I reach my truck and shrug off my coat, regretting grabbing it in the first place. I hop into the driver’s seat, turn on the ignition, and roll my window down immediately to let the heat out.
Then I head straight to B’s Bakery.
Being in a small town means I make it in less than five minutes. Since it’s later in the afternoon and nearing closing time for baker’s hours, I’m able to snag a spot right in the front. Considering most of the main businesses in Lovers are on Main Street, the storefronts connected on both sides of the street, parking can be hit or miss.
Vehicle in park, I get out with one thing on my mind.
Make the bride happy.
It just pisses me off that I need Brooke’s help to do it.
As I approach the store, I spot Brooke through the front window. My feet slow, taking in the scene before me.
She’s alone, cleaning up the store, but she glides around the place as if she can’t help it. Her hips sway, and she pauses, letting her head bob to whatever song is playing. She spins, her eyes closed as her lips move, and she holds the spray bottle in her hand to her mouth, singing into it.
Her golden blonde hair is pulled into a knot on the top of her head, and the shorts she’s wearing are small, skintight, and leave little to the imagination of her flawlessly round ass. Add in thefact that she’s wearing a sports bra only, my eyes drift to her midsection and the lines that hint at her abs.
It’s an outfit she’d never be caught in during working hours, and it feels like I’m seeing a side of her that she doesn't share with most people.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
Brooke Sloan is nothing short of beautiful.
She always has been, and if she ever catches my lingering looks, I’d be a dead man.
It’s the sass that comes out of her mouth that gets me worked up.
Her dancing continues, but I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Thinking of who Brooke is outside of who she chooses to show me isn’t something that should ever take up space in my brain.
I have a job to do.
I clear my throat, move for the door, but it’s locked.
Of course it is.
I knock, and she spins toward me.
Her gaze narrows, her icy blue eyes practically sparking, and then, as if she didn’t even need to think it over, she goes back to cleaning and singing and dancing.
I blow out a breath, heat creeping into my neck at her rejection.
I don’t have time for this.
I knock again.
Nothing.
Just more dancing and singing.
Another knock.
This time, she pauses and turns again.
I point to the handle and mouth,let me in.
She rolls her eyes and then takes her time dancing my way.
I do my best to keep my eyes on hers, but with every sway ofher hips, they drift, taking in her petite frame. Taking in the fact that, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m deeply attracted to this woman. That might fuel my distaste for her even more.
