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Rosie: Ooh, great question. In this choose-your-own-adventure tale, I say she bangs him again because hate-sex is hot.
Ugh. Rosie’s no help.
There will be no banging. No hate-sex.
But then, how hot would hate-sex with West be? Probably super-duper hot, with lots of spanking and—
Nope. Stop it. Bad, Gigi.
But as I march down the steps to the subway, I can’t help lingering on hot hate-sex for a second.
I swear, only for a second.
Fine, maybe a minute. Or twelve.
8
WEST
Seeing as Gigi made it clear she isn’t in the mood for further conversation—at least with me—I decide against chasing her across the park to kiss her until she realizes I’m not a tea-peddling monster out to steal her business.
At least, I suppose that’s what she’s upset about.
There’s room in the world for more than one sweet shoppe per block, and I highly doubt a customer can get a decent cup of tea at her place. And many of us enjoy a fine, smoky, sweet tea with dessert.
So, I’m not competing with her so much as complementing her.
Once she cools off, I’ll be able to make her realize that. Until the text explosion, she seemed like a sensible woman. She’s certainly the sexiest woman in New York—potentially in the entire Northern Hemisphere—and I refuse to let a silly misunderstanding keep me from making her come on my cock at least a dozen more times.
This week, in fact.
Deciding to pave the way to fucking and making up, I assemble an “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’m opening a store across the street from yours” present from the items on my shelves. Because, she did have a point. Perhaps I was a bit cagey when I learned about her shop. I should have told her about mine then, if not earlier in the night. She has me there.
Hence, the apology gift—a cedar box filled with premium tea samples, a blue and yellow ceramic teapot that will fit right in with her colorful décor, and some lavender and honey candies that pair perfectly with my signature blend of Earl Grey. Who doesn’t love Earl Grey?
I type out a quick note asking for a chance to explain myself properly, tuck it into the box, and start for the door, only to think twice and pop into the back room for more supplies.
Over at her apartment, I arrange my offering on her kitchen counter, leave the key on the hook, and pull the locked door closed behind me.
I’m about to head home when a familiar voice calls my name. “West! Over here!”
My little sister, Abby, is standing in front of the shop across the street. Actually, she’s waving her arm over her head and jumping up and down in front of the shop, grinning so wide I can spot her twin dimples from here.
I’ve seen Abby nearly every day for the last six months, but I haven’t seen her dimples in all that time. Not since her evil ex, Hawley, broke off their engagement via text message and then refused to return her phone calls begging him to explain what happened.
He just tossed the “it’s over” bomb through the window and then dropped off the face of the earth.
Miserable wanker.
I fully intend to punch him in the spleen if our paths ever cross again. No one destroys my sister’s heart and her self-esteem and gets away with it. I’d begun to think he’d stolen her smile too, but there it is, bright and shiny as ever.
I can’t help but smile too, even though my cock is still busy fretting that we might never see Gigi again. He’s confident in his abilities, but he’s also a greedy bastard who can’t get enough of a good thing.
And Gigi is definitely a good thing.
“Good morning, cheery face,” I say, opening an arm to Abby as I step up on the sidewalk beside her.
My very little little sis—she’s barely five feet tall in sneakers—bounds in for a hug even more enthusiastic than I’m expecting, squeezing me so tight I grunt, proving she’s small but fierce. “Oh my God, it’s the best morning, West. The very best! Look!” She pulls back and shoves her cell into my face.
I rear back, blinking, and laugh. “Too close. Jesus, my eyes. What am I even looking at?”
“You made it!” she says, bouncing up and down, making it even more difficult to read her screen. “You’re in the running to become this year’s Mr. Sweet Stuff!”
The phrase sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t resist teasing her. “Is that a sex thing? If so, I’m definitely more salty than sweet.”
“No.” She slaps my arm affectionately and rolls her brown eyes. “It’s the Brooklyn Mr. or Mrs. Sweet Stuff competition.” She sighs when my expression remains blank. “Big time baking competition? Winner gets bragging rights and tons of free promo for their business for an entire year? Been going on for fifty years? Super prestigious? Any of this ringing a bell?”
