I wish I’d never walked into that damn lunch with him in the first place.
9
Benedikt
This place is tiny.
Too small for someone like me.
The ceiling fan wobbles overhead, creaking with every slow rotation. The furniture is a mess of thrift store finds and hand-me-downs.
It’s the kind of place where everything tells a story of having belonged to someone else.
The couch looks like it might give up if I sit on it, and the coffee table is propped up with a stack of books—some hardcover, some paperback, all worn at the edges.
There’s a small bookshelf against the wall, stuffed full of books with their spines cracked and bent from being read too many times. Some titles I recognize, some I don’t. She reads a lot.
In the corner, a desk is covered in papers—handwritten notes, sketches, receipts, and a laptop that looks a few years out of date. A half-full cup of coffee sits beside it, the ring of condensationstaining the wood beneath it. The faint scent of vanilla and cinnamon lingers in the air.
It’s not just from the bakery.
It’sher.
It’s quiet. Just the fan, the distant hum of a car passing by outside, and the sound of water running from the bathroom.
She has no idea I’m here.
I step toward her desk, glancing over the notes sprawled across it. A business plan. A second location, projections, costs, and estimated profits—ambitious, but realistic.
Still, she’s naive if she thinks she’s turning a profit in her first year. It’s clear she’s already barely getting by.
Her bills are stacked neatly beside the laptop.
Rent. Utilities. Insurance.
The normal shit.
The water in the bathroom shuts off, and Sienna emerges from the shower.
I lean back against the far wall and wait. She’s going to freak out. She’s going to loathe that I’m here. However, if Detective Campbell is trying to involve her, that ends now.
The bathroom door creaks open, and she steps out, her damp hair clinging to her creamy shoulders, wrapped in nothing but a towel that barely covers her ass.
She hasn’t seen me yet and, for that, I’m glad.
Because I aimlessly eye-fuck her and all the curves outlined by the white towel blocking my view.
Her skin’s flushed from the hot water, glowing faintly pink in the places the towel doesn't touch—her collarbone, her shoulders, the top of her chest. Her hair is darker and wet, with long strands sticking to the sides of her neck and the curve of her spine.She’s soft in a way most women I know work hard to carve out of themselves. No sharp bones or cold edges, just smooth skin and gentle lines.
Honest.
Unpolished.
The way she moves isn’t practiced. It’s justreal.
And sexy as fuck.
Sienna is gorgeous. If I were any other man, I’d say she’s even worthy of courting and spending some time to get to know her beyond a background check.
