“I’m on clean-up duty. Do you have a ride home?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Good night.” We didn't exchange numbers or make promises about seeing each other again. That wasn’t what we were doing. We just straightened our clothes and went our separate ways. Like a regular hookup. The kind I wasn’t very good at.
Instead of calling a rideshare like I planned, I walked home. The cool air felt good, and I needed the time to clear my head. My body felt loose and satisfied in a way it hadn't been in months, but there was that familiar ache underneath it all. The one that came from getting exactly what I wanted physically and knowing it still wasn't enough.
It would never be enough.
When I got home, I stood in my kitchen surrounded by boxes of honey and tried not to think about warm hands and careful words and the way Patrick looked at me like I mattered.
It was just a hookup.
One night. No last names. No promises. No one who thought I mattered.
2
PATRICK
The kitchen smelled like brown butter and vanilla, which should have been comforting since those were my favorite scents in the world. But instead of relaxing into the familiar rhythm of baking, I was stressed out of my mind.
Two thousand cookies.
I said yes to the corporate order without really thinking it through because the money was too good to pass up. My little bakery had been doing well, but that kind of contract could set me up for more corporate clients…if I didn't fuck it up.
The problem was I still had to run my bakery and keep up with all my daily orders while somehow cranking out two thousand brown butter honey cookies by Friday.
I wiped flour off my hands and checked my phone for the third time that morning. Still no text from Allen.
Not that I expected one. We hadn't exchanged numbers. Hell, we didn’t even give last names. It was just a hookup in a barbathroom, the kind of thing that happened and you moved on from.
Except I couldn't stop thinking about him and those big eyes looking back at me as I pumped into him. He was so shy and sweet and fucking adorable. And the way he responded to every touch and word as if he was desperate for affection made me wish I’d asked for his number.
Or that he’d asked around to find mine.
I shook the thoughts from my head and focused on the ingredients in front of me. Brown butter, honey, flour, eggs. Simple ingredients that came together to make something special. Kinda like… No, I needed to stop with that line of thinking.
I never got hung up on guys I barely knew. Especially not guys I'd met in a bar and fucked in a bathroom stall. I was a one-and-done through and through. It was just easier that way.
My bakery was my priority and left me no time for relationships. Besides, with the pumping two to three times a day to keep up with online orders, it was hard to make time for much else. I thought selling milk would be an easy side hustle, but coordinating pickups and deliveries took more time than I expected since I joined the Milkman app.
But there was something about Allen that made me want to break my rules and reevaluate my whole life plan. The vulnerability in his gaze mixed with the heat of his touch did things to me. Things I couldn’t remember feeling with anyone else.
When he asked me to go harder, I gave him what he needed until he melted into my arms like he just wanted to be held.
And fuck, did it feel good to hold him.
"Patrick!" Mia, my assistant baker, called from the back. "Delivery at the door!"
“If it’s from the honey place, go ahead and sign for it.”
Perfect timing. I’d just used the last three cups for the current batch and needed at least another gallon to get through the order. To be safe, I’d ordered three gallons of artisanal honey from a local farmer, so I’d have enough for the whole month. It was expensive as hell but worth every penny, according to everyone who’d tried it.
Mia passed by me, and I did a double take at the cart she was wheeling.
She had three crates. Not three bottles. Three full crates that appeared to hold a dozen jars of honey each.
"What the hell?" I pulled out my phone and checked my bank account to see what I’d ordered. If I'd been charged for twelve times the number I ordered, I was gonna have a serious cash flow problem. The corporate order would be a nice cushion once it came in but not well enough to cover an unexpected expense like that.
Fortunately, the charge was exactly what I expected for three bottles. That meant the mistake was with the farmer and not with me.
