As she bids a customer goodbye, I pull her into the back room. “I’m sorry they didn’t come,” I say, wrapping her in my arms.
She pulls back a little to look up at me. “How did you know?”
“Because you’re like an open book, sweetheart. You wear your emotions on your face.” I lean in, kissing her softly. “You taste like cinnamon and brown sugar. Have you been stealing the customers’ cakes?” I ask, lightening the mood.
She smiles against my mouth. “It was an emergency. My sugar levels were dipping, and I felt faint. I need my energy to keep up with my insatiable boyfriend—” She grinds to an abrupt halt. “Uh, I mean … that is … if you want to be my boyfriend.”
I shake my head. “No, Gem, I don’t.”
Her face drops. “I … You don’t?”
I pull her against me, winding my hands into her hair and tugging her head back. “No. I want to be your husband.”
Her eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Myhusband?”
“Yeah, you know. The one who rubs your feet and gives you mind-blowing orgasms.”
“Is that all husbands do?” she asks breathlessly. “Sounds pretty mediocre to me.”
“Not what you said last night when you were shouting my name while I ate your sweet cu—”
“Bentley Cormack.”
We both turn at the female voice, so wrapped up in each other that we hadn’t noticed her enter the room.
Gemma jumps away from me as if I’m a two-day-old dog turd and squeaks, “Mother!”
Chapter 11
Gemma
Megan Stone standsin the doorway, her blonde hair swept into some elegant updo, her designer clothes perfectly tailored to her slim form.
My father appears behind her, wearing an expensive suit and Italian leather shoes. His gray-streaked hair is neatly combed away from his tanned face, courtesy of their most recent tropical vacation. They both look like they’ve come from a cover shoot for a high-profile magazine.
Nothing like stealing the limelight from your daughter or keeping her waiting on her special day,I think bitterly.
I’m not sure what’s worse—having absent parents who didn’t give a shit like Bentley’s or parents who try to control every tiny aspect of your life like mine.
My mother steps forward. “What’s going on here?”
Her voice is heavy with accusation. It’s a tone I know well, one she uses when something doesn’t meet her approval.
In this case, that something is Bentley.
“Hello, Mrs. Stone. Mr. Stone,” he says politely, nodding to them in turn.
Mother tilts her head, her eyes cold as she appraises him. “I’d heard you were back.” Her tone is so icy, it’s a wonder the water molecules in the air haven’t crystallized.
“Funny story,” I say with forced brightness. “Bentley and I bumped into each other at the Winter Art Festival a few weeks ago.”
Not strictly true, but I can’t tell them about the whole naked drawing thing—which led to other highly pleasurable naked activities.
My mother’s icy gaze moves to me. “It looks like you did more than ‘bump’ into each other.”
My cheeks heat. “That’s true. Bentley has also been helping me get this place ready for today’s grand opening, along with Callum.”
“I see.” Her mouth tightens. “I’m disappointed you haven’t made time to see your father and me in the last week, Gemma.”