If he moved in, would it complicate things?
And more importantly, how the hell would I stop having sex with him?
HONEY
So Caleb moved in. Two Prospects brought his things over from the clubhouse, and by Saturday afternoon he was all moved into my spare room.
Despite my reservations about my new roomie, we fell into an easy, domesticated routine. He was an early riser and would have coffee ready for me by the time I got up for breakfast. He would also make me toast, and then we would argue about me eating it when I insisted I wasn’t hungry. Then he would play the “you’re pregnant with my baby” card and I would end up eating the damn toast. Eventually I stopped complaining, knowing I would lose the argument and end up eating whatever he put in front of me anyway.
When it came to housekeeping, he was tidy while I was prone to leaving my things where I dropped them. And when I came home after a day at work, our apartment was always straightened.
He was also a good cook. And sometimes, if his schedule allowed, I would come home to a home-cooked dinner. Spaghetti. Roast chicken. Steak. Mashed potatoes. Which was good because we both knew how much I sucked at cooking.
Other nights, if he was home and not at the clubhouse, we would order in takeout and spend the night on the couch watching movies or we’d take his bike and visit the movie theater over in Humphrey.
And I had to admit, it was nice to come home after a long day at work where I slaved my ass off to make my business a success. I was on my feet all day, baking and making my popular cupcakes, while dealing with unreliable suppliers and sometimes hard-to-please customers—like the one standing in front of me right now, grilling me like a drill sergeant about today’s cupcake special, the Marshmallow Madness Muffin.
Was it gluten-free?
Was the marshmallow sugar-free?
Was it an original recipe?
Why was it so dark in color, did I add preservatives to give it that look of decadency?
Um . . .what?
I smiled pleasantly, patiently, but she had almost exhausted my easy-going nature.
Eyes the color of whisky stared emotionlessly across at me as she waited for my response. Hair, like a silky auburn curtain hung perfectly past the shoulders of her Marc Jacobs silk shirt. She tapped one perfectly manicured fingernail on the glass display cabinet in front of me.
I gave her my biggest, brightest smile.
“I’m sorry, my cupcakes are quite simple. I mean, they look elaborate, but the trick to a really good cupcake is actually simple ingredients.”
She looked at me blankly.
“So are they gluten-free or not?” she asked, irritably.
“Not,” I replied, good-naturedly. “Nor are they sugar, dairy, egg or nut-free, but they are preservative-free. Guaranteed to mold up within a week!”
Not appreciating my lame attempt at lightheartedness, she looked at me with zero emotion. “You really should offer gluten-free options. And sugar-free.”
Again, I smiled sweetly at her. Good customer service was the best marketing plan for any business. Mashing the goddamn marshmallow cupcake into that cold, indignant expression on her face was not.
So I bit back my loss of patience. “Would you like a sample? It might help you make up your mind.”
It was already ten minutes past closing time and my feet were aching.
“Are you kidding me?” She raised an eyebrow at me. “Your pregnancy hormones must have gone to your head if you think I’m putting something like that in my mouth.”
Whoa.
Pregnancy hormones?
“What did you say?” I frowned. How did this complete stranger know I was pregnant? And what was with the verbal attack? “How do you know I’m—”
“You keep rubbing your stomach,” she interrupted, with an irritated eye roll. “And judging by how tight that apron is, you’re either pregnant or you’ve been eating too many of your own cupcakes. If you’re not pregnant, you really should go sugar-free.”
I stared at her in utter astonishment.
But she didn’t miss a beat. She simply pushed on her oversized sunglasses, picked up her Louis Vuitton handbag off the counter, and with an air of distain, took her two-hundred-dollar shoes and snooty attitude with her out the door.
Sailor, my cowardly assistant, swept into the room. He was cowardly because he’d been hiding in the back room while this positively painful customer had been verbally dissecting my marshmallow masterpiece. And then, apparently, my weight.
“Wow, that woman was absolute poison,” Sailor said, flipping the open sign to closed. “Good riddance, sir.”
“Nice of you to join me.” I gave him a playful yet annoyed look which he simply waved off.
“Looked like you had that cutie pie all sorted,” he said in his thick Louisiana accent. “You’re the most diplomatic person I know.”
I met Sailor my first night in Destiny. Back then he had been slinging beers at a gay bar on the outskirts of town. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark skin. Glossy lips. He was as handsome as he was dramatic, and next to Autumn, one of my best friends in the whole world.