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We all added when we felt like it, and yes, we rated them, too. I admit, I had a sort of obsession with fictional men as our unofficial Book Boyfriends I’d loved to Fuck Club, or BBILF, as we called it, could attest too.
What could I say? No one did it for me the way some of those guys did between the pages. That was probably because it was mostly women writing them.
Go figure.
The point was, everyone had their own thing that drove them wild. Whether it was tattoos, an accent, a penchant for making love under the stars, or, well, whatever, it was all fine and good. We gave our prospects three chances to prove their potential and then went from there. We couldn’t dismiss a man after one date because there simply wasn’t enough information to do so unless he was completely gross.
As long as we avoided any who were emotionally unavailable, already involved with another woman, or unhealthily attached to his mother. And liars. We all wanted to avoid liars.
“You’re better off, sweetie. What do you say? Wanna come for a visit?”
Jan was still talking, and I felt guilty for not really listening.
“No thanks, Jan. It’ll be Valentine’s Day in a few and you know it’s my busiest time of year after the holidays. Besides, there’s this new health inspector who keeps showing up for surprise inspections. He is driving me bonkers,” I told her.
“Fine, but call me later. And report that inspector. Clearly, he is being stalkery.”
“Oh my God, stop. He’s just doing his job.”
“Uh huh. You are too nice, Del. Oh! I have an idea, maybe you should go next door and shoot some whiskey with that sexy guy who owns the bar? He’d put you in a better mood for sure,” Jan said, only half joking.
“I am hanging up now,” I told her before clicking end call on my phone.
I made the mistake of telling Jan about my handsome, yet taciturn neighbor, and now she managed to bring him up in almost every conversation. Sonny Delgado was fire. I meant it, too. The man was hotter than Hades himself. Just thinking of his name sent tendrils of awareness coursing through my blood.
And that right there was why me and Pete were never going to work.
The extra staff I hired to sell chocolates during prime business hours and to box orders that needed to be shipped the next day had already left for the evening. I was not there to wait on customers, but to mix and mold fine chocolates and candies for the next day.
I wasn’t kidding when I told Jan this was my busy season. Eyebrows raised, I looked over the list of items we sold out of, and my belly warmed with satisfaction. There was nothing like a job well done—well, except for maybe one thing, and I hadn’t had any of that in a very long time.
Actually, I’d been avoiding doing the deed with Pete. We hadn’t had sex in about four months, and that was mostly my fault. With switching locations and getting this new business off the ground, I was often way too tired to even try to get into a sexy mood with the stuffy city planner.
I was still tired. Sick and tired of all the bullshit. I looked at the screen of my buzzing phone and saw ten texts from Pete. Without reading them, I deleted them and sent him a one-word reply before blocking his number.
Stop.
Just that one word, and I prayed he let it go. I had one really hard rule with relationships. Cheaters didn’t get second chances. If you were dumb enough to step out once, that was a clear sign you’d do it again. And I was too smart to let that happen twice.
Truth was, I felt kind of guilty because instead of being sad and angry once the shock wore off, I was relieved. Humming to myself, I donned my favorite red apron and started the mixers. Next, I had my robot servant, which is what I called my Google Nest, to start some David Bowie tunes through the wireless speakers I had in every corner of the chocolaterie kitchen, and I got to work.
Usually, my moods dictated what flavors I mixed, but it was an important holiday, and my customers had their favorites. First, I was going to create a couple of batches of my most popular items—truffles.
Chocolate truffles were the epitome of decadence, in my not so humble opinion, and I made some of the best. I prepped my ingredients and had the first batch ready before I heard the knock on the door. I went to answer it, wondering who it could be, pausing when I saw him.
My neighbor. Sonny Delgado. His shirt was half open and his short hair looked mussed, from his own fingers or someone else’s, I wondered.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, you can help me,” he said.
But before he said anything else, his eyes glittered like black diamonds as they raked over me from head to toe. I admit, when I worked, I was hardly anything to look at. Black leggings and a short-sleeved top, red apron in place, a hat on my head, and a hairnet covering my low ponytail. But Sonny looked at me like he was dying of thirst, and I was a tall glass of water.
I wasn’t tall, though. I was barely five three on a good day. Sonny, however, was tall. He was six feet of well-muscled, wide-shouldered man, with a healthy smattering of five o’clock shadow covering his square-jawed face and the sexiest dang tribal tattoos I had ever seen on his chest, abs, and arms, from where it was visible.
I wondered if they went around his back too, but all coherent thoughts left me as he moved, walking right into my personal space. Sonny cupped my cheeks, and I gasped, shocked at the sizzle that spread through me from where his skin met mine.
“I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” he growled, and I gulped.
