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And, of course, the way she can bake a hell of a fucking cookie.
Is it normal for your dick to be connected to tastes? There’s no universe where the thought of a chocolate chip cookie should get my dick hard.
No, but the memory of her hair tousled, chest heaving, standing in her front doorway does. That glazed look stuck around in her eyes even after she realized her mistake of texting me when she was fucking coming.
Coming saying my name, even when I wasn’t around.
And the memory of seeing that in person, my fingers sliding deep into that wet pussy, my tattooed hands on her thick hips, the way she was ready to take me?
Fuck, I think I’ll be jacking off to that memory until I die.
I shake my head as I reach for the front door.
A bad place to be.
A man’s mind could stay on that thought forever. The thought of sweet, giggly Lola coming with his name on her lips?
Fuck.
I adjust myself as I open the door.
It should be locked—the bakery is technically closed right now.
She still hasn’t fixed the lock.
This woman is a fucking mess.
But that thought isn’t what has my body stopping, frozen like a bucket of ice was dumped over my head.
It’s the sound of a smack, then a man’s voice screaming, “What the fuck!”
And as I enter the bakery quickly, on red alert, it’s the sight of Johnny Vitale pinning one of Lola’s hands above her head.
A white envelope on the floor next to her.
And fear on her face.
Johnny Vitale, the right-hand man to Carmello Carluccio. Everyone on the East Coast knows the Carluccio family and their soldiers. Especially if you’re one of the tattoo shops the men get their loyalty pieces at.
It all becomes clear.
The stress, the bakery. Her telling me this placeneeds to work.
She has a loan with the Carluccios.
It all makes sense.
She’s right—she didn’t use Daddy’s money to build her business. No, she just used his connections to get herself in a fucking dangerous position.
A part of me is disappointed in her. For the past few weeks, guilt has started to eat at me. I targeted her wrong. She’s not a spoiled brat—she’s had hardship and she worked hard. I was a dick by denying that. But what I’m seeing now, what’s starting to become clearer . . . It’s blurring that for me.
But it’s the look of fear on Lola’s face has it all melting.
Who cares if she built this place from the bottom up like I built up Coleman Ink? Who cares if she took a shady loan or if her family spotted her cash? All I need to worry about is what’s going on now and how I can help her out of this mess.
And I sure as fuck don’t have time to wonder why I want to fix her mess when her eyes shift to mine, locking there.
Relief.
