Page 69 of South of The Skyway

“Youlike?”

“I want to cover you in chocolate and taste every inch.”

“Dangerous,” she said before pressing a kiss to my chest. “I want to stay here forever. Right here, in this moment.”

“Do it,” I suggested, memorizing each swell of her body beneath my calloused fingers. “I’ll second the motion.”

“If Noel wasn’t out of commission.”

I closed my eyes, inhaling that sugary scent and kicking myself for not bringing her up first. “I know,” I said. “Does she need anything?”

“I don’t think your particular expertise will be of any use, Mr. Rhodes.”

“Hey now,” I protested. “How do you know I’m not a shaman?”

“I think it would've come up last night.”

“You know what they say about people who assume.”

“We’re all privy to the healing powers of a handful of orgasms, but we decided this isexclusive, remember?”

My cheeks were aching before I realized I’d smiled in response. Thank fuck for that. The exclusive part and the glowing, undeniable feminine satisfaction. “A handful, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky, Mr. Rhodes.”

“Punny.”

“Oh no, you'reone of those.” Her eyes fell to the floor as she shook her head, a breathy little laugh escaping and wrapping right the hell around my chest. Everything about this woman felt like a tether to life.

“Guilty. So. What’s on the agenda?”

“Wrenly and Holland are opening, but I’ll close it down with them. We’re celebrating St. Patrick’s Day with a luckyblind date with a book.”

“Sounds kinda genius. I’d love to see the shop all greened out. I’ll be in your neck of the woods tonight. Alright if I stop by?”

“I think I’ll require it.”

“Good.” I squeezed her tighter before resuming my steady trail over her bare arm. “In the meantime, can I make you breakfast?”

My wicked little thing nipped at the tender skin between my chest and shoulder. “I thought I’d just eatyou.”

THIRTY-ONE

BREXLEY

The blind date table sold out before closing, which, all in all, was a freaking miracle in the ROI department, and if Noel had been here, we’d be singing obnoxiously off-key. A better portion of the evening had been spent convincing myself that I did not, in fact, need to call her to do just that. But it wasn’t just a record sales day that had me aching to hear her voice. Noel and I had shared everything since we were kids, and the giddy bliss that had Wrenly, Holland, and all our baristas side eyeing me was bound to burst out of me the moment I heard her voice.

Rhyett Rhodes had turned me into a bumbling idiot after orgasming me stupid. While he’d assembled his out-of-use French press to brew me coffee, I’d wandered around his temporary four hundred square feet, which felt homier than my apartment did after years. His story was everywhere in snapshots and Polaroids, cards from his mother—who looked way too enthusiastic for her age, the only sign of her years gathered in an elegant bouquet of happy lines beside her eyes—and pieces she’d sent him from home.

“They look…happy?” I’d asked as he poured the boiling water over the grounds, my fingers longingly tracing the frame on the wall as an old ache reared its ugly head. I’d flown solo for enough years to recognize the sour taste of jealousy on my tongue, the hollowness it planted deep in my belly where hunger would be. He’d chuckled, but everything about the relaxed state of his expression and hold of his shoulders told me I was peering into a glass house.

“They’re a hot mess. But yeah. It’s their mess, you know?”

Telling that twisted sensation in my gut to take a hike, I studied the image. A couple who could only be Juniper and Milo—Rhyett’s parents—were dressed to the nines, and he was spinning her around a dance floor, her long salt and pepper hair fanned out around the same megawatt smile I saw on her son. Milo watched her like she’d hung the stars, a quiet kind of satisfaction on his lips.

“He looks tall,” I noted. “Is he taller than you?”

“Six-four. Jameson hit it, but the rest of us leveled off an inch or two early.” Rhyett pulled two mugs from the cabinet, turning for creamer before he poured his own cup of water for tea. Turkey bacon—because the real stuff was shit for you, according to the shirtless hunk in front of me—and a potato, veggie, and egg scramble sizzled on cast iron skillets behind him. A man that could cook, fish, and build successful ventures repeatedly? What in the hell was a woman supposed to do?

---