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“Why would I do that?” Her eyebrows meet in the middle.
“Uh, because they aren't ours? And she might need them? And I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to keep someone else’s mail?”
“Aren’t you friends with her? Couldn’t you bring it over to her? You’re there all the time.”And I don’t want to see the temptation that is Lola.
“I’ve got a client coming soon.”
“So do I,” I say. I know it’s pointless to hope that she doesn’t know the truth, but . . .
“I know you can’t read through the sound of your fucking booming music, which, just to tell you, I know you’re doing it to piss off a neighbor. It’s also starting to get on my nerves, too, but you can still read your schedule and see you don’t have any appointments for an hour.”
She's right, of course.
“Come on, Hattie. Can’t you just go over and hand them to her? Or bring it the next time you see her?” She shakes her head, her hair moving with it in a pin-straight curtain.
“Nope. It’s illegal to withhold mail. And I have a piercing coming in in—” The bell above the door rings. “Oh, look! There she is!” I turn, expecting to see Lola finally here to bitch me out. My heart skips, and I hate the stupid fucking disappointment I feel when it’s a cute blonde with a crop top, shyly waving at Hattie. “My six o’clock is here!” The guest looks me over, giving me a head-to-toe that tells me she’s the kind of sweet who would love to give dark and dangerous a chance.
Her type isn’t uncommon in my line of work: women who will eventually go on to marry accountants and pop out the perfect 2.5 kids thinking they might want to give the broody tattoo artist a try.
Not my type.
Oh, but what about sweet bakers who wear pink and bop around to Taylor Swift?the voice asks.
This time I mentally punch the voice in the nonexistent face.
“You. Go next door. Ask Lola what her display will look like and if she has a photo. I also need a rundown of what she’s auctioning off and the retail value.” Hattie points to the front door.
“Hattie—”
“Now. Go. Put on your big boy pants and face the big scary bakery owner.” She actually rolls her eyes at that.
“I’m not scared of her, Hat—” I start. But she laughs, cutting me off as she puts her hand on the arm of the client, urging her into her booth.
“You might not be scared of her in the traditional way, Ben, but that woman scares the shit out of you. Once you realize that, we’ll all be able to live with less of a headache.”
And then she’s gone behind a closed door, and I can hear her turn down the loud music, almost like she’s telling me to man the fuck up and go.
With a challenge like that, I can’t stay no.
Saying no would mean she won.
And I don’t lose.
When the bell chimes as I leave the shop, I can hear Hattie’s laugh ringing out over the sound of the lowered music.
I walk the five feet from my front door to Lola’s, and each step, I think about how I shouldn’t be doing this.
In fact, I should just drop the mail in her box or slip it under her door and move on with my day.
But the truth of the matter is, this woman has gotten deep under my skin. She’s a fucking pain in my ass. Her sass, her attitude, her unwillingness to even listen or reason with me.
I can’t stand her.
And even more, her insistence on avoiding me, ignoring me, when we both know something is brewing between us is maddening.
After I changed the wifi and we had what we did together, I knew I was fucked. That ignoring her and ignoring my dick wouldn’t get her out of my system. But she’s been incredibly successful at ignoringmesince that day.
Still, something about her has my mind stuck on the way her ass looks in those little shorts, the way her apron strings cinch her waist. The way she moaned my name, the way she came with my name on her lips, the way she pulled the head of my cock into her mouth . . .
