Life Next Door (Love Not Included Series Book 2) (4 page)

God, this feels so good
.

I’m not sure why I’ve spent the so much time in the past twenty four hours arguing with this man when I could have been jumping his bones.
His hands start to move all over my body. I feel them moving up my waist and one hand grabbing at my bathing suit, pushing aside the thin fabric to brush his thumb across my hard nipple. A moan escapes my mouth and I’m pretty sure I thrust my hips forward. I am seriously going through with my whole humping threat. I am about two seconds away from humping his face. I know he is not far off from where I’m at, because I can feel his hard junk stabbing straight into my stomach. And by hard, I mean huge, and by huge, I’m debating whether I should even find out. I go to maneuver my hands to grab some treasure when rabid barking and scratching comes from his back door, scaring the shit out of us both. I jump and he pulls away from me.

“You have a dog?” I ask, completely out of breath.

“Looks like it,” he says. Again with the sarcasm. This allows me to realize that I am smashed up against his Jeep, lips swollen, his hand still inside my top. Embarrassment quickly sets in and it’s time I get the hell outta dodge. I’m not sure what just happened but I need to go home and process what a mistake this is. I feel like I am rewriting history. The neighbor banging the neighbor again…
nice, CeCe.

Trent watches the battle in my eyes. He doesn’t say anything else. He gets it. Fun’s over. He steps back to allow me some breathing room. Then, before I can retreat, he picks me up and walks me toward the fence. He lifts me over the fence like I weigh as much as a feather, and places me so my feet hit the ground of my lawn. I adjust my body and turn to face him.

“As much as I would enjoy seeing another reenactment of your fence jumping skills, I think we should give the poor fence a break.” He winks at me then turns to walk into his house. I watch him as he pets his dog and the door shuts behind him.

What. The. Shit.

I force my brain to work and send a message to it to turn around and put one foot in front of the other and walk—or limp, because my damn foot is killing me. I limp/walk onto my back porch and past my chair, deciding that today will no longer consist of sunbathing. I open my sliding glass door and limp inside. I need to attend to my foot but first I need to seriously go to my room and work out this aching in between my legs caused by my neighbor…again.

The rest of Sunday is very uneventful and, low and behold, Lifetime doesn’t let me down. Six hours of man-hating movies played until it was time to go to bed. As I get up to shut all the lights off, I notice that the neighbor’s lights are still on. I wonder what he’s doing. I’ve fought my brain tooth and nail to not replay what happened earlier today but let’s be honest. No one forgets a kiss like that. Who knew a man could have such power with his mouth? I shake my head. Knock it off, Westcott. Bad idea. Bad idea.

I proceed to turn the lamp off in front of the window and truck my way back to my bedroom. I will not replay history. Bad house. Bad house. I chant all sorts of random unconvincing things to myself while I make my way to my bed and climb in. I don’t bother trying to convince myself that I will no longer lust over my neighbor. Because truth be told, I think I’m startin’ to crush. #hellohighschool1998.

I’m going to say what every single person thinks on a Monday morning: I hate Mondays. Nothing good comes out of them and they always tend to drag on. Every person in America stores all their rudeness all weekend and waits for Monday to take it out on the world. Reluctantly, I throw myself out of bed and start my morning routine. Workout, shower, breakfast. I grab my bag and head out the front door toward May’s. May hates Mondays more than me, which means she doesn’t show up. This also means it’s my responsibility to open up the bakery, one of many reasons I want to have my own business.

I head down my porch steps, and big surprise, the almighty neighbor is also walking down his. He is dressed to impress in a pair of dark slacks and a button-up shirt with no tie, the last two buttons hanging open. He looks as edible as ever and my curiosity is about to burst at the seams.

“Where are you going all dressed up?” I ask. He moves his arm away and I see the badge.
He’s a cop?
“You’re a cop?” I ask, shocked.

“I’m a detective, and why do you seem so shocked?”

A detective? Wow. That sounds important and sexy and badass.

“I’m not. Just didn’t pin you for a detective. Thought possibly a car salesman or something.”

At that he throws his head back and laughs. That glorious laugh. Seriously, I want to tell him to stop. I want to hug him and smack him and kiss him and tell him to stop all at once.

“Well, Sweetcheeks, I’m sorry to disappoint you. And where is it that you’re headed with that tight little skirt on?”

I look down at my clothes. It’s my typical work attire. A thin tank top and a maxi skirt to compliment. It’s the most comfortable outfit when baking in a hot room all day. Suddenly, the thought of explaining that I am a baker after he just told me he has such a badass profession sounds so lame. I mentally kick myself for starting this conversation and for not being something cooler, like a scientist.

“So, are you going to answer me or just stare into space all morning?”

“Oh, well…I’m a baker...I bake things...cakes…like...”
Shut up, CeCe.
I wish he would stop smiling at me like that.

Thankfully, he steps in. “So, you are a pastry chef.” Way to save the day, Hottie Neighbor.

“Yes. I’m a pastry chef. I work at and mostly run May’s on 5
th
street.”

“Yeah, I heard about that place. Doug from the office swears by the mini cakes there. Says the pastry chef is the golden ticket to a man’s sweet tooth. I gotta stop in sometime and see what all the hype is about.”

Shut. The. Front. Door.

“Have a good day, Sweetcheeks.” He gives me his signature smile and hops in his Jeep, pulls out of the driveway and takes off.

Dear Brain, please start walking. You are looking dumb still standing in the driveway. Plus, you’re going to be late for work.

One foot in front of the other, I reach my car and get in. I head into town without hitting anything and feel guilty because I see Katie waiting outside the shop for me. Katie, who is May’s niece and my complete savior, works at May’s and runs the front counter. Katie used to only work part-time, but ever since May stopped making an appearance every day in the shop, she hired her on full-time to help out. Katie, who is a first-year college student at the local community college, is getting her degree in business. She’s also taking night classes at the local culinary academy to become a baker. Nothing like watching another young soul devoting her life to sugar. I take one last look at my little prodigy, park my car in the usual spot in front of the shop and get out.

“I’m so sorry, Katie, I’m running late. How come you haven’t gone in? Did you forget your key?”

“Yes, and I didn’t have enough time to turn around. I didn’t want to be late.”

Touché.

I walk past Katie to reach the front entrance. I pull my key out and unlock the shop. We both walk in and I turn on the lights. Welcome, Monday. The craziest day of the week. We are closed on Sundays so the store is pretty cleaned-out after the weekend. It’s my duty to bake and stock up on the specialty items on Friday so it makes it through Saturday. Anything small I leave for Katie to bake; it’s not too hard to make a cupcake and ice it. Since I pre-make enough icing to kill a town of diabetics, the shop is pretty safe to stay afloat through Saturday without me coming in.

I walk back past the counter and set my purse under the register. I enter the back room where all the magic happens, flick the switch and the whole room comes to life with light. Just as I left them, all the utensils are clean and hanging in their rightful spots. I walk passed my creation table, as I refer to it. To a normal person it’s just a long metal table, but it’s where I lay out all my designs and build my masterpieces. I go to the corkboard in back and look to see what’s on the agenda for today and the rest of the week. On the left are specialty orders, including cake orders that have come in throughout the weekend. On the right are the daily specials and pastries that will be offered in the bakery for customers. Both sides are filled to the brim. One thing on my list of things to do is build another board.

I take down the orders that are pinned to the wall and start lining them up based on time and size. Cakes with more than one tier start at one end and simple cakes, such as Mindy Gilbert’s son’s Spider-Man cake, get put into the afternoon pile. I finish planning my day of cake creating and then begin to sort out today’s pastry viewing window list. May used to do this and she’d demand the shelves be stocked specifically. As of late, her interest in being specific has died a bit and she has left me to spread my wings more. I'm sure she isn’t complaining; numbers show business has been increasing since she allowed me to create the pastry menu.

I start collecting bowls and utensils, lining each one up in order of usage. I go to the back door that leads out to the alleyway, where I hang my apron. I take it off the hook and wrap it over my head and around my waist. As unflattering as it may look, I love the feeling of my apron. It’s like my iron suit that I put on and become this magical person in the kitchen. I walk past the sinks and fridges and place my phone on the iPod dock I keep at work. I set my Pandora station and let the music glide me through hours and hours of baking and cutting, designing and serving.

By the time five o’clock rolls around, my eyes are burning and I am so tired I want to rip my feet off. Katie is half asleep at the counter as she wipes down and cleans the tables. I do an inventory of what was sold today and what needs to be made for tomorrow. With the amount of product that is being turned lately at May’s, I’m starting to worry that it’s too much to handle. I know May will shut down my idea of hiring an assistant chef. Her faith in me runs too deep, and as flattering as it is, I’m starting to feel the pressure of doing it all. Ahhhh!  #bombassbakerproblems

I finally force Katie out the door and tell her to go home. I know she is getting ready for finals and needs to focus on that instead of sleeping on top of the register. At a quarter to six, I finally close up shop and head home. I call May to let her know how sales went today but I get her voicemail. You would think she would pay more attention to her shop. I leave the numbers on her voicemail and let her know I will see her tomorrow.

Pulling into my driveway and getting out of my car, I see the neighbor walking up the sidewalk with his dog. After our normal chat this morning, I feel more inclined towards playing nice than avoiding him. I see his soft smile even in the dusk, and it breaks away the tired feeling that’s pulling me down.

“Hard day at the office?” he asks, seeing the white flag waving in my eyes. I drag my feet toward the sidewalk that adjoins our driveways. I’m too tired to get sassy, so I try something new and act human for once.

“It’s never easy pleasing the town of Richmond and their sweet tooth obsessions.”

In return, I receive a warming smile. “I’ve been hearing a little bit about that. As the new guy, I feel sorta left out.”

I snort at that one. “Ha! Of what? Being crazy? Because that’s what this town is.”

“Well, I believe in forming my own opinions,” he answers. “Maybe one of these days you can give me the opportunity to do so.” He takes a step closer. “If you’re up to it, you and I, in a neighborly way of course, can have dinner and you can educate me on all the deviant ways this town can indulge in sugar.”

He definitely sideswipes me with that proposition. Didn’t I just say this town was crazy? Me included? Stepping even closer, he drops his voice to that smooth purr. “And I promise I will be a perfect gentleman.” That smile says he doesn’t do much behaving, but his willing effort sells me. I prove my part in crazy when I agree to his invitation.

“Sure, what the hell.” I’m rewarded when a look of approval spreads across his handsome face. Playing nice with the neighbor might not be a bad thing after all. He’s just a man. A gorgeous man who lives next door.

The hunger in his eyes, that he doesn’t even try to hide, tells me he may want a little bit more from me than my baked goods and company, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that. His barking dog cuts into my thoughts; he’s done making small talk and tugs at his leash to head inside.

“Well, I gotta get going. This one waits for no one.” We both glance at the anxious pooch. I’m starting to think this dog is a major cock-blocker, if you know what I mean.

“Oh yeah, no worries. I have to get inside. A hot bath is screaming my name.” If I wasn’t so tired I might have rephrased that comment or said something more like laundry or cleaning the floors. His facial expression changes and I know I can only blame myself for the look he is now giving me. I can bet my life on what he’s picturing: me naked, playing in bubbles.
Men
.

Time to roll the credits on his mental movie. “Well, on that note, I’ll see you around.” He can blink anytime now.

“Yeah…yeah, of course. So, that lesson on Sugar 101. I’ll be looking forward to it.” There is nothing innocent about that comment and there is also nothing innocent about what I’m thinking while imagining myself teaching him about sugar. I’ve decided my hot bath has turned into a cold shower.

“Well, I’m off. See ya.” I don’t wait for him to respond. I need to get away from him and his lingering sex-me eyes. I swear, this guy has me all shook up. And yes, I went there. We are the products of our parents, right?