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“A taste, bella,” he says, and then his lips are on mine, kissing me, tasting of bourbon and tobacco and smelling of too much fucking cologne, and my senses are overwhelmed instantly.
My mind goes blank with the panic, the rage.
And then I do it.
I slap him, my body kicking into gear and fracturing from the fear, moving to survival.
“What the fuck!” he shouts, holding his ear where I slapped him. The skin there is already bright red. I’d be proud of myself but I don’t have time when his hand moves and grabs my wrists in each hand, the envelope of cash falling to the ground, and he pins them to the wall above me.
Oh fuck.
Twenty-Seven
-Ben-
“Canyou bring this over to Lola?” Hattie asks, a fork in a salad as she sits her ass on the edge of the reception desk. Her hand lifts a stack of envelopes in a rubber band.
I ignore what’s in her hand.
“Is that sanitary?”
“Eating?”
“Sitting on the desk.”
“Are you going to tattoo someone on the reception desk?” she asks, a single penciled eyebrow raised. I roll my eyes. “Testy, testy, Mr. Coleman.” I ignore her. “Seems every time I bring up our sweet neighbor, you get grumpy. Or should I say, grumpier.” This is the game she’s been playing for weeks: mentioning Lola, waiting for my reaction, and then reacting to that.
Normally, I would just ignore her.
But Lola herself has been ignoring me for nearly two weeks. I haven’t seen her in the hall, haven’t run into her on the boardwalk, and she sure as fuck hasn’t been bringing me any cookies.
And it’s driving me insane.
As much as this woman drives me crazy, I’ve been enjoying our banter, the back and forth, the frustration. The rush I get when she’s around.
That being said, I’m not sure why every time Hattie brings up Lola, I feel the need to argue and change the subject, but here we are.
Yes, you do,the voice in my head whispers.It has a lot to do with the way she looked sitting on your bed with her fingers in her pussy, coming with your name on her lips.
The way she left you unsatisfied, stammering that it was a mistake.
The way you assumed that once she cooled down, she’d see reason and come find you—but still hasn’t.
That one really got to you, the voice reminds me. Because it’s not wrong—I thought after that kiss, she’d seek me out. I thought she’d have felt it too.
I mentally flip off the little voice.
It’s also the reason you’ve done everything in your power this week to piss her off enough to get her to come over and bitch at you.
This time I flick the little voice, which sounds annoyingly like my little brother Tanner, and answer Hattie.
“Fuck off.”
“So can you?”
“Can I what?”
“Can you bring over these to Lola? It’s mail. Hers keeps getting dropped off here.” I look at the stack again. Sure enough, the envelopes have Libby’s bakery as the recipient.
