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“I appreciate that,” I drawled.
“Take your time, and join me in the kitchen when you’re done,” he said, leaving the bathroom.
I sank under the water with a groan.
Hart had me twisted.
Hart
“What the hell am I doing?” I asked myself, staring into the void in front of the open refrigerator. My mind raced, and an undeniable buzz settled under my skin. I felt like I just cracked a wake-up, lighting my nerves from the inside out. I had a ton of restless energy with nowhere to go, and it still felt like Vera’s nails were raking down my back and her legs were wrapped around me.
“Snap out of it,” I urged, grabbing the butter. I slammed the refrigerator shut and tossed the butter onto the counter before raiding the pantry for my dry ingredients. I lined everything up with military precision, trying not to overthink about how I basically gave Vera a pass to move in. I was joking before when I told her I wouldn’t replace her bed and suggested she move in, but then I actually went ahead and made space for her under the guise of convenience.
I wasn’t supposed to fall for my sugar baby, but here I was, clearing my closet and dressers, and loading them with clothes, shoes, handbags, and jewelry like it was a damn boutique on Rodeo Drive. If my brothers knew, they’d have a fucking field day, and if Ms. Kelly knew? She’d already be planning a guest list and seating arrangements, and Pops would sit me down to have a man-to-man conversation.
Everything was happening too soon, too fast, but damn did it feel right.
I told Vera that I liked seeing her in my bed, and thankfully, she had mercy on me and didn’t make me explain. She didn’t make me explain that my space didn’t feel like a place I crashed between games, flights, and obligations. Or that my bed didn’t smell like detergent anymore—it smelled like her—sweet, addicting, and luxurious. Her natural scent clung to my pillows and sheets like a double-edged sword. Waking up and finding her gone was agonizing.
Vera didn’t just have access to my space. She had access to the parts of me that I hadn’t shared with another woman, and if she wanted to, she could wreck me. And the worst part? She had me so fucking twisted that I didn’t even care.
“Fuck me,” I groaned, dropping the butter into a pan. I reached for the chocolate and paused when I heard movement behind me.
“I hope you’re making me a sandwich,” she said. I smirked at the teasing lilt of her tone.
“Nah. I’m making something better,” I replied, glancing over my shoulder. For a moment, I forgot whatever the hell I was about to say because she stood there wearing a shirt from my college days. It swallowed her whole, slipping off one shoulder and baring the same skin I’d had my hands and mouth on not that long ago.
I schooled my face and turned back to the stove, resisting the urge to walk over, pick her up, and pin her against the refrigerator.
“You know… I spent a small fortune buying you clothes, and you still wear mine.”
She moved closer, locked her arms around my waist, and pressed her face into my back. “None of my clothes smell like you,” she confessed.
I stilled for half a second before the buzzing feeling spiked and intensified. I cleared my throat.
“Sugar, you can’t say shit like that to me,” I said, voice lower than I intended.
I felt her lips curve into a devious smile against my too-warm skin.
She’s about to say something reckless. I need to distract her.
“Wash your hands,” I muttered, stirring the softening butter in the pan. “If you’re gonna distract me, then you might as well help.”
“What are we making, Chef Hart?”
“Rice Krispies treats.”
She seemed to perk up at the mention of the marshmallowy treat.
“I don’t know, Sweet Hart,” she said, turning on the sink, “I can cook, but I can’t bake worth a damn.”
I chuckled. “C’mon. I’m sure you’re not that bad.”
She snorted. “They’ll be hockey pucks once I’m done—black and hard.”
I shook my head as she leaned her hip against the counter, watching the butter shift from pale to golden.
“Did they teach you how to make Rice Krispies treats in culinary school?”
