Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
To be fair, these croissants were out of this world. I’d gone to Paris for three months to learn to perfect them. They were light, pillowy with baked almonds on top, and a creamy almond custard filling running through them.
“Yes, you can fucking block him. Don’t be nice to that fuck,” Fiona chimed in, her lips pursed. “And you’re not even trying to be nice, you’re being literal since you’re literally unable to block him because you don’t know how to use your phone,” she pointed out with a grin.
My shoulders stiffened at how well she was able to read me and how utterly hopeless I was. Yes, I hadn’t blocked him because I didn’t quite know how. And because it felt unnecessarily cold to do to a man who I had previously promised to spend the rest of my life with.
“Give me your phone,” Fiona demanded, holding out her hand. “I’ll make sure—”
But I’d stopped moving. Stopped breathing.
“Shhh,” I hissed, waving my own hand at her. “My boyfriend is here.”
Her eyes flickered to the entrance as if she was just realizing he had walked through the door.
Impossible.
The second he opened it, the air changed. Became charged. The hairs on the backs of my arms stood up. My stomach swirled with anticipation and nerves. My palms went clammy.
It was like the entire atmosphere changed. Like the world stopped spinning.
It didn’t actually stop, of course. Tina continued to frown at the espresso machine—the one she declared her undying hate for daily—the customer in the corner typed furiously away at her laptop—she was writing a zombie romance screenplay—while nursing the same cup of tea she’d had for an hour. Maddie, a regular, shouted at whomever she was on the phone with while waiting for her skinny cap.
But customers still noticed him.
You couldn’t not notice a rugged Adonis walking into a rather girly bakery. It shouldn’t have been possible for a man with that much testosterone to walk into a bakery decorated to look stunning on any and all social media feeds. Not with the neon signs. Soft pinks. Delicate teacups. Artful lattes.
But he walked in here. Every day. Well, not every day. He didn’t come on weekends. Except that one time three weeks ago when he came on a Saturday.
He was a muscled construction worker, always covered in paint, dirt or grime, and he wore it like it was fucking part of his outfit. He wore the shit out of it. His midnight hair escaped from the baseball cap he always wore. He took it off whenever he made it to the counter, a gesture that was oddly old-fashioned and one of the many little gestures of his I loved. Like how he glowered at everyone as a default but winked at small children if they were behind him in line, and opened the door for everyone.
There was always dark stubble shading his angular jaw. It never turned into a full beard. It was always rough, rugged, manly… like the rest of him. My fingers itched with the need to run my hands along that stubble.
His eyes were blue. Strikingly blue. Like a Siberian fucking Husky. I’d only locked onto them a handful of times even though he'd visited the bakery every weekday.
Five days a week he tortured me with his pure masculine allure. With the ludicrous reaction I had every time.
“You know, you can’t call someone a boyfriend when you’ve never actually spoken to them before,” Fiona commented, her eyes on him as he settled at the end of the small line.
“I’ve spoken to him,” I hissed, my eyes jerking down to the cupcakes I was arranging on a tray before he could glance my way.
“Asking him ‘cash or card’ doesn’t count,” she countered dryly.
I knew she was still staring at him without shame. Fiona could stare at whomever the fuck she wanted because she was comfortable in her own skin. Because she was movie star gorgeous but in a way that didn’t make you hate her since she was so down to earth, friendly and utterly confident. You wanted to be her best friend.
Like Blake Lively.
Fiona was my best friend and lived up to all the expectations you had of her upon first glance. Then she exceeded them.
“You’re not engaged anymore,” she continued, still staring. I knew that because my gaze flickered from him as it did when he got too close—when those Husky eyes locked with mine—and I focused on Fiona, who was not at all worried about meeting his gaze or having him see her staring at him. She was not worried about him thinking she was some kind of deranged stalker. Because no man would think Fiona was a deranged stalker if she was staring at him; he would think God had somehow shined luck upon him and he’d be counting his blessings, likely melting into a puddle of masculine muck, ready and willing to do anything to make her his.