Page 25 of Made for You
I set my phone aside face down, reminding myself that distractions were the last thing I needed. I pulled my laptop closer, forcing my racing thoughts back into their neat, compartmentalized lanes. The Zoom interview window with the pastry chef was open and waiting for me to join. I skimmed myquestion list one last time and underlined a note about gluten-free pâte à choux.
My thumb, seemingly of its own volition, slid the phone toward me again.
No, enough.I shook my head forcefully, feeling my long, tight braid swish along my spine.You have work to do. Important work.
My receptionist pinged me on chat to let me know my pastry chef candidate was in the online waiting room. I pasted on my family Bellrose smile and clicked “Admit.”
“Good afternoon, Dahlia,” I said, my tone bright and professional. “Thanks for being flexible with the time.”
She launched into a polished elevator pitch about her time at Le Cordon Bleu, the three seasons she’d worked at a five-star in Whistler, and how she had a soft spot for passionfruit curd. I asked about chocolate tempering in a dry Montana winter and her thoughts on adding a huckleberry mille-feuille to the menu for shoulder season. All throughout, I nodded, took copious notes, and smiled. It was a good conversation. It should have thrilled me, but I was distracted. Again.
My traitorous phone buzzed against the desk.
I kept my eyes on the camera and didn’t move. My face stayed composed while my pulse tripped over itself like a foal finding its legs.
When we wrapped, I thanked Dahlia, promised to follow up shortly, and ended the call. The second her square winked out, I snatched my phone.
Gage
I want you waiting for me in your bed.
Naked, in case that wasn’t clear.
Heat licked low in my belly. Bossy man.
Siena
I’ll think about it.
Gage
Don’t think.
Do it.
I blew out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh and set the phone back down, my palms suddenly slick with nerves.
For the next couple of hours, I tried to work. I really did.
I responded to two vendor emails and signed off on a revised banquet diagram for the Bridger Falls Historical Society’s gala, scheduled for after the new year. Every few minutes, my gaze slid to the clock, as if it had gravitational pull. The minutes seemed to mock me.
At a few minutes past five o’clock, I closed the lid on my laptop.
“Siena?” my assistant poked her head into my office. “Do you need anything before I go?”
“I’m good,” I said, gathering up my belongings and pushing up from my seat. I almost never left before anyone else. “Great work on organizing the vendor matrix.”
“Umm, thank you.” Her perfectly manicured eyebrows flew up her forehead when I started walking toward her. “You’re leaving?”
“Sure am,” I said, sailing past her with a broad smile, chuckling under my breath at the way her jaw was hanging open.
I stalked through the building and out to the parking lot, the November sky steel blue that made everything feel sharp at the edges. My heels clicked a staccato beat on my way to the car, each sound feeling like a tiny countdown to … tonight.
By the time I reached my house, my nerves had settled into a steady thrum that lived somewhere between my ribs and my thighs. I dropped my bag by the entry table, toed off my heels, and bee-lined for the bathroom.
Thanks to a fancy on-demand hot water heater, steam fogged the mirror within seconds. I slid into the tub and sank until the hot water lapped at my collarbones. The heat coaxed some of the tension out of my shoulders, and memories of my two nights with Gage unspooled in vivid detail. The graveled rasp of his voice. The brutal, beautiful way he’d taken control until I had none left and hadn’t wanted any, not even a scrap.
A tiny sound escaped me—half sigh, half curse—and I slid lower in the water, letting it rise over my ears, and started to count to one hundred in my head. When I reached fifty, I came up for air with a gasp, slicking my palms over my face.
