I laugh at Phyllis, who along with her best friend, Kitty, have become somewhat regulars at my little bakery. “I’d be happy to. Anything for you Kitty?”
She thinks about it for a second. “Not a cinnamon roll, but I’d sure love a few bear claws. I’m so glad you’re making them now!”
“I’m glad you like them,” I say, quickly turning away so I can hide the redness that I’m sure is creeping up on my face. A reaction that is my own fault because I’m the genius who decided to add them to the menu this week after a certain football player told me he liked them.
Apparently this is what happens when you have orgasms—you do dumb things like panic in the morning, run from his hotel room, steal his clothes, and then put his favorite pastry on the menu in case he ever comes in even though you didn’t leave your phone number or any indication that you would want to see him ever again and left without saying goodbye.
God I’m an idiot.
I know Maddox isn’t coming in here. In my heart of hearts I know that. And I don’t necessarily want him to. I think. Yes. I don’t want him to come here. Because Vegas was a one-time thing. And as much as the words he said to me that night felt like more than that, I’m not naive enough to think this man is pining over me somewhere in his downtown condo. He’s probably out and about, living his best life, which may or may not include meeting and hooking up with other women. And that’s fine. It was an amazing night that will be remembered forever, but it’s staying in Vegas. I’m fine with that really. I need to move on and live my life.
But you know, in case he does drop by, they’re here for him.
No, not just for him. I mean, Kitty likes them so I have to keep making them. And I can’t let her down.
“There she goes again,” I hear Kitty whisper to Phyllis. “Staring off again.”
“I bet she got laid in Vegas,” Phyllis says, which fully snaps me out of my daydream. “Only a good man with a good tongue can snatch your soul like that.”
“Excuse me!” I squeal. “I did not.”
“Sure you didn’t,” Kitty says with a wink. “Go get our orders and try to come up with a better lie.”
This is what I get for having regular customers. They know me too well. And have zero filter.
But they’re right. And it’s becoming a problem.
Since the day I got back from Vegas, I haven’t been able to get this damn twenty-four-year old out of my head. Then I do something stupid like when I think I’m safe, I think back to when he ripped my dress because he couldn’t keep his hands off me and literally made my legs shake from the orgasm.
Multiple orgasms.
With multiple ways of making it happen.
And he was twenty-four. I’m thirty-five.
I’m officially a cougar.
Yes, I looked up his age on the plane ride home from Vegas. And I maybe bought the internet package so I could read some articles about him. I didn’t mean to read as many as I did, but the more I read, the more fascinating I found him in the most confusing way. One article talked about his foundation that he has for teenagers looking for STEM opportunities, while the other talked about a country singer he was dating last year. Another one showed him playing with sick kids at Nashville Children’s Hospital, and the other was a slide show of every woman he was seen out with a few months ago.
Which makes sense. He’s twenty-four, gorgeous, and has an infectious personality. It’s why I told myself on the plane that I wasn’t going to think about him when I got back to Nashville.
I made the bear claws thirteen hours later. And it’s been downhill ever since. Because not only have I thought of him every day, I’ve been wearing his clothes a few too many times since I got home a week ago.
Damn you, Maddox Gallagher, and your love of bear claws, your comfortable sweatpants, your perfect penis, and your magic tongue…
I want to stop. Ineedto stop. Frankly, it’s unhealthy. But between little things reminding me of him and our night together, my Spotify deciding that it wants to play that song every day now, the Fury’s championship parade last week, and of course, my dreams each night, I can’t help it.
It also doesn’t help that everyday Hannah or Shelby asks in our group chat if he stopped by, or if I’ve contacted him. When I tell them “no” for the hundredth time while listing the long list of reasons that Maddox Gallagher is not good for my life right now, they decide to respond by sending some sort of picture of Maddox—mostly of the shirtless variety.
I might’ve hit download to all of them.
But downloading a few pictures and dating him are two completely different things. I’m fresh off a divorce. I’m still figuring out how to navigate life on my own. I have to stop myself from signing my married name on deliveries. There’s a lot I need to do with my life before I even consider dating again. Especially dating a man who wasn’t alive when we thought Y2K was going to make the computers blow up.
“Okay, no more thoughts,” I whisper to myself as I lean into the glass, pulling out two bear claws, leaving one more for today. You know. Just in case. “You need to get over it. And him.”
“Talking to yourself again Gab? I thought we came to the understanding that the imaginary friends in your head were, you know, imaginary.”
I stand up away from the glass, ready to toss the tongs in my hand right at my big brother.
