How else did you explain why Bailey had no idea that Rafe was head over fucking heels in love with her?
Chapter Nine
Bailey woke up on Saturday morning witha smile on her face.
She wanted to attribute her newfound happiness to the new bed she was in or the apartment that belonged solely to her. She wasn’t so sure that was the only reason for the grin. She couldn’t stop thinking about Holt or the impromptu date they’d gone on last night. More specifically, she couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.
Never had she kissed a man who had the ability to obliterate her brain cells. With one sweep of his tongue against hers, Holt Callahan had turned her brain to mush and sent her hormones into chaos.
It had been glorious. So much so that she’d relived it in her dreams.
As some of the sleep fog faded, she recalled the dream more clearly. Her breath caught, and the smile faded.
“Oh, my God.” She stared up at the ceiling. “What iswrongwith me?”
In her dream, Holt had certainly kissed her, but he hadn’t been the only one. Rafe had been there, too. All three of them had been at the park waiting for the concert. She’d been holding their hands, waiting for the music to start, when Holt slid his fingers down her cheek, urging her to look up at him. She had, and he had kissed her.
Bailey drew in a deep breath as she remembered what happened next.
Rafe had been standing behind her, pressing his big, hard body against her back while Holt was against her front. She’d been sandwiched between them with Holt’s mouth on hers and Rafe’s lips caressing her neck. She recalled worrying that people would see them, but Rafe assured her everything was fine. She was right where she belonged. Between them.
“Holy shit.” Now her body felt tight and achy—in the best possible way. But how could that be? How could she possibly have a dream about two men?
Hopping up, Bailey padded to the bathroom to brush her teeth, wash her face, and pull her hair into a ponytail. While she flossed, she avoided meeting her own eyes in the mirror. She brushed her teeth with her head hanging down. And when she washed her face, she opted for cold water, hoping it would cool the heat from her cheeks. Why she was blushing from a dream, she didn’t know, but it wasn’t going to look good when she went downstairs to feed the guests.
“Pull it together, girl,” she muttered, turning off the water and patting her face dry. “It was just a dream. A crazy fantasy. Nothing more.”
Taking a deep breath, she exited the bathroom and went back to her room. For the past few days, this had become her routine. It was pointless to put effort into her appearance when she would be bustling around the kitchen, so she didn’t bother with makeup. Instead, she pulled on a T-shirt, shorts, and a pair of sandals and went downstairs to start coffee for any early risers.
Once that was underway, she washed her hands again, then started on the biscuits. Southern-style buttermilk biscuits were her specialty, and her mother had taught her to make them from scratch when she was little. She pulled out all the utensils she would need—measuring cups and spoons, glass bowls to mix in, a pastry mat and pastry mixer, a baking pan, and a biscuit cutter.
From there, she pulled out the ingredients—flour, butter, baking soda, baking powder, buttermilk, and salt.
It took her roughly fifteen minutes to prepare the biscuits, and while those were cooking, she started making the gravy and sausage. She made separate batches of gravy, one with sausage crumbled in it, the other plain. She was in the process of plating everything when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs. A moment later, Holt appeared in the doorway, wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a sexy grin.
“I take it you like to cook,” he said as he moved toward the coffee maker.
“I like to bake mostly, but I’m comfortable in the kitchen,” she said. “I get it from my mother.”
“She owns Batter and Bliss?”
Surprised that he knew that, Bailey glanced over her shoulder. “Yes.”
He gifted her with another smile. “I’ve done my homework on this small town.”
“Have you?”
“Of course. When it’s the basis for a book, I want to know what I’m dealing with.”
Bailey turned around fully, frowning. “Book? You’re a…”
“Writer? Author?”
She was trying to process that.
Holt continued, “Wordsmith? Man of letters? Novelist?”
“Yes. That.”
