I grab my dress, pulling it on. “It will complicate everything. Remember when we painted the mural and you said you made a promise to yourself not to touch me again?”
“Yes,” he bites out.
“I made a promise too. To put romance aside for a while. To focus on myself and on this business. To give it the attention it deserves.”
He’s quiet for several seconds, as if he’s letting that register. “I get that. You don’t want to lose sight of the goal.”
That’s so him, putting it in hockey terms. “Yes. I’ve wanted this for too long, and I don’t want to get…distracted.”
He nods. Vigorously. “Building something lasting takes focus.”
I’m glad he sees it the same way I do. “And we can do that. Hell, we did it with this opening. We had a great day. We can keep having them.”
“This has to be a one-time thing. It was inevitable, but it’s done now. And we can go back to how we were before.” It’s like he’s trying to convince himself, but I get it. My heart hurts, but it’s truly for the best. “We need to…” Corbin snaps his fingers. “Code-switch.”
A laugh bursts from me. “What do you mean?”
“It’s when you switch from the way you talk at work to the way you talk with friends.”
I roll my eyes. “I know what code-switching is. Remember, I’m younger than you.”
“As if I could forget,” he says. “Anyway, it’s what my daughter says she does when she comes home from school. She code-switches. That’s what we need to do. We need to code-switch from whateverthatwas to reading the letter as business partners, as friends.”
I don’t think he’s wrong, even though part of me wants to ask him a million questions.You’ve really wanted me for seven years? How often did you think about me? And did you feel the same way I did that time we met right here in this firehouse?But the parallels are almost a little too much.
“Let me just clean up, and then we’ll get the letter.”
He grabs the tissue with the condom. “I’ll do the same.”
Nothing like tossing a used prophylactic into the trash to kill the mood.
After I pop into the restroom and freshen up, I smooth a hand over my dress, pick up my apron from the floor, and fold it. I set it on the makeup table—the scene of the crime of passion.
He folds his apron too. Puts it next to mine.
They’re symbols of our new resolve, somehow.
We stand there for a beat, dressed again, hair smoothed over, trying to pretend the last hour didn’t happen. That he doesn’t think of me as his. That I didn’t ask forandget everything I wanted in bed and more. So much more. My heart is still jittery from the way he talked to me, the things he told me, how he opened up. But it’s time to ignore all that.
With amoving-onnod, I head to the kitchen cupboard where we keep the letters and ask, “Ready for another cookie?”
“Ravenous.”
I grab the step stool, but before I can climb it, he sets a hand on my arm. “I can get it.”
“Show off.”
“Well, I’m presuming my ability to reach the top shelves is why you like me.”
“Who said I like you?”
He shoots me a salacious look. “The way you come.”
“Shut up. We said it was a one-time thing.”
“True. But, Mabel, I have to acknowledge that you come so fucking beautifully.” He turns around, reaches for the ceramic container, and leaves me with that dirty, delightful thought, which I know I’ll hold onto for a while.
Once he has the strawberry jar, he hands it to me, and we head to the front of the bakery.
