“Was he?” I ask casually, though I feel anything but off-the-cuff.
“Oh, yeah. He was talking about maybe heading over after work today and seeing how the setup was coming along. You know, see if she needed any more muscle over there.”
I see red. “The fuck he is!” I bellow, just as the man himself walks into my kitchen.
“What’s going on in here?” Jameson asks, walking over to make himself a burger.
“You are not dating Lyndee,” I demand, unable to contain the wrath threatening to explode from my chest.
He arches a single eyebrow upward. “What?”
Just as I go to open my mouth, Isaac bursts into another fit of laughter. “You should have seen how pissed you got,” he laughs, slapping me on the back. Turning to Jameson, he adds, “I told our man Jasp you were heading across the street to woo our new neighbor. He was just voicing his displeasure.”
“That’s not what I was doing,” I argue, but it falls on deaf ears.
“You don’t think she’d say yes if I asked her out?” Jameson asks, clearly very amused by the conversation.
“Whatever. I’m just saying you’re both very different,” I backpedal.
“And she’d be more suited with someone else. Someone like you, right?” Isaac asks, smiling so wide I can see his molars.
“Shut up. Get the hell out of my kitchen,” I maintain, reaching for the spatula in Jameson’s hand.
Both of my friends laugh so hard they can barely breathe. “Call me when my burger’s done,” Jameson adds humorously, heading for the swinging door.
“Make me one too?” Isaac asks, hot on Jameson’s heels.
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, throwing two more patties on the grill. If I’m making burgers for those two knuckleheads, I might as well prepare one for Walker too. “Assholes.”
They are, assholes that is.
But they’re my assholes. My best friends. And even though I played right into their hands a few minutes ago, I know their teasing was in good fun.
It also made me realize something.
If I’m going to get her out of my head, I’m going to have to kick my plan into gear quickly. I need to pitch my idea to her and hope for the best. The sooner I sleep with her, the faster I’ll be able to stop thinking about all the things I want to do to her. For her. With her.
The list is long and itemized.
But after one or two times, three times tops, I’ll stop thinking about that list and how she plays into it. No more late nights. No more shower fantasies. No more waking up hard, wishing she was crouched between my legs and taking my length down her throat.
I’ll be cured of the curse that is Lyndee Gibson.
Easy peasy.
Chapter Six
Lyndee
Friday night.
Just another day of the week to me.
When I was in school, I wasn’t a partier. I was too focused on getting through school and helping my mom where I could. That often meant working extra shifts as a waitress at a barbecue joint not far from campus. Friday and Saturday nights meant late ones, but for a whole different reason than other college students.
After I graduated, I went home and worked in a bakery. For nine years, I devoted myself to the business. I watched as employees came and went, most using it as a stepping-stone until something bigger and better came along. What could possibly be greater than the scent of baking breads and scrumptious sugar desserts?
Nothing.
I loved my job. The owner, Mrs. Edwards, was a widow who had been so supportive during the loss of my mother. She gave me the time I needed off and allowed me to grieve at my own pace. She stepped into the role my mother had been in my whole life, giving me a shoulder to cry on and accolades when I deserved them. She was even amazing with Dustin, not saying a word when he would come to the bakery and just hang out for hours on end.
Until one day, a year ago, she blindsided me with the news she was selling. Her niece was purchasing the business but didn’t have the same vision Mrs. Edwards had. Within a month, the bakery became a sandwich shop, serving deli fresh meats and cheeses and fresh bread using Mrs. Edwards’ recipes.
I tried to stick it out. I really did, but it just wasn’t in my blood. Sure, I helped baking bread every day, but it wasn’t the same. In fact, I hated it. I wanted to make sweet jams and the creamy frostings. I wanted what was in my heart and soul.
Dustin was the first one to suggest we move. At first, I brushed off his comments, scared to step out of the comfort zone of home. Yet, on a Friday night, one not too dissimilar from this one, he came to me and said he needed a change. He was sad living in the house without Mom. He wanted a fresh start, something we could build on together.
That was when I realized he was right. I wasn’t happy at the sandwich shop and the house just didn’t feel the same. It was empty, and even though we had thousands of memories keeping us comfortable within those walls, it didn’t feel like it was ours anymore.
It took us a week to settle on our new location. Dustin stumbled upon a book about Stewart Grove at the library. This town was built on a feud between two men, both claiming they were the founding settler of the land. Dustin absorbed every word written in that book, often reading sections of it aloud to me at night. I don’t know what it was about it, but I was intrigued and excited to know more. We started looking at rental options on the internet, pleased to find the one we’re in now at a price we could afford.
The day we settled on Stewart Grove is the day Dustin found the building for my bakery. It wasn’t in the plan to start my own business. After searching help wanted ads and not really finding anything in my preferred field, I was preparing to settle for a job at the local furniture store, just to ensure we’d have enough income to pay the bills.
But Dustin wouldn’t hear of it.
He made a presentation. One night after work, I came home to find his laptop open and the listing for the small available storefront building front and center. He had researched leasing and buying options, equipment purchases, insurance rates, and even demographics for the town we were getting ready to move to. Using the money we’d make from selling the house, we had more than enough for the down payment, as well as what we needed for collateral. We also had a little money left in my savings account from Mom’s life insurance, which, coupled with Dustin’s state money for his disability, would be plenty to cover moving and living expenses until we got the bakery operational and profitable.
It wasn’t an easy sell.
No way did I want to risk all of our savings for something that may not be successful. What if it failed to take off? What if there was a reason for no other bakery in Stewart Grove? I’d invest all of our savings, time, and energy for what? To still have to find a job flipping burgers at a fast food restaurant or selling couches and dining room sets at the furniture store?
I was terrified.
But Dustin wouldn’t let me say no. He wouldn’t let me fail, even though the risk was high. He was just as invested in this project as I was, and it wasn’t even his dream. He had my back one hundred percent, just like I have his. He’s my brother. The same blood runs through our veins. He was one of the only living relatives I had, and I’ve never been closer to anyone else. Not even my girlfriends back in high school. They never understood why I’d rather sit at home on a Friday night, watching television with Dustin, than out sitting in the bleachers at a football game. Because ever since Dustin was born and we discovered he had a disability, I felt some sort of responsibility for him. He was my flesh and blood, the one who relied on Mom and me to help take care of him. He has the biggest heart of anyone I know, and I’d rather spend time with him, soaking up his goodness and his generosity, than doing anything else in this world.