“Fuck that. Why do you even have a rosemary lavender cake on the menu?”
“I don’t. It was a special request.”
“You should have told her no.”
Nora gasps. “Tell Palmer Chance no? I would never.”
“You did this on purpose.” My eyes narrow on her.
“Did what?” she chuckles.
“You enjoy this, don’t you? Seeing my life in disarray and taking advantage of it?”
“I hardly see how a cake order could put your life in disarray.”
“You clearly don’t know my family well enough.”
“You fail to realize just how well I do know your family, which is why I’m getting so much joy out of these cake orders.” The knowing smirk not only irritates me, but it also makes me want to lunge across the counter and wipe it off with my own mouth.
Hell, I can still remember just how soft her lips are. I can feel them imprinted on the side of my neck, on my collarbone, and the way they traveled down my stomach.
Clearing my throat—and the thoughts out of my head—I say, “I’m the cake orderer—”
“Is that an official title? Does the cake orderer get to wear a crown of any sort . . . ?”
“Remember what happened the last time you were a smart-ass to me?” I ask, snapping and addressing the elephant in the room.
She doesn’t even blink. “Yes, you gave me a spanking.”
Jesus.
“Is that what’s going to happen here?” she continues. “If so, I do need to point out there’s a row of windows behind you for possible voyeurs, and the kind of spanking you enjoy does go against health-code regulations.”
“I didn’t spank you,” I say, my face heating up.
“Oh, you did. I felt it. I heard the snap.”
I might have spanked her.
“We’re getting off topic.”
“You were the one who brought it up. I was fine not talking about the fact that we’ve seen each other naked, touched each other’s private parts, and then you ignored me for over a year until you needed a cake for your parents’ anniversary party.”
Why are all the women I know mouthy?
Do I give off some kind of vibe that begs snarky females to bring me to my knees?
Because . . . fuck.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Nora asks, laughter in her voice.
“Is it that obvious?” I drag my hand down my face.
“Only a little, but I’m having fun.”
“Glad someone is,” I mutter and then take a deep breath. “Listen, no lavender rosemary cake. That shit sounds gross. Stick with the butterscotch—I know my parents will like it.”
“Hmm, funny, Palmer said the same exact thing, but about her cake.”
“Palmer thinks she knows everything about food, but she doesn’t. Trust me, the butterscotch is what they’ll like. And if she tries to switch it, let me know immediately.”
“Okay, and how would I need to inform you? Should I send out a smoke signal? A bird with a note? A barbershop quartet to your office?”
“Text me,” I deadpan.
“Oh, so you do have a phone.” She taps her chin. “See, I thought since I never heard from you—”
“You’re such a fucking smart-ass.”
Smiling, she leans on the counter, and for a brief second, because I’m a man, my eyes float down to her cleavage and then back up. Her eyes fire up, and hell, the air grows thick as we both stare each other down. I’ve done some pretty idiotic things in my lifetime, but not calling Nora after the night we spent together, that’s at the top of the list. Which only means one thing—I should ask her out. Make up for past mistakes. I take a deep breath, gathering my courage . . .
The door opens behind me, breaking the palpable attraction between us. Slowly, I tear my eyes off Nora and glance over my shoulder toward the new customer. My spine goes rigid.
“Dealia,” I say breathlessly while putting some distance between Nora and me. “What, uh . . . what are you doing here?”
My equally confused ex-wife takes in the scene and nervously grips her take-out bag. “I thought I would bring my best friend lunch.” Her bewildered eyes scan me up and down. “What are you doing here, Cooper?”
Ah hell.
Not calling Nora back was a huge mistake, but even bigger than that? Sleeping with my ex-wife’s best friend.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FORD
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I ignore the beating my door is taking as I try to differentiate between two fonts. One has a thicker W, the other is more streamlined, modern, devoid of any sort of whimsical feeling. Why the hell is this so hard? Fonts shouldn’t take up this much headspace, and yet here I am, spending an hour agonizing between the two.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
And that incessant racket isn’t helping.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
“Jesus,” I mutter before getting up from the two-person table in my room and heading over to the door, where the relentless pounding continues.
Muscles tense, irritation at an all-time high, I fling the door open to see my sister on the other side, a crazed look in her eyes and her clothes in disarray. “Palmer, what the hell are you doing?”
She pushes past me and invites herself into the sitting area, invading my space without a single word. She huffs, she paces, she looks around. “Where’s Larkin?”
“Out for a run.” I close the door behind me. “Why?”
“We need to talk.”
“Can this wait? I’m kind of busy.”
She scans the room again. “Busy doing what?” She looks me over, her eyes skimming me from head to toe, taking in what I know is my disheveled hair and rumpled appearance. Her hand clamps over her mouth, some sort of realization taking over the stern look she was wearing when she stormed in here. “Oh my God, did I . . . you know . . . disturb your private time?”
“What? No,” I nearly shout. “No. I’m working.”
“Are you sure?” She glances over at my bed, the disorderly sheets and rumpled floral comforter. “Because I know you, and I know you like your bed made every day. Which leads me to believe . . .”
“Jesus, Palmer, no. I was not doing . . . that. I didn’t have time this morning to make my bed. I barely got any sleep last night thanks to you.”
She lightens up. “Aw, were you worried about me, Ford?”
“Yes,” I answer honestly while heading back to the table to take a seat. I’m worried because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Palmer like that. Like . . . something more than just losing her childhood home sent her into a tailspin. “Do you normally drink like that?”
“No. Yesterday was a special occasion. It’s not every day your parents decide to kick you in the crotch with their abhorrent news.”
“Is that why you’re here? To talk about them selling the house?” I ask, trying to read through the tough facade she seems to wear whenever she’s around the family. From the way her eyes don’t connect with mine, I just know there’s something deeper, something she’s not telling me.
She shakes her head. “I’m currently riding the denial train on the whole house thing until it’s absolutely necessary to accept what’s happening. They don’t even have a sign on the front lawn. I’ll believe it once I see it—until then, I’m not going to bother letting it take up space in my mind.”