I lean back in my chair, watching the shadow of her feet shift across the polished floor, until she finally moves toward the kitchen.
She doesn’t notice me following or know that I’m home.
She’s on her phone, voice warm and animated in a way I haven’t seen in my vicinity. She’s in a pink dress that hugs the upper part of her frame and flows out into a graceful little number with my name written all over it.
Her long red hair beckons me closer, draping flawlessly down her spine as she pulls out a bottle of water from the fridge.
“No, I’m thinking a pale blue on the walls,” she says to whomever is on the phone. “With white tile, maybe gold fixtures, and maybe one of those chalkboard menus? I don’t know, Lucy, I’m thinking we could do a launch special. Croissants for everyone—no, not free, I’m not stupid—” She laughs, the sound soft and genuine.
I stop just inside the kitchen doorway.
She’s moving like she belongs here. Setting her bag down on the counter, pulling a glass from the cabinet, and leaning her hip against the marble as she talks. She doesn’t see me, doesn’t feel me, which means she’s comfortable.
It’s as fucking annoying as it is watching myself in my own home.
I gave my staff the day off because I didn’t want to overwhelm Sienna. And, if I’m being honest, I wanted her to myself.
I let her finish whatever sentence she’s mid-way through before stepping in.
Her back is to me when she turns toward the fridge again. I cross the space in three steps.
She suddenly spins back and sees me, her hand jerking slightly with the glass. “Oh—” She stumbles over nothing, eyes going wide.
I don’t say a word.
I just point to the counter.
She hesitates with furrowed brows for exactly two seconds before setting the glass down and hoisting herself up.
Her phone is still pressed to her ear. Lucy is still talking, oblivious.
I close the distance and stand between her knees. My hands braced on either side of her thighs. She smells like vanilla and city air, a mix that shouldn’t work but does.
Her eyes flicker between me and the kitchen doorway like she’s debating an escape.
But that would require her hanging up the phone and ending her discussion about her bakery.
The one I’m signing the papers for tomorrow.
Not that she knows that.
However, with what I’m about to do, I might need to add to that.
Sienna swallows, golden brown eyes locked on me when she stutters, “Uh—yeah, I’m here. Just…yeah, keep going.”
I run my hands slowly up the backs of her thighs and under the hem of her dress. She tenses but doesn’t stop talking.
“That’s what I’m saying,” she says into the phone, voice only slightly higher than before. “We could do an espresso flight for the opening week. People would love that.”
I slide the dress higher, exposing smooth skin, along with the faint tremor in her legs. My fingers curl under the edge of her panties, tugging them aside without a word.
She exhales into the receiver like nothing’s happening. “And maybe a seasonal menu—pumpkin in fall, gingerbread in winter.”
Stupid and basic.
However, I told myself I wouldn’t get involved. Bakeries are not my speciality, nor is it something I’d want to get involved with.
“I like that,” Sienna breathes, and I imagine her tellingmethat instead of her friend. “I’ll send you the list today. You can scratch off what you don’t like.”
