Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 135(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
I drag my gaze back to her mouth, and my cock throbs so hard I see fucking stars. I want to bury my face between her thighs and make her say my name until her voice is gone. Instead, I wrap my hand around the coffee cup and try not to crush it to dust.
“Careful, Cydney,” I murmur, my tone so low it’s basically a threat. “That’s a dangerous offer to make.”
She laughs, and I swear it vibrates right through my chest. “I like danger,” she fires back, her tongue darting out to swipe a sprinkle off her thumb as she closes the pastry box. “It keeps the day interesting.”
I can’t stop staring at her mouth. I want to taste every inch of her. I’d trade every conference call this week for just five minutes alone with her in my penthouse. Hell, maybe I want more than five minutes. I want her in my bed, her hair wild, her cheeks flushed… and my cum dripping down her thighs. Jesus. I need to get the fuck out of here before I do something insane like ask for her phone number in front of half the building.
I grab my coffee and the pastry box. Our fingers brush again, and that jolt nearly buckles my knees. “I’ll try not to get arrested for indecent cinnamon roll consumption in the lobby,” I mutter, my voice so low and rough I barely recognize it.
Cydney laughs, and it’s the best fucking sound I’ve ever heard. “No promises, Oliver. We get a lot of inappropriate baked good behavior around here.” She flashes me a wink I feel straight in my cock. Damn near makes me want to strip off my jacket, throw her over my shoulder, and drag her up to my penthouse like a caveman.
Instead, I force my feet to move. I’m still staring at her when I back out the door, brain completely short-circuited.
2
cydney
Well, isn’t this just delightful. My alarm starts shrieking at 4:08 a.m., and honestly, that should be illegal. But here I am anyway, dragging myself out of bed like a sack of rocks, determined to hit every obstacle on the way down. Whose brilliant idea was it to set it this early? Oh, right. Mine. I manage to shuffle across the room, blinking at the blackness pressing against my apartment windows.
Don’t get me wrong—I love my job. Being the queen bee of Gobble Me Up is basically living my own Food Network fantasy, minus the TV makeup and with about eight billion percent more back pain. But this morning, it’s not just the usual pre-dawn panic that drags me out from under my warm, cookie-patterned comforter. It’s the possibility—no, the desperate hope—that Oliver, aka Mr. Tall, Dark, and Panty-Melting, will come back today.
I do the world’s fastest teeth-brushing, wrangle my hair into a lumpy bun, and shimmy into my best muffin leggings and a pumpkin-orange tee with little muffins printed on the sleeves. I consider putting on makeup, then decide I’m not going to change just to impress a man.
I ride the elevator down to the deserted lobby, already planning the busy day ahead. I unlock the door, and it’s barely 4:40 am. Insanity. Some people start their day with yoga. I start mine with forty-pound bags of flour and the lingering memory of a man who looked at me like I was the only dessert in the case.
Any anxiety I have, I decide to funnel straight into Pumpkin Spice Madness, no apologies. November’s here. If there’s ever a time to go full pumpkin, this is it.
I start with my signature pumpkin spice muffin recipe. I’ve baked these so often I could do it blindfolded, but today? I up the ante. Double cinnamon, a little extra brown sugar. Maybe I’m being reckless, but sometimes you have to live on the edge—a little wild, like a boardroom boss with nothing to lose.
Once the muffins are in the oven, I move on to pumpkin spice latte syrup. This is brand new territory, and I mess with the ratios until I get it just right. My kitchen is total chaos: measuring spoons scattered, sticky fingerprints on every surface, a dust storm of nutmeg that would take down a pilgrim. I keep tasting and adjusting, chasing autumn-in-a-cup, until finally, I nail it. Bold, creamy, decadent. When I hit the perfect blend, I actually fist-pump. Yes. Total victory.
While the muffins are in the oven, I get to work on the display case. I scrub at the glass until it gleams, all mirror–bright, then fuss over the pastries like they’re a batch of beauty queens heading for judgment. No crumb gets to escape my attention. The scent of baking muffins creeps up on me, thick and sweet, and damn near knocks me sideways. If anyone ever tries to tell me what heaven is, I’ll bet everything it smells exactly like this. I grab the pumpkin muffins straight off the tray, still warm, arrange them just so, and set out a line of cinnamon rolls like they’re soldiers in formation. My hands are busy, but my brain is already bracing for Flirt Fest 2.0.