Sweet Obsession

by J. Daniels

  No. Fine is cheapening it. She was much more than fine. So much more.

  She was fucking perfect with me this morning. Unreserved. Laughing and completely open. Free with her affection. Then she comes here and reverts back to those old familiar habits. Drawing in on herself and slipping behind that shield of uncertainty.

  Baby . . . God, don’t do this.

  What do I need to do? Pull each one of her friends and family aside and tell them to back the hell off? Fine, if that’s what it takes. Their opinion of me notwithstanding, this is between me and Brooke.

  No one else.

  I take a step closer just as she looks up from the phone in her hand.

  “Oh, Mason, no,” she says, shaking her head. Her eyes filling with new tears. “No, this . . . I didn’t mean us. I’m not freaking out because of us. God, I’m sorry. That’s what you’re thinking, right?” She sits her phone down and wipes at her face. “I’m not. I promise, I’m not. I’m with you.” Lifting her eyes, she captures me with the steadiest look I think she’s ever showed me.

  “I’m with you.”

  Relief loosens my tongue and slows my rapid pulse. I move across the shop and around the counter, need filling me.

  “Baby.” I grab her face and kiss her full, pink lips, tasting the juice she had with me this morning and the faint hint of tears.

  She’s with me.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I made you think that. I should’ve explained in the text. God, I’m so stupid.”

  “Stop.” I lean away and cup her cheek. The corner of her mouth twitches. “You’re upset. Tell me why so I can fix it and get back to my class.”

  Her eyes widen. “You left your class?”

  “Yeah. They’re taking a water break. It’s fine.”

  “Mason.”

  She shakes her head at me, fighting hard against a smile, with puffy eyes and tears still beading on her lashes. Her skin flushed red and blotchy.

  Damn. I can’t stop looking at her.

  How can someone look so sad and so beautiful at the same time? I don’t understand it.

  “You’re crazy,” she tells me with a soft voice.

  I shrug, straightening and dropping my hand to her waist. “It’s possible. I’m a twenty-nine year old who has a stuffed koala in his bedroom. An animal I bloody hate, I might add. I keep copious amounts of baked goods in my refrigerator that I never plan on consuming. And I abandon my class when my girl needs me. I don’t know. Does that make me barking mad? I’m fine if it does.”

  “You love that koala. Don’t lie,” she chuckles, sniffing and rubbing at her eyes. Smiling up at me.

  I feel my blood warm. God, I love hearing her laugh. And that timid smile . . . fuck.

  Progress. This is progress.

  Brooke seems better. Marginally, at least. She’s no longer crying, and she doesn’t look as troubled as she did when I stepped in here. However, I still need to find out what brought this on. I don’t like seeing her upset about anything, and something definitely upset her.

  I run my hand along her spine, bending to get closer. “Really, what’s going on, sweetheart? I do need to get back.”

  With a heavy sigh, she turns to face the counter. “It’s nothing you can fix. Though, given how amazing you seem to be at everything, foreign languages included, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a hidden talent for baking. Care to try your hand at it?”

  We exchange looks. Mine, puzzled and struggling to follow her meaning.

  Baking? She wants me to bake her something?

  She waves off my confusion. “Never mind. Dylan’s been put on bedrest for the next two weeks until she delivers, which isn’t a huge deal, except for the fact that we have this freaking wedding next weekend and now I’m in charge of making the cake.” She lifts a piece of paper off the counter and holds it between us. “And it’s covered in flowers. Covered, Mason, like all over the damn thing. Look. She doesn’t even want a cake topper. I have to put flowers up there too. Like this.” Setting the paper down, she flips through the binder on the counter and stops on a picture of a cake, jabbing her finger at it. “See? Look at these little fuckers. This is what I have to make.”

  I lean over the binder to examine the picture.

  Looks pretty standard for a wedding cake. I think my sister had one similar at hers a few years back.

  “All right. And this particular design gets you upset?”

  “I can’t do it.” Brooke slams the binder closed. Her head lowers. “I can’t make flowers look like that. And there’s so many of them. The bride wants them to be the focus of her cake, and I’m worried I’m going to screw it up and ruin everything.”

  She looks away and bites at her lip. Her fingers knot together on the counter.

  Hmm. This is new. Brooke’s normally so proud of her work. She practically glows when she’s handing off her treats to me or discussing her day and what all she created. It’s one of the things I love most about her. Her passion. I’m not accustomed to seeing any lack of confidence in this woman. Not with her career or anything else.

  She’s really worried she’ll fail at this.

  I reach for her, tugging at her hand and pulling her close. I want Brooke in my arms so bad but my shirt is soaked with sweat and she looks so damn pretty right now. I’d hate to ruin her clothes.

  “I’m sure you’ll do fantastic, Brooke,” I say, tipping her chin up, our bodies barely touching.

  She blinks up at me. Her eyes reddened from her tears. Her cheeks blooming with color again.

  “I’m so stressed out about this. Making a cake like that on my own is going to be nerve wracking enough. I told you, I don’t do those. That’s all Dylan.”

  “But you can do them. You don’t but you can. I believe you can.” I run my finger along her jaw. “Don’t doubt yourself. You might be better at this than Dylan. Who knows?”

  “It has to be perfect, Mason. I’ll see the look on the bride’s face when I deliver it, and if she hates it I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “So, make it perfect.”

  Her shoulders drop. Her brows pull together.

  Damn, she’s adorable in her confusion. That cute little wrinkle in her nose kills me.

  Smiling, I bend to kiss her forehead. “You can practice on those little fuckers, yeah?” I ask quietly. “The flowers, I mean.”

  A laugh bubbles in her throat and bursts from her lips. She flattens her hand to my chest. “Yes. I can practice on them. I’m assembling the whole cake this weekend to see if I can do it. I just wish those little fuckers weren’t on it.”

  She seems to relax a bit more, giving me an easy smile, touching the hem of my shirt and exploring my skin underneath with tentative fingers.

  “Well, there you go. Work at it until you’re happy. What you deliver next weekend will be exactly what this woman is asking for. You’ll impress her, I bet.”

  “You seem so sure.”

  “I am sure.”

  My confidence in Brooke is unwavering. There’s no doubt in my mind she will create something beyond what she thinks she is capable of. I’ve seen her work. I know how dedicated she is to this job. How driven. She will perfect this cake until she can make it in her sleep, but right now, she’s crippled by her own insecurity. Blinded by it. Always letting that little voice inside her head speak louder than it ever should.

  “You can do this.”

  She stares up at me, looking at my eyes, my mouth, and finally lowering her gaze to my neck. She wets her lips and swallows hard.

  “I just don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

  She looks so sad. So small.

  Fuck, I want to hold her. Why did I have to make it so goddamn hot in that studio?

  I squeeze her hips, hoping this small touch will give her some comfort.

  “I know you don’t. You care, Brooke. And that’s why you’re going to do something amazing. Just breathe a little, yeah? Try not to worry so much.”

  Her mo
uth tics—the hint of a smile. Letting her eyes slip closed, she takes in a deep breath, filling her lungs to capacity before releasing it slowly through her nose. She seems to slide closer.

  “Better?” I ask, moving my thumb over her jeans.

  She nods, her hands moving around my waist as she stares at my chest. “You know this means I’ll be tied up all weekend except for the dinner. We won’t really see each other.”

  I dismiss her underlying apology. “No worries. I have a few classes to teach. I’ll just be across the street for distractions and words of encouragement, if needed.”

  “Yeah.” Her voice comes out quiet and swift. She tugs at my shorts, her nails scrapping across my skin. “Mason?”

  “Mm?”

  She looks up. I recognize the shift in her eyes. Desire.

  With her small, very capable hands, she glides up my arms, slowly, squeezing my muscles and wrapping her grip around my neck. Our bodies press together.

  She doesn’t mind my appearance?

  “You’re all sweaty and sweet. Just like last night,” she whispers, standing on her toes to kiss me, crushing her perfect tits to my chest.

  Jesus.

  “Do you really think I can do this?”

  I moan when she rubs her hip against my slowly hardening length. My hands rest on her waist. “Are we still talking about cakes?”

  “Yes.” She smiles against my mouth. “What else would we be talking about?”

  “You’re touching my cock. I have no idea what we’re talking about anymore.”

  Laughing, she twists and brushes against me again.

  “Baby,” I moan. “I need to go.”

  “And I need to come.”

  Ah, fuck.

  I groan and suck on her tongue a little, touching her arse, feeling my reserve and all responsibility for the business I own fading to nothing.

  Maybe I can make this quick? Maybe my attendees will understand my weakness for this woman and wait me out?

  Maybe I don’t need to make this quick?

  With a soft moan, Brooke pulls away so it’s only her hands on my hips and nothing else. She looks up, a softness pooling in her eyes.

  “Thank you for coming over and talking to me. I’m sorry I worried you with my text. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Christ, that text. I nearly got run over by a delivery truck sprinting over here like I did.

  I frown. “It’s fine.”

  “I’m with you.” She touches my face.

  My breath catches in my chest. Brooke. I lean into her hand, my throat tightening as I try to swallow. “Yeah.”

  “I’m with you, Mason,” she slowly repeats, her lip trembling, tears brimming her eyes again, but her voice so fucking sure it shatters any wall or shield she ever put up between us. Obliterating every hesitation and uncertainty. Every whispering doubt in my ear.

  Gone. She’s mine, and I am so fucking hers I don’t remember the person I was before this.

  “Baby.” I crush her against me, kissing her, giving her my racing heart and my urgent touch and every breath I will ever take. “With you,” I tell her.

  She nods and breaks away to kiss my jaw and my cheek, pressing her lips all over my face.

  We embrace each other, just holding, until our bodies steady and the pressing urge to touch and kiss and fuck lessens to a sufferable longing.

  “Okay,” Brooke whispers against my mouth. “Go, before you lose half your class.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Mason,” she laughs, kissing me hard and then with a firm hand, pushing against my shoulder, shoving me in the direction of the door. She gives me an incredulous look.

  I don’t care . . . fuck, that’s a bit mad. A truth, nonetheless.

  This is Brooke. My Brooke. She’s finally mine and she’s with me.

  She’s with me.

  I stop at the door. “Say it again.”

  Lifting her head from the attention she’s giving the paper on the counter, a contented look shadows her face. Her hazel eyes appearing brighter now. Bigger, as she looks me straight on, standing taller, holding my gaze with that swelling confidence I’m used to seeing on her.

  “I’m with you.”

  Her sweet voice lifts in the air, her words soaking into me, saturating my heart, my bones, and somehow going deeper than that. I feel them absorbing into my blood and taking on the life of my pulse, beating . . .

  I’m with you.

  Beating . . .

  I’m with you.

  BROOKE

  I’m excited for tonight. More than excited, actually. And not a bit nervous.

  Wait . . . I’m not nervous at all?

  I hold my hands out in front of me, turning them over in the air, watching for any signs of panic.

  They’re steady. No tremble to my fingers. Not even a slight twitch.

  Huh. Look at that.

  I press two fingers to the inside of my wrist. My pulse is stable, and my stomach doesn’t feel like I just stepped off the world’s scariest rollercoaster.

  I’m not sweating.

  I’m not pacing my bedroom or annihilating every sweet in this condo.

  I’m not trying to talk my way out of tonight, or making up an excuse as to why I can’t make it.

  This is a big deal. A huge deal, and the only reason why I’m anxious is because I’m ready for it to happen.

  I’m ready. So fucking ready.

  Bringing Mason with me to dinner at Juls and Ian’s house, officially stepping out with him as a couple, introducing him as my boyfriend. Any one of these would usually send me into a fit where I’d be locking myself in my room and blowing everyone off, refusing to answer my phone or faking an illness. I normally don’t do stuff like this. I never do stuff like this.

  But something is different. I’m different.

  Maybe it’s seeing the look on Mason’s face when I tell him he’s not alone in his feelings. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s become more than just a man I’m interested in. He’s a man I want to be with all the time, doing everything with, including breakfast dates and dinners at my sister’s house. Camping and late night drives through the city.

  Or maybe it’s just him. No one else could’ve gotten me here. I’m sure of it.

  Mason went from being a guy I wanted to fuck, to a man I wanted to know, to the only person I care to be around.

  The only person . . .

  I sure as hell didn’t see this coming, but I want it, and I’m not nervous.

  I’m ready.

  As I’m tying my navy cinch dress and securing the loose bow at my hip, my phone rings from on top of my dresser. I run my fingers through my loose curls before hitting the speaker phone button.

  “Hey. I’m just finishing up getting ready. Mason should be here any minute.”

  Picking up my gloss, I apply a thin coat of the shimmery peach shade and press my lips together as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  “Change of plans. I think Jake has chicken pox,” Juls says.

  “What?” I look down at the phone. “Are you sure? How did he get it?”

  She sighs. “I don’t know. Playground, I guess. Ian was giving him a bath and saw the blisters on his stomach. My poor guy.”

  Poor Jake is right.

  “Well, shit. That sucks.” I toss the tube of gloss into my makeup case and carry the phone over to the bed. I plop down on the mattress. “You know Izzy will probably get it now.”

  “I know. I’m almost hoping she does, that way I can just get them both out of the way at the same time. God, does that make me a horrible mother? Wishing a miserable infection on my child? Ian thinks I’m crazy.”

  Juls, a horrible mother? Please. She kills it. She’s that mom other mom’s hate because she’s so fucking good at life.

  She’s organized. Her kids are perfectly behaved and always look like they hopped out of a Children’s Place catalog. She still looks like a pin-up girl after two babies, and she rocks heels every day.


  Every day. Even at the playground.

  I stare at my feet. “Makes sense to me. I wish mom would’ve done that with us, that way I could still come over with Mason, assuming he’s had chicken pox before.” I feel a smile lifting my mouth. “I wonder if they call that something different in Australia. Like koala pox or spots down under.”

  “That second one sounds like an STD.”

  We both laugh. I pull my knees up and brace my heels on the wooden frame.

  “I am bummed though. I was really looking forward to tonight. All of us hanging out.” I pick at the hem of my dress.

  How long does chicken pox last? A week? Several? Is there a period where it isn’t contagious?

  I bring up Google and do a search while keeping Juls on the line.

  “Aw, me too. You know how excited I was. And the kids. Especially since you were bringing Mason. I really wanted to see you two together.” She pauses as I skim the page on WebMD. “Can I . . . okay, I want to ask you something, but you can’t get all Brooke on me.”

  I huff. “What does that mean?”

  All Brooke . . .

  All awesome and sexy as hell? Because that’s unavoidable.

  “You know exactly what it means. You can’t bite my head off or hang up on me because I’m bringing up mushy shit you don’t usually like to talk about. It’s not nice. I want your word that you’ll at least give me an honest response.”

  I exit out of the search on my phone and stare at the screen.

  I have a feeling I know where this conversation is going. Mason. Juls wants details, which isn’t surprising. I really haven’t given her any. In fact, the last time we spoke about this I’m pretty sure I bit her head off and hung up.

  I definitely hung up.

  I sink back onto the bed, resting my phone beside my ear. “I promise.”

  “Really?” Juls whispers in complete disbelief. I smile and stare at the ceiling.

  “Yes. Hurry up before I change my mind.”

  She clears her throat. “Wow. Okay. Well . . .” a soft, shuffling noise comes through the phone.

  “Oh, my God, Juls. Do you have notes?”

  Little Miss Wedding Planner. I can totally see her having a list of topic points for this discussion.

  “What?” she asks, sounding startled. “No, no I’m just reading a magazine. Glamour or something.”