“I don’t understand how someone can do that. Just toss trash into the wild as if it’s their own personal dumpster.”
“Me neither, but you can’t fix everyone. We can only do our best, and making conscious decisions like that helps.”
“Why, McGrumpyshire, are you an earth lover?”
“When you live in a place like Corsekelly, how could you not be?”
“True.” She sinks her fork into the cake and picks up another bite. “So, you think Friday, a tiny grand opening?”
“Aye. I think that’s a great idea.”
“Great. I’ll also email the tour bus companies about our changes.”
“Well, I’ll be first in line when you open up.”
“Yeah?” She leans over and presses a chocolatey kiss to my lips. “You’ll really show up?”
“Aye.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. You’re my girl, aren’t you?” I ask.
“You tell me . . . am I?” she asks coyly.
I lean over this time and cup her chin. “You know you are.”
“Soo, does girl mean ‘girlfriend’ in Scottish? Are you going to introduce me like this . . .” She clears her throat and impersonates a terrible Scottish accent. “Aye, ye bawbag, ’tis here me lass. She owns me boaby.”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I just stare at her, and she wilts under my gaze, fidgeting, trying to smile, trying everything to avoid eye contact.
Finally she asks, “Can you not stare at me like that? It makes me horny.”
“What?” I ask, laughing.
“Aha! Broke the silence.” She snaps her fingers in victory. “Knew that was going to work.”
Shaking my head, I lean back in my chair and stare at her some more. Fucking crazy, unpredictable woman, but even in all her unpredictability, she excites me.
“Question,” she says, mouth full. “When your parents get back, do you think you’re going to have a conversation with them?”
I feel my brows draw together. “Talk to them about what?”
“The whole ‘not doing what you want to do with your life’ thing. It just seemed like you had fun in the kitchen with me. Wasn’t sure if you would cross that bridge with your parents again.”
“No.” I keep my answer short and concise, hoping she’ll move on from the topic.
“Rowan, you can’t possibly walk around here unhappy for the rest of your life.”
“I’m not unhappy.”
“Could have fooled me,” she mumbles, avoiding eye contact.
“How the hell am I not happy? You make me happy, Bonnie.”
That grants me a smile, but when she reaches over to take my hand in hers, I know it’s not enough. “I know a lost soul when I see one. We recognize ourselves in others. You’re lost, Rowan.”
“Where the hell is this all coming from?” Talk about the night making a fucking one-eighty.
Sex.
Cake.
Now a serious conversation about how I’m not living my life?
Color me fucking confused.
“I don’t know—you seemed so happy baking with me.”
“Because I was with you,” I say.
“Then, what is it that will make you happy?”
I slide my empty plate to the side. “Ending this conversation.”
“Why won’t you tell me what it is you want to do in life?”
“Why does it matter? It’s never going to fucking happen, so there’s no use talking about it.” I push out of my chair and grab my plate, setting it in the sink before striding back to my bedroom. Then, sinking down on the edge of the bed, I push my hands through my hair. Annoyed, frustrated, wishing she’d never brought this topic up to begin with.
It doesn’t take her much time to follow me, and when she enters the room, she climbs up on the bed, drops the shirt she was wearing on the floor, and presses her body against my back. Her hands float to my front, and she kisses my shoulder blades.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”
Hell, I shouldn’t have snapped at her. There’s no excuse. I’m just not ready to share that part of my life, not when she’s striving to succeed at something. I don’t want her to see my failure and think what she’s doing isn’t possible.
“Just drop it, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, smoothing her hands down to my stomach. She slips a hand under the waistband of my shorts and grips me tightly.