Page 110 of Sweet Surrender

“He’s a lawyer, not a baker.”

“He’s smart. Resourceful. Writes a mean NDA as you know that will keep everything confidential. I promise he’ll come through on this and most likely by the end of the day.”

“Jase . . .” I bark out a disbelieving laugh as my head spins.

“Besides, it’s not like people divorce a lot—well, this is Hollywood so don’t quote me on that—but I figured these are one-time customers that you’ll reel into being full-time ones once they taste how fucking good your cookies are. I am the best judge of just how good they taste, no?” His chuckle is suggestive and has me thinking back to last night where that masterful tongue of his spent plenty of time between my thighs. I shiver.

“Leave it to you to crack a joke when you just rocked my world.”

“Last night and this morning.” Another innuendo that has me shifting my feet. “I have faith in you.”

I groan, rubbing my temples. “I can’t believe . . . you’re—”

“The best husband ever. I know. I might win awards for it, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. We’re in the early days yet.”

I want to be mad. I should be mad. But another order dings on the bakery’s online system, then another, and another.

This is going to be the death of me.

I sigh. “I swear, you’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep me around,” he teases.

I have faith in you.

Not only is my husband exceedingly skilled at giving me amazing orgasms, but . . . he has faith in me. I wonder if he has any idea how much those words mean to me? I shake my head, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my lips as another order rolls in.

“Looks like I’ll have to find a way to thank you later then,” I say, smiling when I hear his groan.

“You actually think I’m going to say no to that? I’ll be waiting . . .”

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Gizmo

The first chord rings out, vibrating through the walls of the soundproofed studio, and I let the rhythm settle into my bones before tapping out the beat on my thigh. It’s instinct, muscle memory, the only thing that’s ever really made sense to me—music.

Hawkin strums again, frowning at his guitar. “Something’s off.”

“It’s you,” Vince says, barely looking up from where he’s leaning against the amp, bass resting against his chest. “You always overthink the first few chords.”

Hawkin flips him off. “Eat shit, asshole.”

“Great, now we’re really getting somewhere,” Rocket mutters from his stool, playing his fingers over the keyboard.

I smirk, shaking my head as I tap a quick rhythm against the rim of my snare. “We need something dirtier, grittier.” I glance at Vince. “Play it heavier. Let it drag.”

He follows my lead as I try to show him what I’m hearing in my head, slamming into a darker, more deliberate rhythm. Hawkin and Rocket shift the melody, Vince picks up the bassline, and suddenly, we’re somewhere.

I close my eyes, letting the sound settle under my skin. Yeah. That’s it.

Then, Rocket ruins it.

“So,” he says over the music, way too casually, “how’s married life treating you?”

I miss the beat. And then still my drumsticks as I level him with a glare.

Vince barks out a laugh. Hawkin doesn’t even pretend he’s not interested, turning toward me with a slow grin.