Page 79 of Sugar Coated Secrets

“Alright.” She grabs her bag and car keys and clocks out on the register. “Promise me you’ll call.”

“Promise,” I assure her.

“Danny knows?”

I nod, not wanting to tell her that he doesn’t. He’s the last person I want to call, and I haven’t told her I don’t trust him anymore.

I set my phone on the back table, hit play on the music app, and smile at the new prep and ingredient combo table, positioned in the center of the kitchen like a shiny new toy, while Lana Del Ray's voice fills the room. It is made of stainless steel with multiple drawers.

I slide each one out and smile at the smooth, seamless way each ingredient drawer slides out.

I start gathering the ingredients to bake Ford's cookies. A tribute to the man who made it possible to put a smile on my face. I owe him that much and the best orgasm the other night in my bedroom.

I’m mixing the cookie batter when I hear a loud knock on the front door and pause the mixing machine. I wipe my hands on a towel.

My stomach does a little flip-flop when I see Ford, dressed in a simple T-shirt and jeans, peering in the window. I unlock and open the door.

When I meet his gorgeous blue eyes, awareness clings to my skin the way it always did.

“Hi.” His smile would make any woman swoon.

His citrus scent envelops my nose, making me weak when I kiss his cheek and say softly, “Hi.”

He raises a brow after a few seconds when I step back. “Are you going to let me in so I can kiss you properly?”

I flush, embarrassed that I was staring at him like an idiot, and step back. “Oh…Um…come in.”

He walks in, then turns to close and lock the door. We stare at each other for a beat. His eyes are on my lips. Mine are locked on his handsome face. The air between us grows thick. My pulse picks up. I’m expecting him to kiss me… or should I be the one to kiss him?

Instead, he asks, breaking the tension. “Busy?”

“How did you know I was here?” I ask instead, trying to remove the sting from him not making the first move.

“Your van is parked out front.”

Duh, Dulce. He was driving by, saw your van, and figured you hadn’t left.

“Right,” I reply awkwardly.

“It smells good.”

My nipples harden, and my pulse drops between my legs, reminding me of his words last night. How I smelled. Tasted.

“I was making cookies,” I tell him, walking back to the kitchen.

He follows me inside, and I walk around the table, hitting pause on the music.

“How’s the table?” he asks.

I’m such an idiot. I didn’t thank him for the table. He makes me forget my name when he’s around.

I finish mixing the batter. “It’s going great,” I tell him honestly. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I asked my manager which table would be the best for a bakery. I hope he didn’t disappoint.”

I place each cookie on the baking sheet. “Not at all. I’m not sure if he has any experience with bakery equipment, but he did well.”

“Are those for me?” he asks, pointing at the cookies. I’m sure he could smell the oatmeal and put two and two together. There was something the way he said it though, an intimacy we shared the day he took me home for the first time. Something we shared between us and not the rest of the world.

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