Page 70 of Sweet Surrender

I can’t stop thinking about it, about him, and the snapshots flash through my mind over and over and over.

And how I came harder than I ever have in my life. Like . . . whoa.

My ring still feels foreign, heavy on my finger, and it’s more noticeable than ever as I unlock the door from the inside to greet Sammy. I’ve wondered if he should perhaps man the back entry where I come in each morning and leave every night, but I’m sure all of this is unnecessary anyway.

“Morning, Miss Wright,” he says.

“Morning, Sammy.”

Because I am Miss Wright to everyone still for a little bit longer before I am known as Mrs. Gizmodo.

That thought combined with the memory of his hands on me, of his tongue—good God the man has a great tongue—and his cock make my body heat.

Just sex, Hendrix.

Sex, to date, has been “meh.” But sex with Jase? It was I want to tell the world sex. Spectacular. Those multi-talented fingers certainly knew how to bring me to orgasm. Three times. Now I understand why some people talk about sex as if it’s some be-all and end-all thing.

I throw my keys on the back counter and draw in a deep breath. So much to do and so little time. The metal racks lining the far wall are stacked with sheets upon sheets where I left the cookies, all five hundred of them, to cool last night before I left. I have another bazillion to go. As much as I’m behind, I’m on course with my lateness and have a plan to finish by the deadline.

That’s funny. I’ll be stressing and working all night long at some point, but at least I like to trick myself into thinking I know how this is going to go.

Just as I tie my apron on and wash my hands, a text alerts on my phone. I pick it up and smile when I see it’s from Jase. He may not have been in the bed when I woke up, but he’s texting . . . and that counts for something.

Jase: Will be in the studio most of the day with the phone turned off. Then to run errands. Be home around 6.

Me: You don’t owe me a schedule.

Jase: I know. Habit. Feel free not to respond when I do.

Me: I’ll be at the bakery. Probably super late.

Jase: Have a good day, wife.

Me: Write a kick-ass song, husband.

My smile widens as I reread the texts, loving that my pretend conversation in my head just became a real one.

The thought carries me as I get the front of the store set up—lights on, flowers situated, music playing, open sign lit up—before I get baking.

No sooner do I have the butter and sugar in the mixing vat does Josie come through the door at her whirlwind pace.

“You’re ignoring me,” she says with her trademark cheer that I wish I had more of. “You took days off without telling me. You came back to work but haven’t come and seen me or gotten a coffee. Should I be offended and sad that you’re sipping mai tais by the pool with someone else other than me?”

I freeze, pausing adding brown sugar to the vat, my heart hurtling into my throat.

Did she see the photo in the tabloids and guess it was me? Does she know?

That’s impossible. She can’t. But one look at her, one locking of our eyes, and the urge inside me to say something, to someone, claws at my insides like it’s a very real thing.

I can’t hold it in anymore.

And she’s so observant it won’t be long before she notices the ring anyway.

The least I can do is break the news to her face-to-face rather than her find out from the papers. Besides, it’ll be my litmus test on how believable my lies are.

“Don’t be offended. There were no mai tais. There was tequila though and we both know how you can’t tolerate that.”

“She’s starting with jokes. That means she has something to tell me.”