Page 78 of The Promise Of You

twenty-five

Chloe

While I’m trying to literally cool off by popping my head in the fridge, Justin steps next to me. “Chloe, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“M-hm?” I pop my head out of the fridge but hold onto the door to steady myself. His gaze is boring into me with more force than I can handle.

“I really am sorry, more than you can imagine. I wanted to tell you in person. I’m glad you liked the flowers, but I don’t think that’s nearly enough. I’m ashamed. I’m sorry. I want to make this right.” He stops and just looks at me, waiting for me to say something.

My breath comes out shaky. “Water under the bridge, Justin. Apology accepted.”

“Bullshit,” he whispers. “You’re still on the fence.”

I lower my eyes. He’s right, I’m not sure about him. But not in the way he thinks. It’s going to be hard for me to be just business acquaintances. I’m going to have to reframe how I feel about him, and I’m not sure I can do that easily.

His voice comes out raw when he continues. “There’s no excuse, only an explanation. I hadn’t been myself since Boston. I was angry at myself. I took it out on others. Like I said, it’s no excuse. I need you to know, this isn’t who I am. That’s all I have to say.”

I want to ask him what he means exactly, that he’s been ‘angry’ since Boston. I want to know everything he feels about Boston, but he’s not volunteering that. What he did volunteer in Boston, was that he didn’t want a relationship. Ever. So I’m definitely confused over what he’s talking about. “Apology accepted. Truly.” I lift my eyes to him and meet his, appeased.

“Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.”

My heart bottoms out. Why isn’t he saying more? Why does this seem to be so important to him?

He turns on his heel and steps outside. The door of his truck slams, then he comes back with a bag of food. “Christopher’s breads, herbs from Cassandra’s garden, and my sauces,” he says with his half-grin that shoots straight to my panties as he plucks Mason jars from the bottom of the bag.

My mind and my heart battle over what to do.

Focus, Chloe.

Work is the answer. And the good news is, cooking has never been work for me. It’s always been a hobby, a relaxation, so now that it’s work as well? Double win.

It should help me focus on something other than my attraction for Justin. I mean, you would think.

Except, of course, he’s here, in my space, close—too close—his scent all around me, leaning over me to help assemble mini BLTs and short rib sliders, teasing me endlessly over the way I beat the mayonnaise (“like a miniature boxer hitting the punch ball”) or the way I pull apart the meat off the marinated short ribs (“like you’re ripping off a Band-Aid. Scrap that. Like you’re plucking out your worst enemies’ eyes.”).

“So you’re saying, I’m aggressive when I cook.”

“More like, you’re letting off steam.”

He’s so right, though. I stay silent.

“My friend Chris—"

“The baker?”

“Yeah. He has this thing about the dough sensing the mood the baker is in, and how it impacts the result. He says the dough is alive.”

“Lemme tell you, nothing I’m touching here is alive, m’kay? We can all take a deep breath.”

He chuckles, a deep rumble that resonates deep inside me. My toes curl like they’re on autopilot and we’re in for a good orgasm. Darn it.

He leans over to grab one of his homemade sauces, his forearm brushing against mine, his front so close to my side we’re almost touching. “How about the Mamamia sauce for the pork belly sliders?”

“What’s the Mamamia again?”

“Maple Mango Madness.”

“What’s the Madness part?”

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