“I made it,” I say.
Silence.
Slowly, she turns and looks me in the eyes. Her mouth carefully chews. Swallows. And then . . . “You made this?” she asks in such awe that, hell, my calm exterior cracks.
A smirk tugs at my lips and I nod. “Aye, I made it.”
“For yourself?”
“Aye . . . ,” I reply, confused.
“You mean to tell me that you came home one day and thought, ‘You know, I think I’m going to make myself a cherry cake.’”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
She sets her fork down, cake still on it, and folds her hands carefully on her lap. “I’m going to be honest with you, Rowan. Never in my life have I ever wanted to jump a man’s bones as much as I want to right now.”
All of this over cake?
She clears her throat and lifts her chin. “But I am a lady, and even though I showed animalistic eating habits just a few moments ago, I refuse to jump any man at this age.”
“Aren’t you twenty-four?” I ask.
“A respectable twenty-four. I’m not a twenty-two-year-old floozy anymore. I mean business. So, I will say thank you for the cake, kind sir, and then be on my way.”
“Do whatever ye want,” I say, calling her bluff and picking up my plate of cake, which still has her fork on it. I lift the fork to my mouth, watching her hands—itching, ready to pounce in three, two, one . . .
“On second thought, you look like you need company.” She takes the fork and shoves the cake in her mouth. “Oh, sweet sugary nectar, you’re giving me life.”
I chuckle. She’s so fucking ridiculous.
“Help yourself,” I tease.
“Don’t mind if I do.” She takes another bite and then picks up her coffee. She takes a sip, and her eyes widen. “Oh my God, what kind of coffee is this?”
“Special blend I order in. Cherry coffee with cherry cake—my favorite combo.”
Her hand falls to my thigh, and she gives it a good squeeze. A bolt of lust shoots straight to my cock. I take a deep breath.
Keep it together, lad.
“Rowan, do you realize the kind of flavor combination you’ve created here? This could easily sell in the shop as a special.”
“Who’s going to make the cherry cake?”
“Uh . . . you?”
“Not interested,” I say, finishing the rest of the cake and setting the plate down.
“Don’t you want to help your parents?”
“I’ve given up enough for them,” I say, my throat feeling tight all of a sudden. To an outsider, my comment must sound selfish, but if she knew what I’ve been through, she’d understand exactly where the feelings are coming from, where my need to help falls flat.
From the sympathetic look on Bonnie’s face, it’s a safe guess that no one has told her exactly what happened to my brother.
“What have you given up?”
“Not something I want to talk about.”
“Is that what you were alluding to back at the coffee shop?”
I blow out a heavy breath. “Bonnie—”
“Fine, we don’t have to talk about that. I can tell you’re getting angry. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she asks, batting her eyelashes. “Came for the cake and compliments.”
“You didn’t know I had cake.”
“Lucky guess.” She shakes my leg. “Come on, Rowan, relax. Stop being so stiff.”
Keep touching my leg like that, and the “stiffness” won’t go away.
“Be real, Bonnie,” I say. “Why are you here?”
Her smile fades and she leans back, removing her hand from my leg.
“Honestly?” I nod. “I wanted to see you. Make sure you were okay. Talk to you.” She shrugs. “Spend an evening with you without alcohol. I got the impression that you might be hurting in one way or another, and I thought it would be nice to talk to someone who might truly understand what I’m going through as well.”
When she lifts her eyes to mine, I immediately see vulnerability. She might love to joke and tease, but behind that facade is a broken heart, a damaged spirit, and that’s what makes her real.
I nod toward her feet. “Take your shoes off and get comfortable.”
She takes her shoes off and shoots me a beaming smile that hits me in the gut. This might have been a bad idea. That single smile tells me that this girl very well might own me by the end of the night.