“Nah.” He scoffs. “She couldn’t get me up.”
Spoken like a true loser, blaming his problem on a woman. It isn’t Bobbi’s fault his dick is softer than soggy rigatoni. Mine works better than fine around her.
He continues, “She isn’t my type. Probably isn’t anybody’s type. Maybe one of those bodybuilder freaks. But the girl can bake. Gotta give her that.”
He’s lucky he never touched her because he would’ve lost his balls—and tongue—otherwise. I make a noncommittal noise, then look at the window. “Want some help getting inside?”
He immediately perks up, but his eyes hold as much intelligence as a lobotomized turkey. He doesn’t suspect I want to filet him—we both have dicks and so I must agree with everything coming out of his mouth.
“Yeah, sure! You’re the best, man.”
I clap him on the shoulder, bro to bro. “I aim to please.”
Chapter Six
Bobbi
I want to be the first person to congratulate you on achieving your dream. And bring you your favorite flowers.
I have to consciously relax my hand on the steering wheel as I drive through the pre-rush hour traffic. Noah’s broken promise—the one I’ve tried so hard to forget—is back, buzzing around in my head like the world’s most annoying gnat. He never apologized or explained himself.
Thegallhe had to walk into my bakery and want to buy my croissants! Like I’d serve him. Ha! I really wanted him to stay and be a nuisance so I could call 911. It would’ve been hilarious to have him hauled away. That would’ve proven I’m not letting him ruin my life with his toxicity and mind games. Not anymore.
So why am I still thinking about him?
Ugh.I need to find a way to permanently evict him from my mind. The fact that a year apart hasn’t made me immune pisses me off to no end. He lives in Malibu. He could’ve come by any time and apologized, but didn’t. That says so much about where I rank in his priorities.
I don’t want to beg for crumbs of affection from people who don’t care. That only brings pain.
Just look at my dad. I park my Tacoma in front of the house he left me. He died in some third-world country, doing God knows what for the State Department. He never told me anything about his work—everything was supposedly classified and above my pay grade—and he never, ever had time for me. I’m sure the only reason the house became mine is that I’m his only surviving family member. He certainly didn’t bother with a will. The life insurance money I got is what the federal government provides to its employees. He just never found it urgent to opt out, probably because the premium was so low. At least his neglect worked in my favor that one time—the payout became my seed money for the bakery.
Still, I would’ve preferred it if he’d shown he cared about me, rather than leaving me that life insurance and the house. Spending a few years in L.A. with TJ’s family when I was in high school showed me what a family could be. They were always laughing and cheering each other on. And hugs. So many hugs. I was hugged more in a month with them than my whole life with my parents. TJ’s family was always so secure in their belief that they weren’t alone—that the family had their back. I was never certain. Mom was inconsistent in her love, showering me with it one day then unable to bear the sight of me the next. Dad always had something more important to attend to.
If the house wasn’t located so conveniently in a nice neighborhood, I’d sell it and move in a heartbeat.
I kill the engine and climb out of the truck with the bag of the last four croissants. As I unlock and enter the house, Señor Mittens, so named because the hair around his paws is dark orange, comes over with a soft meow. He’s a stray I took in after discovering him crying in a park, his left forepaw bleeding. The vet told me he’d lost a toe, and the little cat tugged at my heart. He was so scrawny, I could almost see the ribs through his dingy white fur, and I couldn’t let a toeless kitty out on the streets. The world might not want him, but I did.
Now, he’s plump, his pelt shiny. And he walks around like the missing toe doesn’t bother him at all.
I should be able to function like that, too. Like cutting Noah out of my life doesn’t bother me at all. He should mean as little as Señor Mittens’s missing toe.
Actually less. Toes don’t lie to you—
The sound of the dryer tumbling comes from the laundry room. I scan the kitchen island. The dirty glass I left on the counter this morning is now in the sink.
Okay.Señor Mittens is a great cat, but he doesn’t do domestic chores.
Quietly, I put the bag of croissants on the island, open the left drawer and pull out the Glock. I creep toward the laundry room—which is empty except for the dryer with something that looks like a bedsheet tumbling inside.
Weird. I don’t have a housekeeper. And a burglar wouldn’t be doing my laundry.
Is TJ messing with me?
Nah. If it were my cousin, he would’ve made his presence known. He knows I have guns.
Then I hear a muffled noise, like somebody trying to scream against a pillow, coming from my bedroom. Señor Mittens dashes past my legs and in through the partially open door.
Shit.
