Sweet Obsession

Joey shakes his head, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “What is he to you? Boyfriend? Friend with benefits? What?”

“We’ve been over this,” I sternly reply, tossing my apron onto the table. “Jesus. He’s just this guy I’m spending time with. And in five minutes when you ask me that question again, he’ll still be just this guy I’m spending time with.”

Dylan stands from her stool and reaches for her pink mixer, sliding it in front of her. “Denial doesn’t look good on you, Brooke. Stop wearing it.”

“Oh, my God,” I softly utter, snatching up the muffin bag and setting it on top of the three boxes.

I need to get out of here. Far away from these two. I’ve never done a delivery by myself before but I’ve knocked out tons with Joey. It’s usually the two of us.

Well, that’s not happening today. If I don’t get a break from this madness, I’m going to end up burning this place to the ground just to avoid further conversation.

Joey comes to stand beside me. He rubs his hands eagerly together, looking between the boxes and my face.

“Ready to go, Mrs. King?”

My eyes widen. He did not just fucking go there.

Did I say burn this place to the ground? I meant slaughter a third of the staff.

Fists clenching at my sides, I step closer to him. Joey leans back when he registers the look on my face.

“Too much?” he meekly asks.

“You think?” I lift the boxes and balance the bag on top, glaring at Joey as I lower them against my chest. “I’m doing this delivery alone. Do yourself a favor and eat a dick for lunch while I’m gone. You sound deprived.”

“Ow, kitten.” Joey gapes at me. He looks sincerely hurt. “Just because I’m all up in your business, doesn’t mean I’m deprived. Retract the claws, please.”

I look up at him, trying to stay angry, swallowing down the remorse I feel burning the back of my throat.

I haven’t spoken to Joey this cruelly since before I moved in with him. This used to be regular dialogue between the two of us, back when we could hardly stand each other. Then I started working here. The closer we became, him and I, the more playful our banter. We stopped cracking on each other years ago.

Why did I have to go there just now? Why did he?

Why are both of them on my case about this?

I brush past him and move toward the doorway. If I stay any longer, I’ll either yell or apologize. Neither one seem appealing right now.

“Brooke, do you know where it is?” Dylan calls out as I step into the main bakery.

“Yeah. We delivered there last year.”

I turn sideways to push the door open with my elbow. Movement catches my eye. I look up just as Joey walks in from the kitchen, looking like he wants to tell me something.

I don’t wait around to hear it. God only knows what other clever little comments he has to say right now.

With a firm shove, I exit the bakery and head for my car.

I take the elevators to the eleventh floor of the Harding and Associates building, a huge venture capitalist firm in the city.

I have definitely been here. More than once in the same day. While Joey and I made our delivery to one of the offices in this building last year, I caught the eye of one of the associates. Our delivery just so happened to be for a breakfast meeting. The associate ended up being my entire lunch.

I hardly remember anything about him. Dark hair maybe? Glasses? The only thing sticking out in my mind is how irritated I was with Dylan’s thirty minute lunch rule that day.

I drop my head back against the mirrored wall behind me.

What if that had been Mason, and it was a year later, or several years later. Would I remember little details about him? Or major ones? Anything?

Yes.

My answer is as certain as my desire to keep breathing. It’s terrifying and oddly comforting all at once. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand any of it. My stomach feels like it’s being twisted into a perpetual knot.

Balancing the three boxes filled with treats and the bag of muffins, I step off the elevators and walk across the shiny marble floor to the reception area, praying I leave my anxiety behind me. An older woman directs me down the hallway to the conference room by the large window overlooking the city streets. I say a silent thank you when the doors to the room are already propped open. I would hate to place these boxes on the floor to be able to knock.

That’s extremely unprofessional, and probably one of the reasons these deliveries are done in pairs.

I step inside the room, lowering the boxes so I can see above the paper bag. Several men in suits are seated at a long rectangular table. All of them look up at my arrival and halt their dissection of whatever document is in front of them.

“Hello. I have a delivery from Dylan’s Sweet Tooth. Pastries and muffins.”

The older man closest to me stands and takes the boxes. He smiles warmly. “Excellent. We were just about to get started.”

He spreads the boxes out in the center of the table. Lids are quickly flipped back and the contents of the paper bag is examined.

The older man straightens and looks back at me. “Please see my secretary Helen for your payment, Miss . . .”

“Brooke.”

I look across the room at the sound of my name.

Seated at the other end of the table is the very associate I gave up my lunch for last year.

Blonde. No glasses. Nothing particularly memorable at all about him. In fact, if he hadn’t called out my name just now, I would easily pass this guy on the street and not recognize him. It’s only in this setting, large board room with baked goods spread out on a conference table that my memory is being triggered. And that might have everything to do with the treats and nothing to do with the sex we had. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">