly knowing he got it, he read her mood, he knew she was hurting and he wanted me to check in on her.

“Okay,” I whispered.

He studied me and I let him.

Then he asked, still talking quietly, “How you doin’?”

“Sharing that with her was not fun,” I admitted.

“I could guess that part, Tess,” he told me, again quietly.

I nodded and took a breath. Then I added, “I’m glad I did it, I’m sorry I didn’t do it earlier, I’m glad it’s done and I’m glad I never have to do it again. That’s as far as I’ve got.”

“Right,” he whispered.

Then he shoved the rest of the cupcake in his mouth. I watched him chew and swallow.

Then he asked, “Would it piss you off to know that right about now I’m wondering if I walked in here yesterday because I missed my Tess or if it was because I missed her cupcakes?”

I grinned at him.

Then I answered, “No, because I am my cupcakes.”

And it hit me right then I was. On the outside it could be tees, jeans and flip-flops or pencil skirts, complicated designer blouses and high-heeled strappy sandals or, me being me, just about anything. But on the inside, it was all about mountainous swirls of delicately colored frosting with sprinkles of candy confetti, edible fairy dust all on top of rich, moist cake.

And as that understanding settled inside me, that made me feel warm and gushy too.