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Grinning, I pump my fist. “Thank you. I’ll head right over.”
“See you soon,” she says, hanging up.
Within seconds, my phone buzzes, alerting me of a text. I’m relieved she sent her address. I didn’t think she’d ghost me, but I couldn’t say with complete confidence that she wouldn’t.
Rising to my feet, I hurry back inside to brush my teeth, spritz on some cologne, and throw on a backward ball cap. Then I race back down the stairs and out to my truck, getting on the road as fast as possible. My heart races from excitement. I can’t wait to see her.
* * *
I pull into the driveway of a small, bright-blue bungalow and park behind Calista’s minivan. Climbing from my truck, I notice the well-manicured lawn and vibrant flowers in terracotta pots lining the left side of her staircase. It feels like her and makes sense that she lives here.
I ring the bell beside the yellow door and wait.
“Come in,” she shouts.
I do as she says, calling out, “Hey, it’s me.”
“Yeah, I figured,” she answers.
I push the door closed behind me, then walk in the direction of her voice. The vision that greets me makes me stop in my tracks. Calista is frosting cupcakes, but the surprising part is that she’s dressed in a fitted t-shirt and shorts—the tiny kind that end just below the curve of her ass cheeks. Her willowy limbs are long and golden, and for a moment I imagine them wrapped around me as I thrust inside her.
“You shouldn’t leave your door unlocked,” I growl, still rocked by my intimate vision of the two of us.
“Hello to you too, Ryder.”
I smile. “Hello. How’s your week going?”
She grimaces. “It’s been out of control busy. I took on a job I shouldn’t have. I’ll be making cupcakes all night long.”
“Is there anything I can help you with?” I ask.
She peers at me from under an arched eyebrow. “Not unless you know how to make butterflies out of frosting.”
“Sorry, you’re out of luck. I’m not artistic at all. Unless you count keeping my lines straight when I mow the lawn.”
She points the frosting covered knife at me. “That’s harder than it seems, though.”
“Right?”
“You didn’t come all this way to ask me about my week. What’s going on?” she asks, getting right to the point.
“I’d like to hire you to be my full-time personal chef.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. I want you to work for me like you did last weekend, except permanently.”
“Ryder, I can’t do that.”
My eyebrows pinch together. “Why not?”
“I have clients who count on me every week and events I’ve booked.”
“I can be flexible at first until those people can find someone new to replace you.”
“I don’t want to be replaced, though.”
“I’ll pay you well and make it worth your while.”
