Page 55 of The Little Black Rose

There’s a fruit parfait in the fridge and some fresh croissants in the oven. Have a good day, and take care of our girls.

––Z

The paper flutters back to the counter as my fingers release it. I stare at it lying there, all innocent and normal like there wasn’t a major shift in my relationship with Zeke last night. He obviously slept in his bed, got up early, and made me breakfast like it was any other morning.

Did I read too much into his departure? Did he simply just feel like sleeping in his own bed last night?

I don’t think so.

Maybe he’s just trying to act normal, putting off the inevitable discussion until the very last moment. Well, if he can ignore the elephant in the room, so can I. I grab the parfait from the fridge and the croissants from the oven, putting one on a napkin and carrying it and the parfait into the living room. Setting the food on the coffee table and grabbing my laptop, I run a search for a list of must-haves in a nursery for twins.

I put together a list of links for cribs I like, other furniture, bedding, changing supplies, and a few cute matching outfits. I’ll give the list to Zeke later, and he can tell me which he prefers. We’ll have a normal conversation about it like adults, then we’ll say goodnight and go to our separate bedrooms.

It’ll be perfect, just the way it was before I let my horniness get the better of me and took things in a direction they never should have gone.

Yeah. Perfect.

Chapter27

Failing and Miserable

Zeke

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. God damn it. Son of a bitch mother fucker.”

I let loose with the stream of swears under my breath, careful not to let my voice carry out to the main lobby ofGlaZZed. We’re busy as hell, and this is the third batch of glazed donuts I’ve screwed up.

Regular glazed. The simplest of the donuts I create. And I keep fucking them up by overcooking, undercooking, or, in this latest batch’s case, covering them with lumpy, disgusting-looking glaze.

“Zeke, we need those glazed,now,” Zoey calls out, not for the first time.

“Five minutes,” I call back roughly even though I’ve gave her the same answer fifteen minutes ago.

And, again, ten minutes ago.

I take a deep breath and pull the newest batch of fried dough from the hot oil, sighing with relief at the perfect golden-brown exterior. Spreading them on a tray, I whisk the glaze before pouring it over the top, my muscles loosening up as it spreads evenly with no lumps.

Fucking finally.

I take the batch out and slide them into the counter, avoiding eye contact with my twin. I know she’s dying to lay into me, to find out what has me so off my game, and I’m not ready to hash it out with her. Not yet.

I’m too fuckingtired. I haven’t slept for shit in a week. Not since the day Ava and I found out we’re having twin daughters, and I slipped out of her bed after the intense lovemaking we shared. I know putting some distance between us was necessary, but I miss feeling her in bed beside me. I wake up over and over each night, reaching out for her before I realize she’s not there. My disappointment and self-recriminations keep me awake for far too long, and I finally doze off only to repeat the process again a half-hour later.

And keeping my distance has done nothing to diminish my desire for Ava. I still want her, every hour of every day, and it’s been pure hell, building those walls back up between us.

But what else am I supposed to do? Lead Ava on? Allow her to believe there’s a future for us in the romantic sense? I can’t do that to her.

No, this is by far the kinder option. Nip this thing in the bud now before her feelings for me grow into something real. Better to disappoint her now than break her heart later on.

Finishing another successful batch of glazed, I carry the tray out to the counter to find the place empty, save for Zoey, who’s giving me the stink-eye from where she’s making a fresh pot of coffee. I try to ignore it, but I feel the heat of her gaze spearing into my back as I slide the tray home.

Sighing, I face her, crossing my arms over my chest. “What?”

“What did you do?” she asks, her tone as accusatory as I’ve ever heard it.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, playing dumb though I have a very strong feeling I knowexactlywhat she’s referring to.

“You’ve been in a shit mood for the last week. Ava has been, too. So, I reiterate… What. Did. You. Do?”

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