I read the rest of his piece, boasting about the varieties of breads and coffees to be served, but it’s one specific mention at the bottom of the article that catches my attention.
Award-winning pecan pie.
Oh. Hell. No.
I remember that damn pie. It’s what got her the top grade on our final exam senior year. We were neck and neck until that damn project. How we both ended up baking the same product is beyond me, but all I know is hers came out on top. It was bullshit, of course. No way was her pecan pie better than mine. I’d been perfecting my recipe all year, knowing it was going to crown me champion and top student.
Until those results came in.
She barely squeaked by, earning a half a grade point higher than my own ninety-nine.
I read the rest of the article, about how she put the small bakery she was working for on the map with those fucking pecan pies. She won local contests, as well as a few national ones. She was featured in Foodie News magazine, and even though there have been dozens of offers to purchase her recipe, she refuses to sell.
My blood pressure is high. I can feel it swooshing in my ears like waves on a sandy beach during high tide.
She won awards.
Fucking awards.
They should have been mine.
Before I can even stop myself, I click on the Send a Message to the Editor button at the bottom of the article. I let my anger get the best of me, telling the newspaper how very wrong they were about the bakery and Lyndee. I spew lies about the cleanliness of her bakery, specifically the kitchen, and make up some big story about how she was fired from her previous job for failing to pass basic health department inspections. I even allude to the fact she slept with the inspector to keep it out of the media.
When I’m done composing the email, I let the mouse hover over the send button. After a few long seconds, I finally release the clicker, sit back in my chair, and take a deep breath. I should feel better after trashing the bakery she hasn’t even opened yet and her reputation, but…I don’t.
At all.
I rake my hand over my face and slide my fingers into my hair.
“What the hell am I doing?” I ask myself. No way would I actually send this email. I may not be a fan of my new neighbor across the street, but I’d never stoop this low. If her business is going down, it’s not going to be my fault.
I click on the little X at the top right corner of the email and shut down the browser. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? I can’t believe I even composed that pile of garbage, let alone considered sending it. What kind of asshole am I?
Don’t answer that.
Thank God there’s no one in the room with me to add their two cents. There’s probably a list a mile long of people who’d jump in and share tales of my assholery over the years.
I jump out of my office chair and pace the checkered tile floor, the same way I did in the kitchen earlier. I’m losing my mind. Lyndee is driving me absolutely insane from all the way across the street. I can’t see her, but I know she’s there, smiling and laughing and being all…happy.
And I’m the sad asshole across the street, who what? Is wishing I could see that smile, feel the warmth of her laughter? Wants to watch her come alive in the kitchen, the dough between her fingers and the flour in her hair? The one who grabs her ass when she walks by and kisses her goodnight at the end of a long day?
The startling realization is the resounding yes to all of those questions.
I was wildly attracted to her back in school, and turns out, ten years later, she still checks all the attributes I find appealing. So I can play this two ways. Pretend she doesn’t exist, as I convinced myself I was going to do early this morning. You know, before I saw her again. Seems like the logical thing to do, but after just a short twenty minutes across the street, that’s proving to be damn hard. I can’t stop thinking about her.
Which leaves me one other option.
Fuck her out of my system.
I know that sounds harsh, but you have to admit it has merit. I can’t stop from getting hard whenever she’s near, and if the way her nipples pebble against her top and her breathing hitched both times I brushed past her is any indication, the feeling is mutual.
Maybe we just need to…you know.
A few casual screws and we can both move on without so much as a glance back. Seems perfect, actually.
Of course, now I just need to convince Lyndee to go along with it. She doesn’t seem like the casual relationship kind of girl, but I can show her how rewarding it can truly be. No strings, no expectations. Just sex.
It’s actually brilliant. My dick is already on board with the idea.
Settled with how I’m going to handle the whole Lyndee situation, I just have to figure out how to approach the conversation with her. I need to have my ducks in a row, so to speak, and have solid talking points. Resolute reasons why us having sex is a perfect solution to our pesky attraction problem.
Then we can both move on.
Shouldn’t be too hard, right?
***
It’s midafternoon when Isaac finally makes his appearance in the kitchen. “I have those orders we discussed yesterday for you to review,” he says, taking a bite of something in his hand.
“What are you eating?” I ask, curious because he didn’t come down from his office to order something for lunch.
He smirks, powdered sugar sprinkled on his lips. “Jelly donut. It’s the only treat I could steal away from Jameson. He only let me have it because he doesn’t like jelly. The bastard hid the basket.”
“I could make you lunch, you know. It would be a hell of a lot better than some jelly donut,” I chastise, wiping my hands on the clean towel and reaching for the papers in his hand.
“Better than this?” he asks, shoving the donut in my mouth. For the second time today, I’m taking a bite of one of Lyndee’s treats. “Good, huh? We might be in trouble having her across the street. It’s going to be too tempting to run across the street for something sweet.”
Don’t I know it.
Only I don’t think we’re talking about tasting the same kind of sweets.
“These look fine,” I state, handing the orders back to him.
“Okay, I’ll get them submitted shortly.” Isaac doesn’t move, though. He stands there, finishing off his donut, and watches me.
“What?” I ask, knowing full well he’s got something to say and won’t leave until he says it.
Now, he smiles. “So…Lyndee.”
I roll my eyes. “She was in my classes during culinary school. Pain in the ass, actually. Hardly remember her.”
He laughs. Actually laughs. Like full belly, bent over to catch his breath laugh. “No? She seemed to remember you.”
I shrug. “What can I say? I’m a memorable guy.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. I field half a dozen in-person visits every week from women who are looking to reconnect,” he quips, referring to the handful of women who have stopped by to see me on occasion. It doesn’t happen as often as he’s insinuating, but it has occurred from time to time.
“Whatever. Do you have a point to your jabbering?”
“No, not really. I guess it’s good to know you’re not into her. Especially since Jameson was talking nonstop about her when I went to confiscate the basket.”
That catches my attention.