Chapter One
Bobbi
Every time I tell someone that my dream is to (a) own a bakery, (b) get married and (c) have as many babies as possible, people look at me like I’m sprouting broccoli from my forehead. Apparently, those things simply can’t be what a girl like me wants.
There’s nothing soft on me. My breasts will never look bigger than a B, no matter how much I spend on pushup bras “guaranteed to create cleavage that would make Dolly Parton jealous.” And I’m never going to have the gorgeous flaring hips that so many of my celebrity clients had.
Six feet of mostly sinew and muscle means physicality and strength. I’m those things—I was also a nationally ranked judoka in high school, and worked for a while as a bodyguard for some of Hollywood’s more famous faces.
Still, that doesn’t mean I can’t dream of the softer things in life. And work to get them. “Live your life to the fullest” were my mother’s final words to me, and I’m going to honor her wish, even if we didn’t have the best relationship.
Now one goal is about to become a reality—Bobbi’s Sweet Things. Up to now I’ve only done relatively small items like birthday and wedding cakes without an actual physical store to sell them from. But tomorrow, the very first location is going to open in downtown L.A., complete with a ceremony and after-party to celebrate.
The timer dings over the sound of my favorite Latin playlist. “Oh, yeah…” I go to pull golden croissants out of the oven. A heavenly smell fills my kitchen, and I close my eyes to appreciate it fully. Then I visualize what everything is going to be like tomorrow:
A bakery full of delicious fresh bread and pastries and cakes. Cupcakes with colorful frosting, each one with unique and interesting decorations. I don’t just want my creations to be tasty; I want the kind of creations that my customers will loathe to eat because they’re just that pretty—the ultimate sensory experience.
Excitement fizzes through me like soda from a freshly popped can.
“You never change.”
I open my eyes.That damn velvety voice. Never thought I’d hear it in my kitchen again.
I turn around. Noah is standing there, butt propped against the sink. Dark eyebrows slanted at the most perfect angle; eyes brilliant in the bright light of my kitchen. They seem to change color depending on what he’s wearing, the weather and maybe other random factors—right now, they’re polished silver. A gray shirt made of some silken material fits his wide shoulders and flows over his perfect torso. I’ve felt that body more than a few times, up close and very personal, and always marveled at how powerful and tireless it was. Hard to believe he’s a wildlife photographer. I joked once that he got his stamina from running away from hungry lions, and he laughed, then kissed me like he couldn’t stop himself from showering me with affection.
His gaze softens, and he smiles, his beautiful mouth curving into the slanted grin that never fails to make my heart hop and spin.
“How did you get in?” I ask in my coolest voice, not wanting him to know how his presence affects me.
“You gave me a key, remember?”
He sounds playful, which is both painful and a relief. He forgot about coming to pick me up when I was discharged from the hospital after getting shot in the belly. Same story with having drinks together after I’d had a particularly nasty incident involving a client’s ex—one who’d decided to run both me and the client over. Both times he had to be out of the country to film cheetahs. But at least Noah hasn’t lost the key I gave him. So that means he must care about what we had…at least a little bit, right?
“The cheetahs couldn’t keep you in…wherever…?” I wave my hand vaguely, hiding all the old doubts and disappointments behind a light tone.
“Cheetahs wait for no one, but…” His boyish smile is charming enough to sell sand in the Sahara.
I do my best to fix a matching smile to my face. “And me?” I don’t mean to sound needy and desperate, like I’ve been emotionally clinging to him, but the chiding question rolls out of my mouth anyway.
A hint of guilt cracks the light, winsome mask on his gorgeous face, revealing raw affection underneath. It gives me hope that I haven’t imagined this connection between us. Some men are forgetful, but that doesn’t mean they don’t care.
“Bobbi,” he whispers, then “Adiós Amor” plays from the speakers. I go still as sweet memories of when we first met in Mexico flow through me. I was trying to sort myself out after my father’s death, and having a hard time since I didn’t know how to feel about the loss of a man who was more stranger than family. How Noah made me laugh, made me feel special. Somebody had a party on the beach, and this song played, and we danced to it—our first—under a night sky brilliant with stars and beside an ocean whose waves were limned with the light of a thousand tiny sea creatures.
Noah reaches out, takes me tenderly in his arms like he did on that wet, silky sand, and we sway to the music. He feels so good, all warmth and strength, even though I can’t rely on any of it. But that doesn’t mean being wrapped up in him won’t soothe the searing, jagged edges of my heart, so gingerly I place my arms around him, too. With a shuddering sigh, he drops his head, resting his face in the crook of my neck. I’m tall, but he’s taller, even when I’m in heels. I’ve always loved that about him. There aren’t many men who can physically overwhelm me, but he qualifies.
“My light,” he whispers. Whenever he calls me that, my insides turn to mush. He has an inexplicable power to make me believe I’m as important to him as light itself. His breath feathers over my neck, and my whole body goes tingly. His lips brush my jaw, then my cheek and finally my mouth. I sigh softly with longing—realizing how much I miss him and this connection we have, even though part of me grieves that I’m the only one feeling and yearning for it. His tongue glides into my mouth, and I taste him, shivers spreading over me. Our mouths fuse as if we’ve never been apart, and he holds me like I’m the most precious treasure in his life. I can almost believe it as we sway to the music and share our breath and heat and presence.
Then his arms tighten around me, and his erection rubs against my belly, over the scar from my bullet wound. A small groan tears from his throat, and I want to cling to him.
Come on, girl. He’s just here for your body,the cold logical voice in my head points out, with a disapprovingtut-tut.
The possibility hits me like a bucket of ice water, and the dreamy mental cocoon shatters. I pull away. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
He blinks a few times, a picture of innocent confusion. But I’m not buying it. Not after so many broken promises.
Thankfully “Adiós Amor” ends, and another, more upbeat, song comes on. Something like awareness and surprise fleets over his gorgeous face, and he shakes his head with a rueful laugh. “You think I’m here for sex?”
“Part of you sure seems to be.”
