Page 10 of Just Between Us

You are being ridiculous.

I quickly cleaned up my plate and cup before plopping onto my bed like a starfish and staring at the ceiling. Lonely, frustrated, and edgy, I cursed myself for not having the balls to answer the video chat.

Why would he message me like that?

It was a boundary we hadn’t crossed—hadn’t evendiscussed—and I didn’t know how I felt about howrealthat made everything seem. Pulse was supposed to be a secret—something no one else knew about.

I chewed my lip, too intrigued and keyed up to resist. After a few minutes I padded into the living room to retrieve my phone. I opened the Pulse app, and there was a new message waiting for me. Out of stubborn pride, I refused to look at it and instead replayed his video until I fell asleep to the sultry sound of his voice.

FOUR

ROYAL

Damn it.I knew I had pushed too far.

Typical.

There was something aboutMsBlackCatthat made me reckless—well, bolder than normal, I guess. It was stupid to think someone like her would be into a man who liked to talk dirty and wanted to stroke his cock for a stranger on the internet.

But she didn’t know that, as a content creator, I could see the data from my videos and that she watched them all ...a lot.

It was bold of me to assume that our witty banter was something she’d want to continue on a live call. Still, I knew there was something more to her than the frosty black cat persona she tried to put on.

There was a sliver of sadness and vulnerability in her messages that intrigued me.

Hell, we’d been chatting damn near daily for months and she hadn’t bolted yet. She was a mystery I enjoyed unraveling. If she came back, I promised myself I’d rein it in next time and not push her past her comfort level despite the strange, clawing need to get to know her.

After a restless night of beating myself up over trying to video chat her, I allowed myself to sleep in before heading to the shop.I didn’t want to get too late of a start because sometime in the night a new design hit me—a line drawing of a sassy black cat.

I had the perfect opening on my upper left thigh, and something as quirky as that would fit right in with the eclectic mix of designs already taking up the space.

Jazzed at the idea, I was in a great mood when I made it to town. The warm sun was beating down, warming the air so tourists could make the most of their summer vacation. Appointments were booked solid, and my shot in the dark to a young up-and-coming artist from Detroit looked like it might actually pan out. He’d be making the trip to interview in the next few weeks. All I needed was a hot cup of coffee and a few thousand calories in the form of butter and sugar.

The bell to the Sugar Bowl clanged against the glass as I entered. Warm scents of cinnamon and sugar wafted from the back kitchen as patrons lined up to order. Chatter filled the bright, open space as I took my spot at the end of the line.

Behind me as I waited, I heard a small, insistent throat clearing, and I turned. I gazed down at the soft, crinkled face of Ms. Tiny. Her tissue-paper hands were folded in front of her as she waited with one brow lifted.

“Oh.” I stepped aside. “Would you like to go in front of me, Ms. Tiny?”

She preened, knowing I didn’t really have a choice. That tiny terror was hell on wheels and mean as a snake. “How sweet of you, Royal. Thank you.”

She slipped in front of me, and I chuckled to myself at the ornery old lady. Through the saloon-style doors that led to the back kitchen, I spotted my sister Sylvie carrying a tray of freshly baked pastries.

She slid the tray on the back counter, directing the staff where to place them in the display case. When her eyes looked up and caught mine, I gave her a cheesy grin and she smiled,softly laughing and shaking her head. Her hand patted the back of the barista as she slid past him and headed my way.

Sylvie didn’t need to work at the bakery. Her husband was Duke Sullivan, and together they ran Sullivan Farms, a local and wildly successful blueberry farm. Still, she enjoyed the atmosphere and independence of a few hours every day at the bakery.

As she walked toward me, I was struck, as I often was, at how pretty she was. She looked like Mom—at least what I could recall—and my chest pinched. I swallowed down the lump in my throat as Sylvie slid her arm into mine and pulled me from the line.

“Hey,” I grumbled. “I’ve already been waiting for, like, four minutes.”

She playfully rolled her eyes and lifted a fresh chocolate chip cookie from her apron pocket. “Better?” she asked with a smile as she handed it to me.

I took the cookie and shoved the entire thing into my mouth. “It’s a start,” I said around the crumbling treat.

Fuck, it was good.

“I was coming in for caffeine too,” I pressed.

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