Page 116 of Sweet Surrender

And if he’s able to go on that world tour, it means the end of us.

It’s like a punch to the gut every time I think about it.

“But nothing.” I conjure up a brave smile. “It’s just . . . been so overwhelming. How did this even happen?”

“I think it daily, sister, and I’m only getting to live through the great sex vicariously.”

“You need help.” I laugh.

“I do. I definitely do.”

And yet the calendar still sits there. Still taunting that this is only temporary. No wonder it feels too good to be true.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Hendrix

The kitchen smells like warm vanilla and caramel as I pull a fresh batch of cookies from the oven. The dough has browned perfectly, crisp edges giving way to a soft, gooey center. I set the tray down and take a deep breath, letting the scent wrap around me. Baking has always been my therapy, my way of unwinding.

And that’s probably why I’m not even at work but I’m still baking now.

My mind is still thinking about that calendar. Still wondering how I’m going to survive this.

Down the hall, Jase’s voice filters through the open door, low and steady as he hums a melody. The soft strumming of his guitar follows, each chord measured, precise, then repeated as he tinkers with the composition and adds the other instruments in with whatever he does on his computer program.

Rolling a ball of dough between my hands, I hum along without thinking, knowing the song—or this version of it anyway—pretty much by heart.

The music stops.

A few seconds later, Jase appears in the doorway, his arms crossed as he leans against the frame. “Baking? Even at home?”

I smile. “Trying some new flavors. Want to be my tester?”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.” He moves to the island and snatches a warm cookie from the tray.

I watch as he takes a bite, his eyes fluttering shut. “Damn. That’s . . . incredible.”

I laugh. “High praise coming from a guy who thinks peanut butter and pickles belong in the same sandwich.”

He smirks, grabbing a butter knife and swiping some icing onto another cookie. “Okay, but hear me out.” He dips it in chocolate and then, to my absolute horror, sprinkles cinnamon on top. “Genius or genius?”

I scrunch my nose. “That’s a crime.”

“Only one way to find out.” He holds it up to my lips.

I shake my head, laughing. “No way.”

But he wiggles his eyebrows, daring me, and before I can protest further, he swipes a dab of icing across my cheek.

“Jase,” I warn.

His grin is pure mischief. “Oops.” So is his shrug followed by another dab onto the tip of my nose. “Double oops.”

“This isn’t a game you want to play with me.”

“No?” he asks, but this time, he holds a napkin out to me to help me wipe the frosting off. But just when I go to grab it, he takes his other hand, covered in icing, and smears it down my arm.

I yelp. “You have no idea what you just started,” I shriek, grabbing a handful of flour and flicking it at him. A puff of white bursts into the air, landing in his hair, on his clothes—fucking everywhere.