Page 43 of If You Were Mine
“Wellesley.”
“What are you going to do? Apologize again? Run away?”
“Fuck.” I growled, and then I moved forward, cupped her face, and crushed my mouth to hers.
She gasped into me as sin wrapped its way around my soul. But it tasted of sugar and coffee and glory. So maybe sin wasn’t so bad. Just tempting.
I finally pulled away, knowing this was wrong.
“I’m not too young,” she repeated, her breath in pants, her lips swollen.
Without another word, I whirled and slammed my hands against the back door, needing oxygen.
I stood there, chest heaving. Joshua would hate me. I would hate me. This was Wellesley, for God’s sake.
Wells.
This was so wrong.
And yet I turned back into the kitchen anyway. She had moved back to her brownies, back to work as if nothing had happened, and yet everything had.
“I can’t let you down.”
“You never have,” she whispered.
I sighed and went back to the front of the bakery, knowing Melody needed help.
Because if I didn’t, I knew I was going to kiss her again. Maybe not right then, but soon.
And sin would just have to be my friend.
Chapter 9
HARPER
Music playing, feet tapping to the beat, I ignored the rest of the world as I focused on the task at hand. The scent of sugar, flour, and rising dough filled the air, reminding me of home. That stray melancholy thought circled within me and rather than pushing it away as I tended to do these days, I latched on to it.
We’d been the fearsome four growing up. My parents loving, open, and vibrant. My dad had loved to fish and while Joshua had been squeamish, I’d been the one at Dad’s side, learning how to cast a line. I learned patience—though I still fell short in that arena. Dad had sports, hiking, caving, kayaking, and so much more with Joshua. And I’d never felt the lack.
Mom had baking and gymnastics with me. We’d tumble around the yard and my dad would wolf whistle at Mom, though I hadn’t known what it had meant at the time. Joshua had been older and had blushed, rolling his eyes. But he—and sometimes Dorian—would cheer me on during summer events when we’d all been children finding our ways.
Baking, however? That had been just me and Mom. Dad could cook like nobody’s business and had taught me, but Joshua hadn’t been able to boil water without forgetting the pot was on the stove. He’d been brilliant at so many things but cooking had never been one of them.
Baking had been mine. I’d learned bread, cakes, pastry, chocolate work, and so much more. We’d sit together and watch the Great British Baking Show and learn all the technical bakes together. I’d even learned to measure ingredients with a scale rather than how most Americans did because Mom and I had been so addicted to the show.
Then they’d died and my world had ended.
At least that’s how it had felt at the time. Joshua hadn’t been old enough to be my guardian, but my grandparents hadn’t wanted both of us. I hadn’t realized true hatred or neglect until I’d been torn from the only family I’d never known and forced to live with them.
I barely remembered those years, to be honest. Not that I’d repressed them—no, I remembered the beatings. The screaming in my face because I refused to eat lima beans and begged for a glass of milk to wash it down. I’d had to sit at the table and eat each bean, one by one, until I gagged and then finally I was allowed my milk.
They never knew I threw it up later when my body couldn’t handle the stress.
They’d taken me out of tumbling and forced me to work on their farm in the evenings instead. They’d taken Joshua away from me and I’d never told him the worst of it because he’d always felt like he’d failed me.
It had taken a storm to bring the small family I’d had left back together. In an act of defiance, I’d went outside in the dark to tumble across the grass. I’d wanted to remember my mom because my grandparents refused to talk about their daughter or the fact that my father had apparently kidnapped her to marry her. That hadn’t been the case of course, but my grandparents had lied easier than breathing.
When my grandpa had found me outside, he’d tied me to the porch and screamed in my face. Then Grandpa had slapped me, calling me names and my father’s brat. I’d cried and begged for Joshua and the slaps came again.
