Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  Ben just stands there, his jaw clenched, his broad shoulders set like granite, looking at me with dark, heavy brows narrowed over even darker eyes. I wonder how many people have seen this look and lived to tell the tale. Few, if any.

  My lower back bumps into the sink, my hands grip the curved edge. It makes me feel a little better holding onto something, but not much.

  “I said I was sorry.” My words are rushed, and my voice sounds totally freaked. Because I am. Not because I’m afraid he’ll hurt me. But because I’m afraid he’ll do something worse.

  “You did.” His deep voice has an eerily calm edge that spikes my blood pressure, causing alarm bells to ring in my ears.

  He starts toward me, each step slow and deliberate. I hold my breath. My body trembles with a year’s supply of adrenaline, which would be useful if I had somewhere to run.

  Which I don’t.

  “It was a mistake, Ben,” I rush out as I grip the edge of the sink harder. My gaze flicks around me, and I may or may not think of ways I can use an industrial-sized box of Kleenex as a weapon.

  “It was,” he says.

  My gaze slides to his hands. They’re hanging loosely at his side, not closed. That’s a good sign. Or at least I think it is.

  He stops at my front, not touching, but close enough to feel the tension radiating off him. Close enough for my body to react to his. Close enough to feel the invisible strings of his intention pulling me in. My neck cranes back to meet his gaze as my body hums in anticipation of what’s going to happen.

  Probably best if I don’t stick around to find out.

  “As much as I love standing in a bathroom with you, we should really get back…” I take a step forward.

  Sucking in a sharp breath when his hand spans across my stomach, stopping me. My wide eyes automatically drop to see his rough hand against my soft peach sweater.

  My gaze jumps back to his. I feel my cheeks flush. “Umm…”

  “You touch me.” His fingers trail lower, causing my stomach to flutter and my breath to catch. “I touch you.” His words are spoken on a gruff whisper that tingles across my skin.

  My eyes widen. “But I said I was sorry.”

  He steps closer. His hand snakes to my side, and he pulls me toward him. “Too late.”

  I place my hands on his waist. I arch farther back to hold his captive gaze. I can’t look away. I’ve tried.

  “Ben.” I don’t know why I whisper his name. Maybe to remind me who he is. Maybe to remind him who I am.

  His eyes search mine. “You kiss me.” His other hand cups the side of my neck, his callused thumb dragging along the curve of my throat. His voice drops an octave. “I kiss you.”

  Do. Not. Kiss. Him. Back. Emelia.

  Don’t even fucking breathe!

  I take in a sharp breath as his soft lips press against mine in a tender kiss, like we have eternity to discover each other. The gentle and erotic way his lips brush mine in a series of featherlight kisses sends a spike of lust to my core. Each kiss lingering longer. Each kiss a bit harder than the last. Building the tension. Sending my pulse soaring.

  I grip his shirt to keep from kissing him back.

  If I kiss him back: game over.

  Puffs of hot breath caress my lips as he continues his tender assault. Every single cell of my body tunes into him. Like two entangled atoms spinning across the universe.

  His strong fingers flex into my hip. “Open for me,” he says, before he nudges my nose with his. Then his sweet tongue runs across the crease of my lips.

  Fuck it.

  My lips part.

  And I fall.

  His demanding tongue sweeps into my mouth with such a fervent passion, I’m consumed by it. His beard adds a sensation that I never knew I needed. The deep moan that sounds from his throat pulls one from mine.

  I take what he gives, burning brighter and falling faster than I ever thought possible. Our heavy breaths battle for space. His tongue moves against mine in a deep, erotic rhythm that sends a flash flood of need through me. My arms circle his neck, and I strain on my tiptoes to deepen the kiss, needing to give him more of myself, take more of him.

  He lifts me. My legs circle his hips. His hands grip my ass.

  Hard.

  My back hits the wall, and his body presses flush with mine. The feel of raw power vibrating his heavy muscles sends a sharp craving through me. I crave Ben. His body. His breath. His lips. Everything that’s him, I want.

  His lips are on my neck, tongue, teeth, sending shivers of pleasure through me.

  “Ben,” I whimper his name on a shaky breath.

  He shifts, so he’s lined up with my most sensitive part. I gasp at the feel of his hard length pressed against me. I hold him tighter, urging him closer with my legs to where I need him most.

  “Fuck.” His guttural curse cuts through the air around us.

  He rocks into me as he takes my mouth in a scorching kiss, a deep groan vibrating his throat and chest.

  There’s an unmistakable urgency to the way we’re moving our tongues, grinding our bodies against each other. It’s a carnal rhythm that’s taken on a life of its own. I grip his hair, pulling him closer. My thighs tighten around him, increasing the friction.

  His tongue goes deeper. His hips press harder.

  He suddenly breaks the kiss. His head swings to the door. Mine follows on instinct. The door jostles. Followed by a soft knock.

  Reality pulls me up through the water’s surface, where my senses start to clear.

  The sound of our labored breaths. Paula Abdul’s “Forever Your Girl” playing in the background. Pine-scent mixed with Ben. Ben’s hard body pressed against mine in a perfect fit.

  Our gazes slide from the door back to each other, his still bright with desire, his cheeks flushed, his lips wet.

  I’m sure I look the same.

  After a moment, he clears his throat and loosens his grip, and I slide down his body.

  My feet touch ground, and even though my legs feel like jello, I somehow stay standing.

  I exhale a shaky breath, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear, and turn my burning gaze from the door to our feet, not sure what to do next. I think about curling up in a ball, going full Defcon 4, but I don’t have my laptop, or any black licorice, so…

  “I’m fucked.” I think I hear him curse under his breath before he grips my chin, tilts it up, and gives me a quick angry kiss, then grabs my hand and leads me out of my tiny home.

  17

  Back on the Saddle

  It turns out the Bathroom of Doom is like Flatliners: once you cross over the threshold, you bring pieces of the other side back with you, and no matter how hard you try to rid yourself of these uninvited remnants, they cling to you and before you know it they’ve burrowed into your soul.

  For two days, I’ve carried around these pieces. Pieces I don’t want. Pieces that haunt me. Pieces that make me flush. Pieces that keep me up at night. Pieces that piss me the hell off.

  Though, apparently, I’m not the only one who’s pissed.

  I’ve spent the last two agonizing days watching Ben stomp around the house while wearing a perm-a-scowl surrounded by an exosphere of irritation that screams, Back the fuck off! As if I wanted to be anywhere near him. Puh-lease. I could be sipping whale soup in a remote Alaskan village, and I’d still be too close.

  It sure doesn’t help matters that Nick’s new thing is to refer to Ben as Emmy’s old man or Mr. Fiancé. Turns out, Ben doesn’t like being referred to as my old man. At all.

  “Hey, Mr. Fiancé—”

  “Fuck off.”

  “What are you so pissed about? If I were Emmy’s old man—”

  “That’s it. Get the fuck out.”

  That earned Ben a side-cracking laugh from Nick who seemed to be having the time of his life. Even Jesse gave a small laugh-grunt.

  Me, I just kept my head down emptying out the fridge, trying not to smile.

  When Ben stormed off to the
garage, to find a dolly so he could “move shit himself” (by shit, he meant the new stainless appliances), Nick’s demeanor lost a bit of its teasing edge.

  He and Jesse wasted no time grilling me about Ben’s attitude. Well, Nick grilled me. Jesse just grunted. It would seem that Jesse can only form words and smile when he’s drunk. I really like drunk Jesse. Sober Jesse freaks me out.

  I shrugged at their questions. Because what could I say? We kissed and what they’re witnessing is the aftermath of his regret?

  Newsflash: I’ve got a shitload of regret too, but do you see me throwing a tantrum and stomping around the house like a freaking man-child? No. Why? Because I’m a grown-ass woman, which means I silently drown my regret in chili cheese nachos and cookie dough ice cream like every other freaking adult.

  I turn my gaze from the small rippling creek running along the riding trail, feeling some of the tension in my body get carried away with the current. Did I feel like going riding with Mara today instead of binge-watching episodes of Botched? No, I did not.

  But now I’m glad she wouldn’t take no for an answer, because for the first time in days it feels like the murky Ben Bubble around me has popped and I can see clearly and breathe fresh air again.

  Kingston, my mount for the ride, knickers, his muscles twitching against my thighs as he jostles me a bit in my saddle.

  I’m in no way a horse whisperer, but I bend forward and run my hand down his coarse black mane to his neck in soothing strokes, giving him cooing shushes. Do I think of Ben’s soft hair beneath my fingers? Yep. Because I’m cursed like that.

  “Nothing since?” Mara calls from behind, picking up where our conversation left off, now that Brenna and Brian—freaking nose-bump, kissing honeymooners with perfect matching names—have disappeared down a different trail.

  “Nope.”

  “What a dick,” she says riding Coco up beside me, looking like Equestrian Barbie in her professional riding gear.

  I’m sporting more of a Goodwill Barbie vibe, wearing loaner shit from the lost and found. Derek would’ve hooked me up with the good stuff, but he’s been giving me the cold shoulder since I refused his multiple offers to tell Betsy that the wedding was off, so I didn’t ask.

  “Well, it’s not like I’m dying to talk to him about it,” I say, meaning every word. Even just the thought of having that conversation makes me cringe.

  I mentally roll it in a rug, duct tape it closed, and bury it alongside all the other conversations I refuse to have.

  “He still should at least say something,” she huffs, seeming angry on my behalf, which makes me feel a little fuzzy inside.

  “He’s too busy grunting like a caveman and throwing man-tantrums to talk,” I finish with an exasperated shake of the head.

  This is partly true. He hasn’t stopped working since Redi-Wheels’ Sam dropped us off. He grunts when he works. He painted the kitchen, the den, redid my perfect paint job in the hallway, and replaced the baseboards. All with a scowl. All with jerky angry man-tantrum movements. All while icing me out.

  Mr. Wellington gave us a gold star for the work we finished.

  I mean, he literally put a gold star by the completed items on our list of things we needed to get done, which made me smile.

  He also said we’re way ahead of schedule, which is a first for me, and told us to take it easy. He said that looking at Ben. He also filled us in on the importance of a good prenuptial agreement. He said that looking at me. I almost told him about our fake-wedding sham but chickened out.

  “Maybe you only think he’s a good kisser because you haven’t been kissed in a while.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug, having already tried, and failed, to convince myself of that very thing.

  She gives me a sneaky smile. “There’s only one way to find out. We’re going out Saturday night, and you’re gonna get some.” She wiggles her brows.

  I shake my head with a small chuckle. “I’m too tired to get some. I’m too tired to even think about getting some.”

  It’s partially true. I have this strange mix of exhaustion and nervous energy thing going on, which I’m sure won’t be any better in two days.

  “Get some sleep, because you’re gonna get it on with someone who’ll make you forget all about what’s-his-face.”

  At least Ben’s lips won’t be the last lips to touch mine. So, that’s something. I tighten my grip on the reins, feeling a bubble of excitement at the prospect of having him wiped from my memory. A certain Uber driver with a crooked smile flashes in my mind.

  “I met a guy the other night whose band plays at a bar we can check out if you want.”

  She gives me a sly smile. “A musician, huh?”

  “He’s also the Uber driver that drove me home from your house the other night.”

  “A musician with a car, even better. Was he cute?”

  I nod. “Funny and sweet, too. Even waited for me to go inside before he left.”

  I take a jackhammer to the images of Ben and Massage Parlor Barbie, but not before the hot flash of jealousy that hits my stomach.

  “You’re gonna get yourself some dirty musician love, girl,” she exclaims, not even trying to hide the enthusiasm in her voice.

  I know then, whether or not I want to, we’re going dancing and I’m gonna get my dirty love on.

  “He might not even remember me,” I say on a resigned sigh.

  “He’ll remember you,” she states like it’s a fact, before turning her bright eyes back to the trail. “What kind of bar is it?

  “The dive-bar kind, I think… I have the name in my purse.” Which I don’t have with me. “He said it was a good crowd, though,” I add, injecting a little levity in my voice that I’m actually starting to feel.

  Maybe going dancing with a friend is actually what I need right now.

  “Dive bars are sexy,” she replies. “What does he play?” she asks, then sighs. “I had a drummer once.” She gives me a half smile. “I highly recommend a drummer for your dirty love.”

  I feel like an idiot for not asking him what he plays. Who learns someone’s in a band and doesn’t ask what instrument they play? This girl. That’s who.

  She pulls her phone from her leather fanny pack, which on anyone else would look nerdy, but on Mara looks stylish and cool. We could probably switch riding gear, and she’d still look like Equestrian Barbie. Some people just have it. Some days I feel like I have it too. Just not today. Or last week. Or last month… A few days last year, or maybe the year before that, I definitely had it. Definitely.

  “What’s his name, I’ll look him up,” she says, her eyes on the screen. “I can find anyone.”

  My gaze lands on the gnarled branches of an old oak tree as I try to remember Chuck’s real name. Coming up with nothing, I confess, “I don’t know his real name.”

  “His real name?”

  I shrug. “I just call him Chuck.”

  Her brows raise, and she deadpans, “You call him Chuck. But that’s not his name.”

  “It’s a nickname.” I can’t help but smile at the face she’s giving me.

  “Chuck isn’t a nickname.”

  “He likes it.”

  She gives a snort-laugh. “You’re such a dork.”

  Coco snorts and bobs his head in agreement, which makes her laugh harder.

  My smile is so wide it hurts. “Says the girl wearing a fanny pack.” I tilt my head and raise my brows.” A. Fanny. Pack. Mara.”

  “It’s vintage Gucci,” she counters, her smile matching my own.

  “Still a fanny pack.”

  “You’re just jealous that I can do this.” She slips her phone back into her fanny pack and zips it up with flare.

  “You caught me,” I confess with a sneaky smile, making a show of pulling my phone from my bra. Even though it’s turned off, I still make a point of looking at the screen.

  That makes her chuckle.

  Which makes her horse snort.

  Which makes me laugh.
r />   There’s no way anyone can ever replace Rose, but I’d be lying if I said having Mara in my life doesn’t help ease the pain of losing her. She’s giving me a needed distraction from decisions I know I’m going to have to make soon.

  Decisions I’ve decided to think about on Tuesday.

  Tuesdays have the best surgery-survival rates, so there’s that.

  * * *

  I turn the corner from the restroom, which was surprisingly clean for a ranch, on my way back to Mara who’s brushing down the horses. I stretch my stiff shoulders and neck as I go, paying the price for trying to have decent posture while riding.

  My mom had great posture, shoulders back, spine straight, and gait elegant—even in her overalls, she looked graceful. Even though I’m built like my mom, I take after my dad—more of a lumbering-type than a glider.

  My feet slow to a stop.

  I’ve seen Derek with plenty of girls in my life, but the sight of him kissing this pixie blonde goodbye throws me off balance.

  I try to name the emotions that fly at me? Jealousy? Surprise? Hurt that he might be dating someone and didn’t tell me? Envy that he has someone and I don’t?

  I think I’m hurt, but honestly, I don’t know.

  He murmurs something to her with a smile, and she walks off with pixie dust floating in the air around her.

  Then Derek’s eyes slam into mine. And his smile dies. We stay like that for a few breaths, just staring at each other. Something sparks in the distance between us.

  I try to read his face, his eyes, and for the first time those things that are usually so familiar to me, aren’t.

  He exhales, his cheeks flushing a bit as he walks up to me.

  My pulse jumps in my throat. Something heavy presses down on my skin, but I don’t know what it is. Or why it’s there. I shift my feet under its weight.

  “Hey,” I say, for the first time feeling uneasy around Derek.