Page 140 of Seale the Deal

My orgasm tears through me, violent and blinding, my body jerking as I spill into the condom. Every nerve in me burns, goes numb, and then burns again as I ride it out, clutching her so tight, I’m scared I’ll break her.

When I finally pull out, I spin her around, haul her against me, and kiss her like I’ll never stop. Her lips are soft and urgent.

She presses her forehead to mine, and for a few minutes, I let myself forget that something is wrong. Wrenley is in my arms, her cheeks flushed, and her smile is easy. Whatever is weighing her down is still there. I know it is. But right now, she’s here with me, and as I hold her close, I find myself willing to be patient a little longer because some things are worth waiting for, and Wrenley is one of them.

Chapter 29

Wrenley

DAYS LEFT ON VISA: 35

I’m pacing outside a brick building with a sign that reads Batter Up Bakery with a caricature of a slightly greasy-looking man that feels more suited to a sports bar than a place selling cupcakes.

Yesterday with Ruger was both amazing and also a terrible idea.

I’d managed to avoid sleeping with him since the bridal party, convincing myself that putting a little distance between us would somehow make the decision easier. Instead, all it did was make me miserable. Then yesterday happened. The way he looked at me and made me forget all my troubles was an aphrodisiac I was not prepared for.

And the worst part is, even after that, I’m still no closer to knowing what I should do. Los Angeles is still sitting in my inbox while Alaska is wrapped around my heart.

The only thing I’ve managed to decide is that I can’t keep carrying this alone, so thank God I’m seeing Remi today and there will be copious amounts of cake.

I’m late! I know! Remi calls as she hurries up the block.

The relief at seeing my best friend is indescribable.

I want to throw my arms around her, but I know she’d hate that, so instead, I settle on just saying, Hey! No worries.

A bell jingles as we step inside, and I immediately do a double take. Behind the counter, against a backdrop of mint and blush walls, stands a man who looks exactly like the picture on the sign. His hair is long and greasy, his beard unkempt, and his whole look is less Pinterest wedding and more grunge band that never made it big.

Hey, Soup, Remi says casually. How are you?

Soup. She wasn’t kidding. Soup is real.

The man grunts, Yep.

Remi carries on like this is normal. We’re here for the tasting.

Yep. He blinks slowly, expressionless.

You know, you should probably wear a hairnet, Remi suggests.

Yep.

I shuffle closer to her and whisper, Okay, I have to know. Why is he called Soup?

Because no one’s ever seen him eat anything else. Town started calling him that decades ago.

That’s it?

That’s it.

Okay, but is he… like… filling in for someone?

Nope. He’s the baker. And trust me, you haven’t lived until you’ve had his ganache.

I stare at him, skeptical. This feels like being told Bigfoot runs a Michelin-star kitchen.

Soup. Remi snaps her fingers. Hairnet.