“Hurry up already. You’ve got that birthday cake to work on today, remember? It’s getting picked up at ten and Dylan is swamped.”

“Shit,” Brooke mutters. She spins back around. “Sorry. My few minutes are up.”

Damn. She needs to get back. I have a ton of shit to do myself, but I’m not done with this one. Not by a long shot.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” I ask.

“Why?”

“I have my first class at seven. I’d love to see you.”

Her arms cross over her chest. She tilts her head with a smirk. “Private class?”

I frown, then glance back at the sign. “Honestly, I hope not. If this is going to work out for me, I’m going to need a good amount of interest. I handed out a bunch of fliers this weekend.” I turn back to her. “Do you think it’s too much to expect at least a handful of bodies on my first go?”

Not that I wouldn’t mind having a one-on-one session with Brooke, but I do have a lot riding on this. There is no back-up plan.

“You personally handed out these fliers to women in Chicago?”

I nod. “And men.”

I spent my entire Saturday going in and out of shops at the mall, standing outside of the local market like a bum seeking a hand-out. The women I talked to seemed at least partially intrigued. The men, not so much.

I had several papers crumpled up and tossed into the rubbish bin directly beside me, while I watched.

She runs her gaze down my body, then slowly back up. Her eyes, dark and mischievous. “I don’t think you’re going to have much of a problem packing the house.”

“Brooke!” the urgent voice calls out again.

She whips her head around. “Jesus! All right! Go eat another danish!”

The man glares at her, then mumbles something I can’t make out over a car-horn in the distance before fleeing into the shop.

Brooke turns back around, her curls bouncing against her top as she shakes her head.

I shift the box to my left hand, holding out my right. She takes it immediately. “Tomorrow night then?”

Her hand gently squeezes mine. “Maybe.”

She stares up at me. I stare right back, running my thumb along her skin.

“Are you going to let me go?” she asks.

A strange pressure tightens around my chest.

I keep my hold on her, maybe even securing my grip a little firmer.

Try and run, little sheep.

My lip twitches. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“No?” I release her hand, but only to pinch her chin between my thumb and finger. I lean down, slowly inching closer. “But what if I don’t want to let you go?” I ask quietly. “What if I can’t?”

Her eyes focus on my mouth, an inch away from hers. “Too bad. I’m not giving you an option.”

“Do you always decide how this works?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice now a whisper.

I know she’s expecting me to kiss her. The way she’s wetting her lips, tilting her head up to meet mine. The urgency of her breath.

I could kiss her, God knows I want to, only . . .

I’ll want more. More than just a kiss. More than she’s been offering me since she made her existence known.

I force her face to turn left and slide my mouth to her cheek. “Tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Don’t make me come looking for you.” I press a chaste kiss to her skin.

She looks up at me as I lean back and drop my hand. Her eyes narrow. “You better deliver.”

“I always do.”

I watch in a daze as she crosses the street. Her ass, this perfect heart-shaped entity, makes me rethink my decision to go a day without tasting her. I imagine peeling her out of those jeans and pressing my lips against her skin. The quiet slap of her body against mine as I bounce her on my . . .

Jesus. Again with the hard-on?

I carry the bakery box inside and upstairs to my loft, adjusting my cock in the process.

Juvenile. If she bent over, you probably would’ve busted a nut right there on the street.

Standing in front of the rubbish bin, I hesitate, look down at the box in my hands, then glance over at the fridge.

Brooke made these. And fuck, how sexy was she when she made that declaration? Her voice vibrating with pride, then melting to something softer.

I don’t eat stuff like this anymore. I don’t even keep it in the house. My lifestyle transformation seven years ago included a major re-haul of my eating habits. Out of sight, out of mind has always worked best for me. I haven’t eaten a cupcake in . . . actually, I can’t even remember the last time I ate a cupcake.

But she made these. She was so proud showing them off.

Decision made, I stick the box on the shelf in the fridge, concealed by condiments.

I palm my phone and send Tessa, my closest friend from where I just moved from, a quick text.

Me: Just met a woman who might have bigger balls than you.

She responds within seconds.

Tessa: Doubt it.

I chuckle in the silence of my loft. Seeing the three missed calls from my mum, I dial her number as I slump down on the corner of my bed.

“Hello, sweetheart. How are things?”

“Great. You know, settling in. The studio is beautiful, Mum. You’d love it.”

“I’m sure. No issues with anything? It’s okay if there is. You know, a lot of major corporations fail in the beginning, or at least have little mishaps. Doesn’t mean they aren’t meant for greatness.”

My mum worries. Especially when her youngest child lives nearly sixteen thousand miles away.

“No catastrophes yet. Give me a day or two.”

“Oh, Mason.” She sighs heavily.

I smile, resting my elbows on my knees. “How’s Dad and Ellie?”

“Good. Ellie just got a new job at one of the markets near her home. She seems to like it.”

“Yeah? That’s great. Tell her to call her little brother when she gets a minute. I miss her.”

Two quick beeps of a car horn sound somewhere outside the building. I pad to the only window in my loft and spot a delivery truck parked below.

The equipment I ordered.

“Hey, Mum, I need to get off here. I’ll talk to you soon though, yeah?”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“Love you.”

I disconnect the call and slide my phone back into my pocket.

The mats, towels, and wedges I ordered all arrive within a few hours of each other. I sign the slips the drivers provide and set about organizing everything, then re-organizing.

Having seven sisters has made me meticulous with arrangement.

The studio itself is gorgeous, with bamboo flooring I had installed before the move. The hardwood that was originally in here never would’ve worked for the humid conditions I’m anticipating. The wood would’ve swelled and cracked. I probably would be out a couple thousand replacing it.

Not an option for me at the moment. Between my lease and the rent I’m paying for the loft above the studio, the flooring, the equipment for class, the sign . . .

It’s fucking ridiculous how expensive an aluminum sign costs. Highway robbery at its best.

I take to the footpath after grabbing a quick bite to eat.

Apple slices and some almond butter. The last of my stash of what I brought from Alabama. I jot down a note to pick up another jar, along with a few other items.