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“My muffin was good, but not that good.”
“For the love of God, y’all,” Theo says.
“I don’t have anything smaller,” Brooks replies.
I hold the fifty out to him. “Just take it, Brooks. We can settle up later.”
But he grins and holds up his one free hand, backing away from the cart. “For the drugs. I’m sure they’re expensive.”
“Drugs?” My brother’s head pops up over his screens. “Where?”
“Good morning to you too,” I say before turning back to Brooks. “At least let me give you an extra sandwich or something.”
He slides into his chair a few feet away. “Don’t make me hate you, Greer.”
“You love me. And my muffins.”
“My pants don’t.”
“Who needs pants?”
“Coincidentally, I do.”
My brother snickers. “Not on the weekends. Or weeknights, come to think of it.”
The image pops into my head: Brooks without pants. Without a shirt too. The only thing he’s wearing are these boxer brief things that leave very little to the imagination. He’s got a smattering of dark blond hair across his chest that narrows to a happy trail. My eyes follow where it leads, and that’s when I notice his dick is hard, straining against the silky fabric of those briefs.
I blink. My face and neck are on fire.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think often about Brooks Huntley naked. But it’s time I got a life. Or at least a new fantasy, one that isn’t so laughably absurd.
I have a line of customers waiting, so much on my to-do list I could cry, and a V-card that’s ready for a long-overdue swipe.
It’s time to focus on something other than Brooks without pants.
I can’t make the image go away, though. He’s leaning over me now, a smirk on his lips as he ducks his head and kisses my neck.
I blink again. I have to blow off some steam.
I need a beer or three to loosen me up so I can hook up with someone new and finally have sex. I hear it’s great at reducing stress.
For a while, I was waiting to lose my virginity to someone meaningful. But hookup culture ran rampant in college, and the guys I met weren’t interested in dating. I made out with a few, and even got to second or third base a couple times. I just never felt comfortable going all the way with a random hookup.
I started the bakery right out of college, which didn’t leave much time for dating. And after waiting years for that “special someone”, I’m over it. I mean, what if he never shows up? Am I supposed to wallow in sexual frustration forever?
I tell people “it’s been a minute” since I’ve had sex. Little do they know that minute has been going on now for twenty-three years.
Making a mental note to text my roommate Keira when I’m back at the bakery, I take a deep breath and manage to paste on a smile for my next customer.
Come hell or high water, I’m getting laid tonight.
But first, I need to take care of Brooks. Literally. That sadness I saw on his face, the way he very intentionally erased it, willed it into submission—I can’t stop thinking about it.
On my way out, I notice he isn’t at his desk. I wrap a few egg muffins in a napkin and leave them next to his keyboard. The protein will help with the sugar crash he’s inevitably going to get after all that chocolate.
@WSBathroom 5/10
And now for some *really* juicy stuff: Atlas &Teton’s quantitative genius Brooks Huntley was spotted inhaling a certain baker’s muffin (pun 100% intended) from Charlotte’s Drury Lane Bakery, a social media darling.
@WSBathroom 5/10
It gets even better: said baker is George Fieldstone’s sister. That’s right, Brooks may or may not be buttering up his colleague—and best friend’s—baby sibling. We wonder what George thinks of this exchange of baked goods #bunintheoven?
@WSBathroom 5/10
We invite you to send us any and all dirty baking puns. The filthier, the better #ButterMyBiscuit
Chapter Two
BROOKS
“Godfuckingdamn her.”
Theo, my recently promoted boss and a guy I rowed crew with at Duke, swivels his chair to face me. “Aaaand he’s back.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I bite out, my heart skipping a beat as I stare at the pair of egg muffins on my desk.
“You were a decent human being about”—he checks his watch—“oh, a couple hours ago, when you were chatting nicely with Greer Fieldstone. Now she’s ‘godfuckingdamnher’. What’s changed?”
I’m thinking about my best friend’s sister again. The one who’s sweet and hot and eleven years younger than I am. That’s what.
“He didn’t grunt or growl once at Greer,” Nicky, our associate and the youngest guy on the desk, adds. “I even heard him give her a compliment.”
“Shut up.” I fall into my chair and bang my employee ID and password into the keyboard. The smell of the muffins hits me—bacon, cheddar, Jesus—and my stomach grumbles.
