They head for the back door and slip out, offering waves before disappearing at the end of the block. If the paper was down off my windows and front door, I’d be able to watch them return to their business, not that I need to see them go. It’s just nice to know I have allies in the area.
“You ready to set up shop?” I ask Dustin, a new wave of energy encompassing me, as I take in the counter and display. I’m ready to fill them, to see customers lined up in front of them and seated around the room.
I’m ready to open Sugar Rush.
Chapter Five
Jasper
I’m irritated as fuck and can’t stop pacing the kitchen. Even whipping up some of my favorite dishes is no match to settle the uneasiness I feel in my entire body. Tension. Like I touched a fork to an electrical socket. I did that once when I was a kid, just to see what would happen. It was only the briefest touch, but it was enough to brand the shock and pain into my thick skull for life.
That’s how it feels being near Lyndee. There’s a hum, an electricity I can’t seem to get past, and if I’m being honest with myself, that’s why I’m so pissed. No one has ever affected me the way she does. She’s under my skin, and I can’t shake her.
I’ve had girlfriends in the past, yet when our relationships ran its course, I had no problem walking away. When it was done, it was done. Period. I never got worked up, never drowned my sorrows in liquor. But with Lyndee, I’m tempted to head to the bar and down shot after shot of something hard and smooth, something that’ll ensure I wake later with a killer headache and a bad attitude.
Why her?
Why does she affect me the way she does?
I guess if I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be wearing the tile down in my kitchen.
Needing a little space, I head to my office and shut the door. Petra is here, preparing for lunch, and humming a happy little tune. I just need quiet. Peace. Solitude. For five fucking minutes. White walls that don’t scream bright and chipper, all sunshine and happiness.
I shiver at the thought. I don’t mind color, and don’t deny her walls were cheerful and welcoming, but there’s something about bold and dark that screams professional. I guess that’s the difference between her business and my own. The yellow and purple was fitting in her bakery, while the dark woods and deep blue hues are perfect for us. Of course, that’s in the main restaurant. In my domain, it’s white. Crisp, clean white and industrial steel. I can see every splatter, every imperfection in my kitchen and on the plate. I have no room for messes back here.
I think back to Lyndee’s kitchen. It actually does somewhat resemble my own. White, clean, and shiny. It’s all new and ready to be used. A memory flashes through my mind, one of a certain brunette covered in flour and kneading dough. She used to love getting dirty, of getting right in the thick of whatever she was making, not even caring she was getting just as many ingredients on herself as she was her cooking surface.
That night I almost kissed her, she had flour in her hair and granules of sugar on her cheek.
I push the recollection from my mind and adjust my pants. Yes, I’m hard. So fucking hard it hurts. Just seeing her, thinking about that night does it to me every time, and now I’m just pissed. Pissed she still has this effect on my body. Pissed I still let her get under my skin. And even more pissed I stormed out of there in front of my friends. No way are they going to let it slide just how much she gets to me.
Fucking hell.
I wipe my hands over my face and drop into my desk chair. I quickly boot up my laptop, prepared to start a new vendor order, when a single click brings up the internet. From there, I type her name into the search engine.
What am I doing?
I ignore the inner voice in my head telling me to knock it off and get to work, but when the search results start popping up, I find myself falling down the rabbit hole of online information on one Lyndee Gibson.
First up is her social media pages. There are a few posts, a handful of pictures, but nothing too recent. The last photo shared was one of her and her brother at a Reds game. Dustin looks ecstatic, all decked out in his crimson shirt and ball cap, while Lyndee is wearing the appropriate shirt and smile, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. It’s in her eyes. She’s bored out of her mind but is putting on a good game face for her brother.
There’s another one of them together, standing on a beach with an older woman. Their mom. Sure, I quickly scan her bikini-clad body from head to toe, but that’s not what catches my eye. It’s the light in her eyes. The happiness pouring from the photo from all three, as if no one has a care in the world and they’re just excited to be together. The caption reads, St. Pete Beach, first time visiting the ocean. It was posted over five years ago, and even though she’s aged a bit since it was taken, she still has the same youthful and innocent gleam in her brown eyes.
Closing out of her social media, I click the next link. This one takes me to an obituary dated four years ago. Her name jumps out at me like a neon sign, listed with Dustin’s as some of the only survivors. There’s an aunt and uncle listed too, but that’s it. Jesus. She doesn’t have any family nearby. The ones included in the obituary live in Kansas.
My mind races to my own family. Mom and Dad happily married and two younger sisters, one married and the other engaged. They all live in Westville, Ohio, which is a short one-hour drive from here. Close enough to jump in my car and go for a visit or meet halfway and have dinner somewhere. We’re not exactly right down the road, but close enough. I know they’d be here in a heartbeat if I needed them. In fact, my parents make a trip here monthly to have dinner and catch up, sometimes bringing my sisters and their significant others.
I also have the guys. We became tight in college, but even closer while pouring everything we had into this place. Sure, we’ve butted heads on several occasions, but there’s no one else I’d trust more than them to embark on this journey with.
Lyndee has no one.
No one but Dustin.
Well, I can’t say that. She might have friends or even a…boyfriend. That thought sends my heart straight down to my Italian loafers. I’m not sure why the prospect would bother me so much, but it does. She’s gorgeous, with the most alluring brown eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s funny, sassy, and compassionate. That fact shows with every interaction with Dustin I witness. Anyone would be lucky to go home at night to someone like Lyndee. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing.
Which I’m not.
But if she has a boyfriend, why didn’t he help her move that case and counter?
I ponder that question as I click on another link featuring her name. This one from our own local newspaper and dated for today. It’s an article regarding the bakery and its upcoming opening. As I scan the editorial, I realize the author wrote a fluff piece full of warm and fuzzy feels meant to make you want to become a patron of Sugar Rush the moment it opens. She talks about Lyndee’s education and experience, as well as her vision for the newest business in Stewart Grove. The writer even got to sample a few pastries that’ll be on the menu when it opens next Monday and gave them rave reviews.
Oh what does he know about cream fillings?
I bet his only reference is the Bavarian cream donuts sold at the gas station on the edge of town. He clearly has no clue how to tell if there’s the perfect mixture of sweet and tart.