Page 90 of Never Let You Go

She’s been the only thing on my mind. I burned the inn’s special order of muffins and forgot Justin’s dinner rolls because… well, because.

Alexandra.

She’s been the only thing on my mind, and the only thing not on my body, and why the hell do you think that is?

Because she’s too much. She affects me like no other woman ever has. Like I didn’t even know was possible.

My thinking is, if one kiss and a make out session made me this way, what will a night with her do to me?

I won’t be able to let her go.

Now, I may have the instincts of a caveman. I may want to tie her to her bedposts, brand her with my cock, fuck her so good and so hard and so often she’ll forget there are other males in the human species.

But I’m civilized. I have a twenty-first-century veneer that will prevent me from doing anything—anything—when she leaves. She’s a free, independent woman, and her choices are hers.

This, her presence here, in my bakery, in my life, has a shelf life. There’s no child to link us together. She has a job to go back to.

She’s definitely leaving.

Me? There’s just so much I can take. And I know I can’t take this any further.

So for three nights, although I know she leaves her door open, I don’t go up to her room.

But she comes to the kitchen. Every. Single. Morning.

I should say night, because it’s still dark out.

She shows up around four every morning, makes me coffee, brings me a glass of water.

She doesn’t say a thing. She pulls out her phone and takes pictures and videos and shit.

I try to ignore her because I’m supposed to be focusing on preparing for the competition.

And then I notice, something funny happens.

I’m more creative when she’s around.

My senses are heightened. I’m attuned to her sight, her smell, the memory of her taste, and that inspires me. It gives me a kick in the balls, an incentive to perform even better. And she’s watching every move I make.

“Tell me if I’m bothering you,” she says the first morning after our kiss, after she’s been there an hour and we haven’t talked.

I don’t answer, and she makes to leave.

“Stay right here.”

She freezes.

“Please.”

“You sure?”

“I said please.”

“Alright then,” she sighs and sits on a prep table.

I pop my head up. I’m being such a dick. Why is she even here? Why does she put up with my shit? “I’m sorry,” I say. “It like it better when you’re here,” I finally admit to her. “It helps me focus.”

Her cheeks get a deep pink, and my god, just for that, I’m going to learn to apologize more often to her. “Okay then,” she whispers, a small smile on her face.

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